May 2013
16 posts
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cordx: if blood cannot heal this pain →
if blood cannot heal this pain, then where shall i turn? they say and they say and they say, “time, time, time, time, time” but i cannot spread patience across my heart and wish the wound to close if not this blood (my angry blood) the tears of my body and the offspring of my knife and skin, then what? my doctor is a shitty bastard of a man i gave him a dozen knives to choose from all i needed...
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cordx: the seduction of pain was a beloving →
the seduction of pain was a beloving that i didn’t know i was supposed to run from she came to me so early and with grave easy words, slicky-coated with what looked like salvation to bleed perchance to scream to sleep perchance to yield up to the hungry demons and my own self-pity my ability to ever dream again if it is my hand on the billy club and my rapid, rabid white knuckles lighting up the...
sometimes i punch myself in the face for being stupid that should help things get better faster
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each day we live through a new burning of the sun once upon a dark night i heated a paper clip and burned the star of david on my left wrist youth, specifically, felt like a kind of suffering to me and i had heard someway, somehow that the people who lived under that symbol (for it would be some time before the study of religion would interest me greatly) had suffered a good deal i wasn’t seeking...
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i was wrong to say that because it didn’t hurt it opened up this big, so huge hole in the middle of everything and ripped through the flesh of darkness inside my empty eyes and in there, where it all got wrecked, nothing leaked out i heard no sound it ate sound i just know i screamed i wanted to be too angry and so vomit-violent how many times have i seen that though i never hear the words
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i am not sad i am not angry i am in sorrow and this definitely feels like home
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the chaos is mended the suddenness has ended the pain has dropped now leaden into my belly, feeding only on the waste of the waste in preparation for the time when we shall all loose ourselves from the silent chains and rise again
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it is elementally necessary to question the nature of being and to begin to divine its parameters
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put your hand in mine and close your eyes there are certain things i can only say silently to your palm tracing my adoration across your softness spelling my heart on the tips of your finger
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aye, there’s the rub of it rely on your intuition i am beginning to understand but what if part of my intuiting says to beat myself senseless? how to trust it at all? i must know the nature of the desire for self-destruction i must seek its core
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the appeal of this place is how easily i can...
al-wird:
there is a murderer sitting on my shoulder, speaking, breath warm with emotion,
“it is one thing to leave yourself like a tiny piece of shrapnel in someone who lives, whole in spite of your fragmentation, somewhere, away,
and it is something else to gather yourself into a bouquet of flowers and light it on fire.”
you must understand the appeal of precipices.
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i can only shout “la la la la la la la” so loud with my fingers in my ears and my eyes squeezed shut to try to drown out the fact that i am beating my head against a brick wall and i don’t know how to stop
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i took my face off i slowly removed it and set it on the ground before me to free it from the burden of expression let the darkness run until i am breathless all the more and overcome with it all
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breathing is too desperate i can’t possibly do this fuck this crazy allegiance to a time i did not choose and a rhyme i cannot (for the life of me) seem to lose who the hell are you anyways, vengeful dna stringer, to wrap the electrochemical ever-maniacal acronym for madness all up and down my spine? what wrong have i done you? and by what unimaginable recompense can this hot, forsaking ill...
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the skies have been grey here for many days the clouds are low and stifle breathing if this ever did happen, at some point, into a kind of adventure, that is gone today with the tiredness and the exhaustion perched motionless on me like i’m wearing a thick coat made of the skins of people who died tragically what is this sick lacquer on my sleep so that it cannot breathe? what is this hearty...
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tonight the moon and i are low in the western sky her smoke gravity need has clouded my eyes since i first became aware of this day and the thin strip of brightness she offers to this world is my only hope for ascension i stare darkly into the night and wonder shall i ever be lifted from this? i may not make it out of this alive
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most days i must climb out of the hole that sleep has buried me in awakening has rarely, if ever, been an occasion for feeling refreshed or renewed we have a collideoscopic relationship, though we are both of the darkness and for so many years she was the port in my always storm but times have changed there is an emergent hope in me which fills my legs with the notion of swinging over the side of...
April 2013
35 posts
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that song keeps running through my head “KILL ME come on and KILL ME” some days i have to stay asleep (buried in absinthetic delusions and fluster-scented dreams) so i can have more hours during the day not hearing my own voice scream, “kill me” how did i get back to this place?
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how do you measure the strength of a man who has spent most of his adult life trying to coax his wounded side into not wounding his whole side? for that matter, how do you measure the strength of a man?
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sugar is my reward for having worn the yoke, my recompense for my inability to quit my own breathing and heartbeat with an act of willcease thoughtcrime i think i heard somewhere that sugar (or perhaps it is my favorite sugary incarnation, chocolate) releases endorphins in the body which are similar to those produced during the pleasures of sex this seems a fitting gift to self for the sacrifice...
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sleep is an equalizer, the elevator to a world absolutely not this one and a place to succumb to a lesser dominator than life’s steady progression of impartial, off-hand beatings assaults in the mind and aggressions of the coinhabitants of this wretched planet all melt when the darkness lowers and only the liquid smoothness surrounds me with my own multidimensional movie world to play any...
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i have a pen in my hand i have aimed it at paper and i am coming for all of you monster bastards i will not rest until i have wiped you clean from the slate of my mind and eaten your bones as a warning to all the other invaders out there i’m done playing nice and not knowing what to do from here on out i am a killing field for your kind once i have eaten the bones of your dead, i will vomit...
i full-on spigot sleep and sugar and moving images, a numbing escape into any reality specifically not my own i need a way to turn off the probing fingers of my own brain constantly poking about here and there wryly smiling, “does this hurt?” and pushing me beyond the point of reason to attempt to get my head and my i to agree that there is no such monster named pain except that, as it...
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this is why i need no god tonight my weakness coupled with my gluttony sit firmly asquare my any desire and smite me smite me smite me can your god beat that?
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i have felt so poorly these past few weeks the words horrid and terrible insisted on visiting the space behind my eyes so often that now those words are piled in a heap in the middle of my room in their unspoken and painful way i find them also smeared on the things i have touched in this time, marring the surface and seeping quietly into the heart of them offering me the destruction of neither...
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the tiredness is quite heavy on me today what is this lacquer that inoculates my heart? the oozing-thick liquid stillness all about me? it is on me tonight unyielding and heavy, silencing desire and replacing all with disquiet and how the ache to do, the want to be pervades the insipid liquid thoughts that drip behind my eyes and refuse me sleep refuse brain, my broken brain bestill my bleating...
addicted to the culture of illness the specificacious words and the way they assault my desire to breathe and iconoplasticate my innard staccato yammering will-to-somnia
squirming – trapped under the bootheel of my indecision before me stands a man with his foot planted squarely on his own abdomen (squishkidney fence meat) i submit to the reality that i am only bendy enough perhaps to stand square on my opposite knee, if standing square can be done pronely that, and i’ve tested negative for multiple simultaneous incarnations so it occurs to me, shod or not, that...
there is neither here nor there when your heart is cold with the obligation of transience poured into the heaviness of absolutes
“lost” like 15 blogs that i was following :( :( :( if you don’t see me hearting your stuff, feel free to drop me a line :)
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what do you call and say to people when you are in hell? what do you write to say to people when you are in hell? nothing there are no words hell has eaten them all and dreams, desires, beauties? is it possible to give birth to such gifts only to watch them all suffer and drown in the anger of hell? no, not at all those things too are left for the livers, the less broken
the desolations are out in the open today and some of them have been given pointing names i have come to step quickly into the darkness and speak my name aloud: weakness i speak the unspoken syllables of my unbreakable other names (dumbfucker, pussy, asshole) and the eyes of friends begin the journey towards indifference in distance in distance they condone my broken heart which cannot bear to be...
i smeared them with the jelly of my self-disgust and they look at me in a way that assures me i’ll have a brand new batch of my unholy condiment ready for the next group of good-hearted well-wishers
when i got out of the hospital, it was all still horrid and i was such an ugly fucker so i stopped saying i love you at all which forced them to stop saying it too and darkness grew the unvoice of eating the only words that can sometimes make it all ok i’ll pay for that until i’m very very old
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connection drives me to an ecstatic discontent from time to time you can see how that dichotomy would be hard to reconcile
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are you lost to the darkness? do you live now only in the alone?
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inside me it feels like an upside-down bottle that has been swirled for draining all of the fluid and everything in me is racing around and around creating a vacuous ache through my center i feel so empty right now so alone at a certain but indefinable remove from the warmth of others march nearly emptied me
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today i rolled over into the shadow of where we were i’m vacant and cored (my middle has been forcibly removed) that’s not so hard to admit
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i am written without conjunctions nothing is joined i am pieces (just pieces) which cannot regard the whole that is not sometimes i get distracted by the landscape of a word (its syllabic vibration or stillness, the way it entices me to say things i do not mean or understand) i feel slightly forced into alliance with language (sometimes even my language) which neither dispels...
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it’s about vulnerability what will smother a person? not weakness, it has nothing to do with physical strength like the place my eyes go when i’m walking and they trace the ground, when i sit and they trace the edges of the tile in search of a pattern or a way to make sense of this toiling and blindness i need a way to build it up inside and frame my own visions
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cordx: i watch the blink of an airplane →
i watch the blink of an airplane climb and get lost behind that house i am disappointed through the middle tonight and a familiar tiredness is on me then i remember the plane and figure it should be rising above the house just now there it is in the dapple between the leaves of our maple tree i reach out to it for a god of heat and light, a god that can hurl behemoth metal tubes i begin to chant...
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so that’s the crutch that helped me to only walk when i should have run like hell (my extra limb second appendix that i can’t quite get to go dormant). i’ve swung that bad boy at so many innocent bystanders. at times i’ve measured my life by that crutch. this confession, for instance, is one-half crutch long when laid out in my feeble words. it’s still got all the power of the...
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security is a myth we shamelessly propagate generation after generation not only as fact but also as holy, sanctified birthright we illuse ourselves into believing that we can perhaps buy or work our way into some, even if only slight, sense of safety all the while hating the knowing, deep beneath the illusion, that the crush and rapery of the world are coming for us and ours and that we shall not...
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cordx: when i was seven, wrong came the darkeners →
when i was seven, wrong came the darkeners with their twisted penises to blot out the sun and rid me of the distasteful misillusion of safety forever more which would account for a lot of the reckless sex and self-immolation, having confused sex with death (consensual vulnerability) for the better part of my life i wanted only always to be loved and to feel needed i needed only always to be felt...
