Methoughts

Cunning is the dirtiest word.

2008-05-20T14:51:00.000-07:00

I thought I left you. You were walking and you passed right through me. You didn't shiver, but I was certain you passed me by. I'm still in you though. I thought I left you and I was wrong. I took my life out of me and put in you. But no matter how hard I try, I cannot figure out who is haunting who.

Neveraine, it always rains: Narrative of a life under the ground.

2008-05-19T20:21:00.000-07:00

http://www.extremerestraints.com/leather-body-harness-with-cock-ring_2124.html

I sit here in the obscure crevice, of my gloomy apartment, shaking with struggle, as the wolves circle in. All around, all is black, as the industrial coal smoke, smoldering with a tumult of howling hovering above; the black clouds spinning around in circles over the whimpering little glob of goblin. I am the broken chimney sweep. I cackle with cancer: woe (cough), woah (cough). The night is bad, fragrant with clove and Frankenstein's frankincense. Frankly disgusting: me in the mirror obscured by a twisting nether of smoke. A warlock's fantasy? No, the candle's flame is immolation that I've trained so I can superimpose myself into the wax and pretend I am burning. The point of identification is on the razor's edge.

Seething is seeing...

I am sorry underlings. I hate to be lugubrious, but tonight I find only self-hatred. I'm sure many of you were there tonight, at The Sepulchre, gorging yourself on blood-n-vodkas, seizing to the grave and haunting melodies of DJ Mired, and having a phantastic time. And I was too, for a while. Vivian Duskwood III (you may know her, she's heavily into body mods) showed up and she looked negatively possessing in her new boots. She told me they set her back a large sum, particularly large as the store-wisp* wouldn't let her buy the the third boot without buying the 4th. But damn did she have some sort of ghastly gravitational pull as she hobbled around the bar. And I need not say any more of the unspeakable horror, the slivery slight that happened next... It's like the eternal struggle...

On the mountain, no in the mountain. Yes in there I sit. Tonight I have realized, I am the Dagoth Ur. Lovely, lovely lava is my only longing. My head has swollen, is neatly containing, a great deal of dark energy. Mana burns, but pain is pleasure. It's why I get along so well with the lava; what a sensuous creature. It it burning up in me, from the prophecy.

Have you ever heard the sound of rain bouncing off the side of volcano. And the warmest fire burning. That old steel staircase I just shot down from the ceiling with a bolt of lightning. I don't need the stairs anymore, what with my powers. It was beautiful as it was falling from up there near the mouth. Now it's beautiful sinking. It'll start melting soon; the return to magma. Rain rain rain, volcano volcano volcano.

Oh look, one of the giant vampire bats just fell into the lava. Oh what a terrible noise it's making. It's gone now. It's still raining.

There's some sort of armor man stomping around outside! He's almost made it into the entrance hall! I can feel he's come to kill me! Never mind, he didn't even make it past the skeleton guards. It's still raining.

FANTASY!

2008-04-10T13:43:00.000-07:00

It's fantasy time, fantastic!

This is a simple fantasy. A very large man, over 8feet tall, and not wearing much for clothes and somewhat hairy and maybe a little dirty with a big beard. This man grabs and slams my face down into some grass. He places one of his very large bare feet on my back and steps down as if he were going to squash me. At having this done to me, I begin to struggle and sprawl but despite my efforts to escape I am no match for his savagery. Then with one of his hands he grabs both my feet by the ankles while still with that foot of his on my back and he pulls up hard on my legs as if he was trying to pull me apart. For a second I feel as if, I really might come apart but then my back creaks and I sigh with a spine intact and perfectly in line.

It's good to be back

2008-03-11T17:11:00.000-07:00

Leaves That Get Carried Away

2008-02-28T23:50:00.000-08:00

It was a sleepy afternoon, yes, no one was really awake enough to be paying much attention. A warm wind running its fingers through the leaves has a way of, well, making one ignore the unpleasantries around them, or even suspecting that they are in fact, unpleasantries. Absolutely perfect, undeniably, that is the way to describe her. That wooshing sound, the rushing calm breezing by and zooming away. Oh I am nothing much, just a bit of soft air chiming in here and there.

She fell asleep in the tire swing,I walked up and blew gently on her face, I'm just the wind little leaf...

An old women walking her dog strolls by and I immediately say to her "G'day Misses, really couldn't be better could it?"

"Oh I really don't think so, lovely little thing you've got there. Me and Coco are on our way to do a bit of napping ourselves," she says without ever really stopping and hardly needing to slow down. She just stretches her voice a bit to get it here and there and leaves the wind to do what it will with her words.

I pick the leaf up out of the tire swing stirring below the tree, and I carry it away.

Miles and Miles and Miles we drift. A blowing, gusty nothing, that is all I am. She rises and falls and soars to places. but never really begs to be set down. And then when I'm done twirling her, I deposit her on the ground, to let her whither, and crumple. I bow out and blow away to the next set of leaves to rustle. I am nothing, nothing much.

The popular front

2008-02-26T01:50:00.000-08:00

I am what might be called shivering. Yes cold. Cigarettes will in fact smoke themselves if you don't pay attention, which is why you must smoke them. I must tell you all something, god has been speaking to me. He has in fact, been deploying a certain aspect of sign language, but his hands are freezing cold when they touch me. It's mostly when I sleep. Which is why I am not sleeping. Melatonin, once certain threshold dosages are achieved, will in fact induce hypnotic trances, Hypgnosis. Something is not right in my system. Diagnostics, to this point, have failed me. They return me to a self-referential state, namely a nervous association with the being of Ezekial Ponto. God has told me the problem dwells in the cardio-vascular sphere, an entity that restricts appropriate blood flow and creates certain aporia in a localized constituency of thermo-dynamics. I am what might be called shivering. I haven't been able to martial the requisite utilities and materials for erecting an erection in almost two thousand years. The cigarette is smoking itself, the cigarette is smoking itself! There is no end, I smoke them. I meditate on the only visible word, dissociation, which implies a dissociation from something. It is by itself, quite alone and singular and totally without separation. God tells me that the universe is mainly composed of god but there are certain areas where space is expanding faster than the speed of god, and thus these areas are what he calls "off limits." He says I am one of the these areas, but he does it anyways, because "hell, it's a cold world out there and sometimes god needs to do (to me) what only god can understand." I am Ezekial Ponto, I am shivering.

Smoke is the index of cigarettes, it is how we track them, even in conditions like these. Ezekial Ponto once collapsed into an infinite recursive loop that both began and ended with Ezekial Ponto. But he had to spin around twice to spin around once. He was always spinning, trying to get back to where he started. The last puff of a cigarette is in fact the first puff of a cigarette. I am what might be called shivering. Light is undulating. I am writhing. God tells me that the last puff of a cigarette is in fact light writhing. Ezekial Ponto once was writing about god touching him with cold hands while he was spinning a cigarette. It fell and began rolling trying to get back to where it started. The cigarette picked Ezekial Ponto up off the floor and took his first puff, which was a last puff because he was spinning trying to get back to where he was shivering. In doing this, the cigarette fell into an infinite recursive loop where Ezekial Ponto was shivering at the possibility of what I am?

The tattered remains of nothingness

2008-01-21T23:44:00.000-08:00

Our last time together

We didn't always used to be very close friends; I used to distrust him on account of his involvement with the military. Overtime however, I learned to see past the cold, metallic camouflage that one quickly learns to put on in the army, or else die rather gruesomely. It may have disguised your weaknesses, prevented certain undesirable information (I need not say more than this, dear reader!) from becoming conceived of, but Sam, I am weak now, I am the one gruesomely dying. I have nothing to hide because I have nothing.

Only the stubborn memories of summer evenings are left, when we were caught somewhat alone lurking through the forest performing certain maneuvers (of strolling along gaily). I would kiss the lip of a vodka bottle, and drink its intoxication. You were my Vodka bottle Sam. But I didn’t get to finish you, not even most of you. You never got the chance to run out, no, you had to be smashed into the ground because someone wanted to look powerful.

I would open you up Sam, curiously look at what you were made of, and lovingly touch a few of your parts because I knew what you needed to keep going. You were made of fire Sam, brilliantly glowing flames that only that damn metal could contain. That flaming core of yours was aching, would die to only be set free on a more docile, and abandoned world that one can only reach after falling through heaven and clouds. You would land again and shatter into a billion little glowing orbs of light that would mix in with the rest and the world would be noticeably brighter. Oh my dear Sam, why did you have to leave me, and give yourself up as only a little bang for only a little bird. That’s all they thought you could give Sam, but I know that wasn’t the only thing inside you. You were no lover of war, but war sure as hell loved you.

Now though, I look where you used to lay, where you were sleeping before you stood up to get ready one last time, and I see your shape. A rough outline of you is haunting me, and I can’t fill in the rest.

Google image results for "sinking"

2008-01-19T20:21:00.001-08:00

You know where that guy goes? To have a smoke by himself, that's where.

I am coming for you....I will take control of you now. You must let go. You can fightback, and possibly win, but then I loose. Here is the problem, you must envision an imaginary(!) line:

You win* (I loose, you apply I.S.A/R.S.A to the more sensitive areas of my body, you look in the mirror and catch yourself blinking)<-----------------------ImpliedT.A.Z----------------------------->I win (You loose, I, 1, control,
gain hegemony, reification=enabled, vectorized supplementation occurs)

Now that I have won, you will explode in a few minutes; go to website http://tinyurl.com/2ohxjl so that I may contemplate pictures of sinking objects.

You will look like this someday, maybe someday soon, he looks like he's still falling. You're falling now!

Boo-Hoo

Many people do not know this, but "life boat" is a play on words , a sort of hyper-real moniker monster of sorts that is suppose to make one feel alive, exhilarated at the possibility of life, as in "you saved my life last night, and it was special." A life boat has nothing to do with saving you, only saving the idea of life, and thus the idea of you. You cannot exist without the idea that you're alive, whatever it is that you're doing, it is quite essential to your being. And then you hear the lifeboats approaching with their silly, sine sirens and hulls smacking the sine waves. You're nervous, you don't know why, one could say it's a very general nervousness, but maybe you don't actually want them to come.

Maybe you'd rather just stand there and feel complicated, watching the little warship sink.

+ + +

This is what I was hoping for, when I first began my search

*(Unreliable narration, should not be trusted)

How to be a better hipster through cigarettes

2007-10-04T21:29:00.000-07:00

Let's face it, being so cool that you force everyone that idly passes you by to have a reaction, a momentary collapse of their preconceived and totally inculcated consumer-based coolness. You are a reactionary, a sexy little impetus that provokes for the sake of provocation and promotes nothing on the basis that all thought is merely a formation of the culture and academic apparatus. You know what epistemology is, and you know that your knowing this is an impossibility in the metaphysical structure of language. I mean how could one deny the temporal and evolutionary aspect of language, to know is only to perceive an artificial and contrived stasis. You could even compare it to the wave-particle duality of nature, that movement and location can not exist concomitantly because to see one is to loose the other and together they are mutually nothing. Words are virtual particles coming in and out of existence. EVERYONE wants a chance to fuck you, even though you put absolutely no effort into your fucking aesthetic, but you get that sort of slightly enigmatic glow anyway. You kind of pulsate, slightly expanding and contracting just a little bit more than most other people know how. Maybe you just have nice eyes.

Even though it's impossible to say what you are, because you believe in nothing, in what you aren't. You do smoke though. Cigarettes are a weapon for you. And safety. They are separation from us and them. What do you smoke though? Not the cigarettes of dawdling philistines. No camels or marlboros. Not menthols anymore. You roll your own. They kind of look like fat joints, and people sly stare as you twist them up and smoke away. Consider this a lesson.

STEP ONE: A furry brown guy and his white blanket. This step will test your general ability to interact with society, navigate ubran areas, and avoid detection. You need rolling papers and...

Not toothpaste. Not Tang. Rolling Tobbaco!

STEP TWO: Connotations. Step Two will be much more difficult than the first step, but the battle will not be on the outside, it will be within. You will need to find a connotatively acceptable surface to role your cigarette on. Because you are still learning it is ill advised that you try to skip this test, as not only is midair rolling for the novice dangerously prone to making you look like a mediocre poser, but it is an important step in the development of what kind of roller you will be. You want a surface that somehow projects an impossibility of uncoolness, a super-dense chunk of meaning that makes the world around it sag insipidly. Careful what your mind reaches for.

Nice for hipster sex, but nothing else. Kerouac is hipster suicide. Grammatology bingo! And it's translated by Gayatari Spivak! You won't be just constructing a cigarette, but deconstructing it as well. Or did you do that already?

STEP Three: Hopefully you've made it this far and are ready to actually get to the business of rolling your very own cigarette! This step will test your ability to prepare the cigarette. You will need a good natural sense of mass, density, humidity, texture and a sense of unity and equality. This task is straightforward but still a nightmare. Even the most experienced of rollers occasionally misjudge the initial pinch the ever long pursuit of the archetypal cigarette that exist in the mind of every true roller. You must trust yourself here, but be keen enough to recognize your weaknesses. Once you have the tobacco sorted, the matter of evenly displacing it and packing it down slightly is somewhat less complicated. You can never take the first pinch back though.

Knives are standard equipment for life but are useless here. Stapler is certainly creative and thought provoking, but not exactly efficient and reasonable. Fingers it is!

STEP FOUR: Breaking through. This is perhaps the most essential step to the entire process, but also probably the hardest. Once you get it, you will never know how you didn't get it before. The great secret of rolling cigarettes lies in the sacred movements of the roll itself. There is that invisible moment that you never truly see but you are immediately aware of afterward, when the cigarettes folds in on itself and ceases to be tobacco and paper, and becomes a cigarettes. The secret is this is no act of the hands and fingers. Certainly there is a type of stalking between the fingers and paper, a seduction. But the fingers are merely for praying, and for prying open a frontier in your mind where you enter the absent space that the true moment the cigarette is rolled lies. There is nothing physical about this moment. It is not temporal and not spatial, it is an essence of something. The rolling happens in your mind and there is a fracture in time where there was no cigarette on one side of the point and a cigarette on the other but no space in between.

What will you conjure?

Bunnicala ain't got shit

2007-10-04T06:00:00.001-07:00

Don't know if you've noticed but, giant-fucking-rabbit syndrome has increased dramatically since I started paying attention. These seemingly docile characters are up to no good. In a stroke of malignant genius, the floppy eared heads of the rabbit freedom movement have been able expand their cotton-tail army by creating gigantic mutant rabbits. The rabbits realized the the labor intensive and financially draining process of recruiting young rabbits with commercials featuring godsmack and brown people in a sniper's crosshair was getting them nowhere. Instead, they could increase the size of their army over 500% by simply making their rabbits 5 times larger!

Currently all tie-fighter based attempts to stop the beasts have failed, the rabbits soft and cuddly armor has proved impervious to lasers and proton torpedoes.

If you see someone with this book and it's not on fire, please contact the department of homeland security or a police officer immediately!