The Monster

..." I will watch with peace the
calm tongue of the tide
licking from the sand
the unclean story of my heart."
-Edna Saint Vincent Millay

The Monster that resides within me, dormant and waiting, waiting and cruel, soon enough to come invade my psyche and pervade my efforts to be wholesome, to be good. My personality, my values, have long suffered the trickery of the Monster. The Monster never announces its arrival, but comes suddenly amidst the flowers and the sun they begin to wilt and the black pitch covers the casket of the sun and transforms all reality into a nightmare. The nightmare is no dream; it is as real as the hurricane that devours, kicking apart the land, destroying the homes and lives of people. Goodbye security; you have been ripped from me. There is no shelter; I am naked, standing like a tortured child before a pack of indecent pedophiles. The Monster kills me slowly and laughs, bitter hysterics as my friends and companions turn away and disappear as if I were grotesque and stale garbage. I get lost and there is no control to hold me down as I catapult into the regions of man that defile. The Monster makes me hate. The monster makes me Hell. Just how long will it abuse my life? Forever. When it ceases temporarily to toy with me and make of my life a brutal war, I feel as if I were reviving from a blackout, a coma. The evil may take leave for a time, bit its Hell, a thick resin, traumatizes the human left in me. I wake slowly to find the wreckage consuming and overwhelming. How do I fix this disturbance? How do I apologize and explain that I am not evil after I have smeared disaster across lives and vandalized the comfort of too many homes?  When will the monster trespass again and transform me into a bleak and hateful creature? When? This is the question that terrifies me day after day. This is the unknowing that makes me so close to the dead.

- A Dozen Winters Of Loneliness

Listen

I perceive that I am leaving myself, separated from my flesh, floating helplessly into another place. The place where there are but strangers. The place where I feel more and more like an apparition. I want to be intoxicated, but I have nothing of the nectar which intoxicates. It is fight or flight. I choose flight, and within seconds, I disappear. I go where no one can see or hear me. I talk to myself; my monologues like crumpled papers. I cry; my tears are old and reek of humidity. I resent; you never stood strong by my side. I hate. The strangers will never know me. I hate.

I could

“I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams.”-Hamlet, Shakespeare

-Painting by Otto Dix

1-800-GIMCRACK

What does the GIMCRACK make you feel?
Does it make you feel less?
More ostentatious?
Less displayed?

Are your senses played upon
by a blinding collage of
mediocre concession stands?

Does strip-mall jewelery
whisper "GIMCRACK" through the optic terror
of florescent lights?
Does it titillate within you
to differentiate between a diamond and cheap plastic?
Does it not remind you of stale air being whisked past
your nostril hair like halitosis out a leper's mouth?

The GIMCRACK.....
Think of it, for a brief moment, as a
life-threatening malady, a pestilence.
Human beings wear it like a bubo
on the most DESIRABLE parts of their bodies.
Some hang them as ornaments on their Christmas trees (Santa Saves),
never to comprehend WHY their children have grown inept-

With broken bulbs dispersing throughout their ligaments,
Their minds, their words:
Comely shards etching hieroglyphics
that portend inside the walls of their anatomy.

The GIMCRACK...
Does it bear the nuance of iniquity?
To you?
Your fore-bearers?
Your Ancestors?
Does it signify beauty?
Or, is it a swamp that seeps up the stilts
into your home....
and seeps in...
and seeps in...
and comes in
"Come in."
You allow them.

You allow IT.

Did the woman on television tell you to....
CALL NOW?
Do 1-800 numbers give birth to several million
cavalcades in your head, a procession that echoes:
CALL NOW...
Call Now...
Call Now...

Can you hear it as if it were a haunting comradery?-
a ghost-like recollection of a helping hand,
a kiss, a love, a breath?
Would you prefer the GIMCRACK
to replace all mortal beings?
A breakdown in communication-
Incommunicado?

Do you suffer this?
Do tasteless flotation devices allow you
to float gaudily rather than swim charismatically?
Do you prefer to be a charlatan?

THE GIMCRACK WILL ASSIST YOU!!!!

The people responsible for the manufacturing
of GIMCRACKS; do they have GIMCRACKS
as well?
Do you believe they enjoy wasting their lives,
many hours devoted to the sole production of gewgaws 
to compliment your luxury?

Have you thought about it?
Or
Is there a circumambient voice in your space that
ejaculates full-blast,
clogging your ears,
your passage through the frontal lobe,
acting as a soporific that becomes
the autocrat of your dreams?
Is it calling you?
Does it tell you everything will be okay?
"EVERYTHING WILL BE OKAY."

Is it your own personal bellwether?
Does it drive you?
Inform you?
Scintillate?

CALL NOW.

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• 1-800-gimcrack (iamscatology.blogspot.com)

I'd rather fucking die!

workdeath
Originally uploaded by STANIAM

Comforting.

Why? Why? Why?

I'm here, and I love you.

I have always loved you, and I will always love you. I was

thinking of you, seeing your face in my mind, every second

that I was away. When I told you that I didn’t want you,
it was the very blackest kind of blasphemy.







faaavorite<3?=P

 

No more please. you cannot handle it. Month after month 

of catastrophe (some of it manifested by your defects, lovely defects, you have them all). Non-stop struggling and breaking down and hospitals and doctors and mental health workers that have their heads up their asses. I'm sorry she hurt you. She is no good.She has been feeling dead for too long now. Everyone fled. The pain in her chest likes to move up and evolve into a lump, the size of the Whole Wide World , pushing and straining her throat until her mouth is opened into an ugly sob. Too much pressure. She will never be right. She have never felt like an occupant on this shit World. No more hospitals. No more medication or shock therapy. You are a lost cause. You reek of death and you may as well pull the plug because who the fuck cares man when everything is a twisted nightmare and the isolation is unbearable, yet it is so hard to be among people; they are like automatons or they are built much better than you. They have an agenda. They are. perhaps, more dead than you in a sense. A whole wad of dirt comes squeezing out their mouths toxic and disgustingly. She cannot see the day or the colors and is always so afraid." I have to be good." "I have to be good." It is so easy to be crooked. They see her crookedness sticking out of her soul like a murder....and even, perhaps, no for sure, a burden. Lay her down. She is so afraid of laying down because she can't get up and no one is there. She made Hell. She does't have to live it. It is her choice anytime. Her right. Her septic life.She hates life.She hates it so intensely. Without a drug, she is dysfunctional. She swallows pills for her brain and all the other fucked genes she was so blessed with. Fuck this. She knows she is wrong. She will never feel present. She is wasting. Instead of having someone stick a needle in her arm she will just tell them to ease the barrel against her temple like a prayer and pull the trigger. "PLEASE KILL ME. If not, I will do it myself.": Too much.She doesn't belong here in this sick place. "I am never right." And then the great apathy comes and she learns how to tie a noose so perfectly. Just in case. Just in case. She hates. She hates you all." I hate you. I hate the people. I hate the abandonment you left me with. A huge hole in my chest like a double barrel ripping and tearing at my flesh and destroying my organs: that is my gripe. I never abandoned you. You fucked up people. You "friends." Who was there during your NERVOUS BREAKDOWNS? HUH? So fuck it and you rot in your misery. I hope it is as intense as mine. I am not going to pretend to get better. I can't fake it. Sometimes you just don't give a shit. And you dig the hole until it is large enough to dump your appalling body and deteriorated brain into the disheveled dirt hollow. No more tears. No more guilt. No more burden. You tamper with the eternal sleep. It goes around and around, churning in your mind like disease. GET IT OUT! PLEASE KILL ME! "Never wake up. Never ever have to live again. A luxury problem. A bliss. Take your mental illness and drug addiction to Hell. Hell has you. They have given up on you. You have tried everything....almost everything, from the severe to the week's boring vacation at Club Hospital. This is not your life. Go to sleep. Sleep well. You are so tired and sick. Amen.

The Addict | WritersCafe.org

The Addict | WritersCafe.org

I Love trash and disorder, therefore I function,

 

"MESSY PEOPLE ARE MORE PRODUCTIVE"-God
 

I DON'T EVEN REALLY SEE THE TRASH. THIS IS MOSTLY BECAUSE I AM THINKING.....2,000 MPH: A MULTIBRITOUS COLLAGE OF THOUGHTS INTERTWINING AND MELDING, BREAKING APART AND JOINING OTHERS, AND OTHERS, AND OTHERS. OTHERS....SMOTHERS. YOU SEE, I TEND TO DISAPPEAR. I LOSE MYSELF. I LOSE TRACK OF WHAT I DID ONE SECOND PRIOR TO NOW. I MULTI-TASK. THE PATTERNS IN WHICH I WORK ARE LOOSE AND DISCONNECTED AND PEOPLE HAVE A HARD TIME UNDERSTANDING MY FRACTURED FLOW. IT IS ERRATIC. YES. IT IS NOT UNLIKE A LABYRINTHINE ROLLER COASTER RIDE. I AM MONOMANIAC OF EVERYTHING EVERY SECOND.  I MAKE NOISE. I CLASH. I SMASH. I FALL. I LAUGH WHEN I GET DIZZY AND THE SUN SETS UPON ME IN  SUCH A RAY THAT TICKLES MY SANITY. MY BRAIN IS A RACE  CHAMPION CAREENING THROUGH GALAXIES OF BLACK AND WHITE INTENSITIES AND I AM JUST TOO DISTRACTED TO NOTICE THE SEVERAL PLATES OF OLD FOOD ON THE FLOOR, ON THE DESK, ON THE BED STAND OR THE FRUIT FLIES ANNOYING  MY FACE AS I THINK ABOUT NEUROLOGICAL DISORDERS AND THE FOUNDER OF THE CAROUSEL AND WHO THOUGHT GOD WAS A GOOD IDEA AND CUTTING MY TOENAILS AND THE DISEASE OF POP CULTURE AND OH IT GOES ON AND ON. WHAT IS THAT SMELL ACCUMULATING IN THE CORNER NEAR MY READING CHAIR? WHAT IS THAT TICKING NOISE? WHAT IS THAT WORD I NEED TO BEGIN MY MANIFESTO ON NEUROTIC POPES? WHAT IS THAT STAIN ON MY CEILING THAT KEEPS GROWING? WHO IS CALLING ME? IS ANYONE CALLING ME OR AM I HEARING THINGS? STANELY? IS THAT YOU? WAIT STANELY IS DEAD. CHARLEY?  WHERE ARE MY KEYS? WHERE IS THAT SHIRT? FEED THE RABBIT, FEED THE RABBIT. I FORGOT MY APPOINTMENT SHIT! MY THERAPIST IS GOING TO FIRE ME. MY BRAIN IS GOING TO FIRE ME. SEX? WHAT WORD RHYMES WITH ESOTERIC? AH! HYSTERIC! HOLY FRANCIS. IMAGINE IF ALL THE STUPID PEOPLE WERE EXCOMMUNICATED TO THEIR OWN PLANET: THE PLANET OF THE DOLTS. IMAGINE IF I REMEMBERED TO TAKE A SHOWER. GENIUS HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH IQ OR IVY LEAGUE GOOD GRADE GETTERS. POST ITS. COFFEE. PILOT G-2 07. WRITING IMPLEMENT OF CHOICE. HELL AND DAMNATION. HAVEN'T BRUSHED MY TEETH FOR OVER A MONTH. SOMETHING IS RUSTLING IN THE MOUNDS OF USED KLEENEX ON MY FLOOR. BUTTER FROM A WEEK AGO- A LANDFILL ON MY DESK. MY DESK. A MAZE OF REMINDERS ON POST ITS, EMPTY TO HALF FULL WATER BOTTLES, MUFFIN WRAPPERS, PENS-PILOT G-2 07. EMPTY STARBUCKS DOUBLE ESPRESSO CANS. OLD MAKEUP. NEW MAKEUP. PILL BOTTLES EMPTY AND HALF FULL STREWN ABOUT THE ROOM.I WAS SUPPOSED TO HAVE THE LEAD ROLE IN "VALLEY OF THE DOLLS" BUT I REFUSED TO COMPROMISE MY HAIR-COLOR WHICH AT THE TIME WAS A RADIANT SHADE OF TURQUOISE.   IDEAS MAKING THE AIR THICK. CLAUSTROPHOBIC. BOXES OF MY BELONGINGS, THE SUBCONSCIOUS.DISRUPTIVE AND UPROARIOUS CLOMPING OF FOOTSTEPS SMASHING FROM THE FLOOR ABOVE ME ADD TO Psychological noise  AS IF I DO NOT HEAR ENOUGH. NOT A MOMENT OF PEACE. WHAT IS PEACE? I COULD HAVE SWORN I SAW MYSELF STEALING 5,000 DOLLARS WORTH OF DIOR PRODUCT AT SAX THE OTHER DAY. STRANGE. OR IS IT THAT I LOOK IN THE MIRROR TOO MUCH? "

All is vanity and vexation of spirit.

Bible, Ecclesiastes i. 14.

NO, REALLY. I JUST HAVE BODY DYSMORPHIC DISORDER; NO CREDIT TO YOU Ecclesiastes. WHY DO PEOPLE BRING THEIR CELLPHONES TO THE WOODS AND TALK INCESSANTLY ABOUT  TRIFLES WHEN I GO HIKING? THIS NEVER HAPPENED IN COLORADO...CANNOT WAIT TO GO BACK. NO, REALLY I WANT TO TELL JUDY ABOUT MY NEW DISHWASHER WHILE I AM REVELING IN THE NATURE AND MAKE SURE EVERYONE ELSE HEARS ME BECAUSE I HAVE A LICENSE FOR NOISE POLLUTION. MEANWHILE THE MOLD CONTINUES TO MAKE ITS PRESENCE KNOWN TO ME. IT SEEMS TO GROW WHEREVER I SPEND THE MOST TIME...IN MY ROOM....AT MY DESK. MOLD SURE IS PECULIAR IF YOU ASK ME. FOR SHAME, I JUST TRIPPED OVER A PILE OF DEBRIS AS I ATTEMPTED TO FIND MY DOOR AND RELIEVE MYSELF. NOTHING BAD. ONLY THE CRACKING OF CONCRETE ON HEAD. I've BEEN THROUGH WORSE. SHIT, MY VITAMINS MUST BE SOMEWHERE. i JUST PLACED THEM BEFORE MY COLLECTION OF EMPTY CIGARETTE PACKS BUT A MOMENT AGO. THIS FUCKING ROOM! IT EATS EVERYTHING! NEVER HAVE I KNOWN A ROOM TO BE SO RAVENOUS. DISRESPECTFUL. BLACKGUARD! WOW A BARBIE HEAD I PULLED OFF WHEN I WAS SEVEN YEARS OLD. HAVEN'T SEEN THAT IN A LONG TIME. AMONGST THE DEBRIS THAT MADE ME CLUMSY. HOW DID IT GET THERE? OH CHRIST I AM PISSING MY PANTS. OH WELL. NEVER MIND. I WILL JUST GO BACK TO MY CHAIR. I HAVE TO THINK AND ALL THESE DISTRACTIONS ARE PREVENTING ME FROM FORMING A COHERENT THOUGHT. ANYHOW, IF YOU HAVEN'T NOTICED, I AM BEING COMPLETELY SUPERFICIAL RIGHT NOW. YOU DON'T REALLY KNOW WHAT I AM THINKING. IT IS RATHER IMPORTANT THOUGH, WHAT I THINK. IT IS ALSO IMPERATIVE THAT I KEEP MY THOUGHTS A PRISONER OF MY MIND BECAUSE I AM TERRIBLY AFRAID THAT SOMEONE WOULD CALL THE F.B.I. AND THE LUNATIC ASYLUM TO BOOT. I, FOR ONE, DO NOT BELONG IN AN INSANE ASYLUM. IN FACT, I AM ONE OF THE MOST DOWN TO EARTH AND SANE PERSONS THAT I KNOW. IT IS HARD TO BE SANE, LET ME TELL YOU. I AM JUST A LITTLE LOST AMONGST THE GARBAGE IN MY ROOM. BUSY THINKERS REALLY SHOULD CONSIDER THE SERVICE OF A MAID; BUT, I DO NOT BELIEVE IN SLAVERY OR MAKING OTHERS RESPONSIBLE FOR MY RUBBISH. IT REALLY ISN'T A PROBLEM FOR ME. THERE ARE MORE IMPORTANT THINGS TO DO OTHER THAN CLEANING A ROOM. HOW BORING. THE PEOPLE I LIVE WITH UPSTAIRS COME INTO MY ROOM WHEN I AM GONE AND INVADE MY PRIVACY. THEN THEY HAVE THE AUDACITY TO COMPLAIN ABOUT THE CONDITION IT IS IN: MOUNDS OF RUBBISH. "WELL" I SAY "IF IT CAUSE YOU THAT MUCH PAIN, DO NOT ENTER MY ROOM AT ANY COST ANYMORE!" AND "BESIDES ONE DAY YOU WILL BE GLAD I WAS THINKING INSTEAD OF CLEANING BECAUSE THE WHOLE WORLD IS GOING TO BENEFIT FROM MY MIND, YOU'LL SEE!" POOR COMMONERS, THEY JUST DO NOT UNDERSTAND. THEY EVEN HAD THE AUDACITY TO THREATEN ME DEPORTATION TO THE BLACK SEA LEST I STOP THINKING AND RID MY ROOM OF THE DEBRIS!   I AM NOT A DAUGHTER. I AM A TENANT. I PAY WITH MY SANITY. I ENDURE LIKE A TIRED MACHINE. THEY THINK I HAVE PLENTY OF SPACE TO LIVE. THIS IS A DELUSION OF COURSE, BUT TRY TELLING THEM SO. AND HOW HARD THEY WORK AT TRYING TO MAKE ME THE OUT TO BE RIDICULOUS AND BLIND. I MAKE MORE SENSE THAN SENSE ITSELF.  I HAVE 20/20 VISION. I HAVE NO ILLUSIONS. I KNOW THE TRUTH. SULLIED EATING UTENSILS ARE PROPS FOR THEIR COMPLAINTS. THEY COME IN WHEN I AM NOT HERE: PRIVACY INVADED. THAT IS A TRUE CRIME. I SHOULD CALL THE AUTHORITIES ON THEM! THINKING IS FAR MORE IMPORTANT THOUGH. THE HAY STREWN ABOUT THE FLOOR PROVIDES A BARNYARD-LIKE QUALITY THAT I RATHER ENJOY. MAYBE I SHOULD SPEND THE NIGHT IN THE CAGE WITH MY LITTLE DAUGHTER, AN ANGORA RABBIT. SHE IS FREE TO GO OUTSIDE IN SUMMER. THE COLD WETS MY BONES. I AM AFRAID WE'RE STUCK IN THIS HOUSE DEAR. CARROT? I TRIPPED OVER SOMETHING AGAIN. THRICE IN ONE DAY! AWKWARDLY PLACED SHOES AND AN INFINITY OF ODDS AND ENDS. MORE ODDS THAN ENDS. ONCE TIME I NOTICED MY EXEGESIS  AMONG BITS OF THE USELESS AND OBSOLETE. SO THAT IS WHERE IT HAS BEEN ALL THESE YEARS! AMAZING WHAT ONE FINDS WHEN NOT SEEKING...OR HAVING A HEART ATTACK OVER. SO, HEAD ON THE CONCRETE. NO HOSPITAL PLEASE; I AM TOO BUSY THINKING. I MUST THINK. IDEAS SPOUT OUT LIKE A BROKEN DAM AND I BECOME FLUSTERED AND DISJOINTED AND CLUMSY WITH MY USE OF THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE AND MY POSTURE TWISTED INTO A WRETCHED CONDITION. IT IS ALL SUCH A COMEDY. THE PETTY, THE MEANINGFUL AND WHAT DETERMINES EACH. IMPORTANT. NOT IMPORTANT. IT VARIES DAY TO DAY. THE SWITCHES IN PERCEPTION SHIFT LIKE SOME IMMORTAL ANIMAL. DON'T TRUST IT. BUT IS IT ME? I TRY TO STAY IN MY BODY, BUT IT IS MY NATURE TO FLOAT BEYOND THE BOUNDS OF THE FLESH; I HOVER OVER MYSELF LIKE A STRANGER UNEASY AND DETACHED. WHEN MY FEET TOUCH THE EARTH AND THE DIRT STAINS MY FEET-I KNOW I AM OF THE EARTH...BUT THEY ALWAYS SEEM TO BETRAY ME, LEAVE ME STRANDED AMONG THE UNKNOWN. A SELF THAT IS NOT A SELF. I LIKE THE DIRT. THE BLACK CUMULATIVE SCUM BENEATH MY NAILS LEAVES ME APATHETIC, BUT SOMETIMES I AM EQUIPPED WITH SEVERAL NAIL CLIPPERS, BECAUSE OWNING ONLY ONE PAIR IS NO COMFORT, HAVING ONE OF ANYTHING IS UNCOMFORTABLE. THINGS DISAPPEAR. THINGS I NEED. I SCRAPE THE SOIL OUT FROM UNDER MY NAILS SOMETIMES RITUALISTICALLY. EVERY SPECK MUST BE RID. ON SOME DAYS MY SANITY IS CODEPENDENT. CERTAIN TASKS MUST TAKE PLACE. TRASH BAGS FULL OF WARDROBE ALMOST A COMPLETE OBSTACLE TO MY BED. OUT OF CHAOS IT IS EASIER TO SEE COMMON SENSE AND SO I CLIMB ONTO IT THROUGH A CRACK AND BYPASS THE MOUNDS. SLEEP THOUGH. NOT MUCH. MY MIND IS A KNIFE IN THE NIGHT, SHARP AND PRECISE IS ITS CUT. ASTUTE. THE FRESCOES I SEE CLEARLY; THEY CAN BE DESCRIBED AS VIVID WILDFLOWERS SPREADING, MIXED AND PERSISTENT BREEDS OF COLOR, BORN OUT OF SOME SEEDS TOSSED ABOUT,  RANDOMLY PLACED BY NATURE.HELIANTHUS ANNUSS. HELIOS ANTHOS. SUN AND FLOWER. SUNFLOWER.  IN A TEN WEEK OLD VASE. THEY BEND IN THE DARK. I  NOTICED THEM TODAY WHEN MY THOUGHTS FLIPPED THE SWITCH TO  THE PRESENT, THROUGH MY EYES:  BINOCULARS HEAVY WITH THE BURDEN OF  EVERYTHING, SCRUTINY, THINGS BEST BURIED UNDER PILES- THE SLOW SUICIDE OF JUNK FOOD WRAPPERS, AND BAGS, AND FLUIDS LEAKING FROM STALE MUGS. THE CHAIR I SIT IN, WARM WITH MY SEDENTARY SKIN PRESSING INTO IT, ENGRAVED. BOOKS, PAPERS, BOTTLES, CUPS, OLD YOGURT. MY DESK. THERE ARE MANY THINGS ON MY DESK. I FORGET WHAT COLOR IT IS. I HAVE TO GO NOW. I'M THINKING. G'DAY.

"MESSY PEOPLE ARE MORE PRODUCTIVE"-God

No number four.

No number four. I cannot section myself. I just have to keep going.  Are you looking at me? Not that pencil on your desk. How fascinating is a pencil? What were you thinking about when you were staring at that pencil? You are so dishonest. Harriett talks to me like I am Jesus. She prays and confesses and tells. She spins wheels of good and evil. She contains no evil, but she weaves it for herself like a cocoon. I have the characteristics of Jesus, but I do not use them for life. He was a revolutionary. I am a repressed revolutionary. Are repressed revolutionaries inspiring Harriett? Harriett said no. Then why do you treat me like Jesus? Because you remind me of him a lot. How could that be. A fragmented sentence just projected out of me. I suppose I should say that she told Jesus many tales. Her mother was silent like my mother. She hated her for her silence. Figuratively she was silent. Folks can be loud and silent at the same time. Every word her mother spoke was a vessel. This vessel would percolate within Harriett. It would become louder inside Harriett. I used to see blood in her ears and wonder where it came from. Harriett said the blood just kept coming: she would keep talking as if it were not spilling.  Her mother had a handicapped imagination. This disorder ostracized Harriett from the womb. Her mother would go on vacations for a long time. Harriett found her master when her mother went on these sojourns; he has been with her ever since the first one. The first was the longest; the rest were endured at shorter intervals.

  When Harriett was finished speaking at Jesus she would reach into her bag for a new face. Dolls can do that. Abrupt ability. Just like this story. Abrupt. It contains abruptability. How the colors would turn. I saw them brighten just a bit too much. This was when she told me how bad I was (and still am). When her comprehension fails the colors go everywhere like the snow. There is no interception and no clarity. She told me that people are vacuums with squamous organs inside. I had no organs. I was just a vacuum cleaner. I sucked up dirt, but I could not digest it. I spewed it all over the rugs and the furniture.

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Innocence upon a time.

And perhaps it was an anomaly, the torrents of grasshoppers, one after the other through a crack in the backyard fence, flooding your insect catcher-the prize of your childhood. Beyond the fence, the marsh, and the surreal parade of grasshoppers. They were your first true friends. As many the catcher could hold was the claustrophobic fate of the grasshoppers, but you were young and ignorant, you did not want to be alone in your room at night and the constant flicker of insect legs  against plastic reminded you that there was life:time did not stop when you were alone. By morning they were gone. Mother and father said that the grasshoppers had to go home. You knew they had let them go. You stared at the crispy exoskeleton, all that remained inside the plastic: a grasshopper had molted while you slept. A strange loneliness passed through you. The remains of a friend, quite meaningless once the life has ceased. This did not deter you from collecting grasshoppers: it became your ritual. Your first real bond, separate from the nexus of daughter, mother, and father, was with the continuous flow of orthopteran insects. The grasshopper: advocate of intuition. The grasshopper totem: never silence your inner musings. The grasshopper chooses the innovator, " forward thinkers that progress in life by unorthodox methods." When you accidentally dropped the bug catcher onto the pavement of the driveway it cracked and broke. Your first little devastation: it was never replaced. The bond, however, did not break, and you would be amongst grasshoppers come the first blaze of summer and every summer to come. Such an anomaly, how they hopped, one after the other, through the crack in the fence. Their parade was endless.
You were the first, the novelty, the bliss of an only child, first daughter, first granddaughter. You were fortunate enough to see the love between your mother and father glow, a utopia of affection they displayed before you with long kisses and caresses.  Unbeknownst, that love would turn bitter as human complications surfaced, reared their ugly nightmares and sullied the insulation of the perfect landscape of innocence. You remember that gift, the fantasy of immortal love, all the skeletons dormant in the closet burst out years later, a cyclone slap of ugly reality and circumstance. The human condition.
Oh! but remember the graveyard? Your father was caretaker of the graveyard. Daddy's little girl accompanied him to play, to observe, to dash about tombstones and the ancient sinking stones engraved with bizarre tales of death adjacent to the railroad tracks. The stone of an infant. Mortality came early. Too early. Was it possible to die before living? Yet play and run and ecstatic glee of being among the cats that inhabited the caretaker's shed. Their names now distant, aphasic, the tongue loses its sharpness when time piles a million other names, stifling and overcrowding the memory with what becomes more significant as time passes. But there were cats, such joy they gave you as a child, the novelty, the first.
The master of the graveyard, old Mr. Merwin, occupied a large lavish home with his aged wife. The wallpaper, floral, lavender, your favorite color, and the old woman a shock of white hair and wisdom. Father maintained their home and property as well. The great white house on the hill you rolled down, over tufts of fresh clover and busy bees, oblivious, disrupting their feast, again and again, laughter and light, the sun, your eyes, ripe with life, on the lawn of the Merwin estate. They were always kind. The Merwins. The rosebush, pinkish-white petals, fresh and aromatic, stood for years on the Merwin family plot. The old woman was the last of the Merwin line. The rosebush waited patiently for her to be put to rest and then withered itself into the ground: the death of a family and the rosebush faithfully gone with the last.
Remember the swinging on the fourth of July. The fireworks visible, ebullient and bursting over the marshes. It was well past dark, late evening, but mother and father allowed you the privilege to remain outdoors past bedtime. And as the colors erupted brilliantly in the sky, you pumped your legs harder and harder, higher and higher, the ecstasy of mini-explosions and the soft whipping of the breeze against your face, immortality and youth, the luxurious privacy of the only child accompanying you as you rose through the night air. To soar through the air as if over the marshes and the trees themselves, to have no fear, to be untainted from the dirty mouths of the older children that would harass you in the new neighborhood, later. How fantastic was the silent electric pleasure pulsating throughout your limbs: the joy and the peace of the simplicity of the moment.
You did not resent the birth of your brother and sister. There was no jealousy. They were an interesting phenomena to me having been the solitary first, the novelty, the little princess. I loved and tormented them, I perfected the art of the brat, but with a curious detachment and disconnection that would only intensify when I was put amongst other children. Nursery school. I hated school the moment I was forced to attend. The presence of other children made me uncomfortable; my perceptions were quite mature fro my age and I found it hard to relate to "the others." This is when the blackness became more acute. My world was disrupted by teachers, and pestering assignments and horrid group participation. I felt like a black spot of ink on a backdrop of white. The disconnection and lack of "belonging" rang in my head like a migraine and I just wanted to carry on with my freedom, but instead I was pushed into a mass of oozing noses and silly ideas about what I was supposed to know. The hollow and aphotic voice took over my sub-conscious. A constant nag everyday, "something is wrong," "something is wrong," perpetually created a shadow that infiltrated my perception. I rarely smiled. I hated the children. They were wicked and cruel. They blotted out the golden age and made everything that was beautiful to me seem foolish and dead. The anxieties, the highs and devastating lows, hyper-elation and thoughts of death. Did every child feel this way? Was every child as impulsive and moody and in tune with what was wrong with the world? Did every child threaten suicide at age five and keep a knife under his or her pillow? Persistent and violent nightmares. Almost kidnapped when I moved to the new neighborhood. A man following me as I walked home alone. The perverse men that had exposed themselves to me, stared at me, invaded my sacred innocence. I was a constant hall-flower in elementary school. I was almost expelled. I couldn't sit still. I was bored to tears. The human condition had pervaded me!

So there you have it etc.

Like a sorrowful cow. I am. Oh fuck you cow. I walked for twenty miles and the Baptist Church I passed did not amuse me. The people and their ugly hot-rods ceased to amuse me. They all try to bite me. They need flesh. They are all zombies. Zombies in cars. Zombies in bars. Zombies roaming the sidewalks and streets. Death. This culture knows death quite well. Yes, I am having a conversation with myself again. The zombies turn to look. This only makes me talk to myself much louder. I am annoyed by them. Away zombie! Leave me to myself. I like my answers. I am amused by my questions. NO ZOMBIE! Let me be. I prefer my own company on this journey-go buy some food at Hooters. Ride a motorcycle to Hell or....what are they good for anyway? Just toys that kill people. You think it is fly man? Riding ninety miles an hour, vroom, vroom, to your doom. Telephone pole. Wipe out. Fun toy. Some amusement park. Enough about that. The trees are all hanging green. Dark green. Dark molasses summer leaves. That is the way I perceive them anyway. They cover the months just like last year. Dark. Repetitive. A cycle. A season. Death to the lilacs and fresh spring accoutrement. The sky sure is a joker. Grey, grey, grey. One day it is bright. A thousand days after-all darkness. Rain. Rain. Rain and death. Good. Die. Please leave. Let the new in. Blue skies? Where be thee blue skies? Where be thee sunshine. I never felt I belonged in this side of the state. I was right all along. I don't. DON'T. Belong, belong, belong. I'm goin' out west like Thomas Alan "Tom" Waits. The east is a beast. Cheap rhymes are good for fairy-tales. My fairy-tale is a mountain with wildflowers all around and NO, let me repeat, NO PEOPLE. My fairy-tale is not far from reality, but I wish it were my reality now.  

 A mountain. A castle. A flying octopus speaks loudly out its flaccid mourning mouth. A burst of personality dies with the skeptic. Esoteric? I love what I cannot understand. It keeps my attention. It mocks me until I figure out its indeterminateness. What does it mean? How do I know? Blah, blah, blah. The scars of dreams decorate my body. I will no longer nurture them. I want to move. Far. Fast. Become invisible. Take leave. I've had enough elitist bullshit. Yes, I am a recluse. I got sick of the elitist bullshit. Garbage mouths lurking and weaving tales about what they know not. Liars. Frauds. Silly children that need a script to live off of until they hate themselves so much they crack. Now who is insane? I passed the ink-blot scam long ago. I do not claim to be something I am not. I do not know everything. I care not for metro-sexual pretty asses. I do not care if you are in a band or if you're "Ivy League" or if you can pull butterflies out your orifices. 

Mary had a little lamb. Yeah, hey, I'm here, I'm sane, and sure, I have a little grudge. Just a little one. I have a grudge against people that believe in fairies. Mind you, if you haven't already figured it out, I jump around a lot, topic to topic. This is how it is to have a brain such as I have. It can be really frustrating, but, hey, what the fuck. I MEAN ALL I SAY. I hate people that believe in fairies. Haven't you noticed that people tend to think fairies float about them as they stagger, blind-folded, through the atmosphere. Yes, oh yes. Well, I hate to break apart their happy little fantasy, but FAIRIES AREN'T REAL and WAKE THE FUCK UP!

Fairies will not salvage you from the ugliness of life, so buck up! Fairies are a distraction and were put within your range of vision as a child to deter you from observing and understanding the World as it really is: Empires in conflict, murderers, Christian Scientists, misogyny in every women's ad for pants, numb-scullery for our children to drool over on television (What ever happened to Loony Tunes...at least they took some brain power to create, and that Bugs Bunny..so witty!), New improved video games *life-like* that swallow the player...and believe me, there are trillions of them locked inside a World of Warcraft or whatever the fuck the shit is called. Do people ask why anymore? Do people say "How do you know?" enough, do people see what surrounds them, do people see the root of all evil and from where it originates...think money...etc, do people question their "teachers" enough, do people notice that the house across the street blew up weeks ago, do they? DO THEY? No. All they see are a bunch of fairies, we can call it hallucination/bomb shelter if you will. As long as there are fairies, the evil in this World can never survive. Oh yeah? Well guess who is winning the ballgame chumps? EVIL. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=27LLPANAgzw Goin' out West where they appreciate me....see ya!

What do I do?

Oh Harriett. How lucky you are. You, all plush and cushion, and faux red locks. Is it easy to be a doll Harriett? You see, I am a human being and I just get so wrapped around the tree of the hanged man....woman....human. I feel this terror and it paralyzes my body and renders it useless. I curl up like a deflated something made in China and I can't come out of my burrow. There is so much fear in me that sometimes i do not feel like I occupy this body anymore. Did I ever? Harriett? Am I restricted to this burden of a body, confined to trembling blood and tarnished skin? Disconnected... disassociated. You don't ever feel that way. Yo are a doll. You are my best friend. You will always be Harriett and you will never leave me. People disappear and their ghosts corrode my sun with specks of memories I care very much to be immune to. I get so angry at the discomfort. This body. This shroud. There are times that I just want to be as a snake and shed. I want to be new. I feel the World taint me the minute I leave the house. Harriett? Oh, I wish you could talk. I know you can hear me, but I need to hear your voice like a lost animal in the dessert needs water. To be human is to be vulnerable and susceptible to many impurities and circumstances. To be human is often to be helpless. We are all helpless with that great gift of mortality we have been given...the sorrow of your body turning to dust before you as the life still pulses, faintly, but just enough for you to see another day go by. I don't want to wait to die Harriett. Oh, I get so scared sometimes. I get so angry. Why? I question why. Why bother? Life is much hurt and defilement and confusion and torment at times....the tornado assaults me sometimes, it spins and whirls until I can't see....the light....the life....feel the pulse of blood pound at my temples. Do you ever feel invisible Harriett? I try to be the best friend I can be. You are the most reliable. You are always here waiting for me to return. You never leave. Human beings leave and my heart feels as if it were being crushed in a vice. The vacancy, the empty, the without. Contact, Why, it seems they always leave me. Am i garbage Harriett? Am I really that disposable. I suppose I don't act right or I smell funny or...I just become a non-entity. A lost and betrayed memory. I don't understand Harriett. You are the only one. The only one that has remained. Loyal. A constant fixture among an overwhelming hurricane. Gee. I need and I don't want to need. The hollows threaten me; they place their horror-bodies on my bed and I am terrified to sleep. terrified to go to bed. How can I not be? And the insomnia. The fighting to stay awake. The push and pull like some medieval terror device ringing pain throughout my exhausted, but jerky body. Harriett? Harriett? Did you fall asleep? I wish you could tell me what all this means. I feel I may go rather mad keeping it all to myself like a toxic volcano.I never know when my head will explode. I must be strange for thinking such things right Harriett? , Sometimes i want to scream at you for remaining silent.  I am jealous of your simplicity. You must hear me though, you must. There is something unique about you Harrietta. I sense your eyes shift when I shift and you eminate a silent wisdom that both placates and infuriates me. I wish we could switch places a couple times a week. I am ready for my retirement fund and I am only 15.  am I going to cease the monsters until I doe. Okay, Harriett, I won't say such hideous things for remainder of the day. Oh, but it is so tiresome when the giant ill switch is broken and I can't turn it off. Harriett, can you teach me the art of utter silence. You are like Zen. Something isn't quite right. Everybody knows. I feel their eyes grow scared when i begin to talk the way I do in front of you. I cannot reveal myself to these people. I am so lonely amongst my peers. Don't they feel it too? Harriett? Silence.

Harriett and I laying in bed.

Hikikomori is how Harriett describes me tonight as we lay beside each other (strictly platonic, I am not into molesting dolls). Hikikomori in Japan means "social withdrawal." I do not know how or why she comes up with these ideas of me. After all, she is just a doll and her capacity for empathy is nonexistent. Call me crazy-all dolls are sociopaths. Anyhow, Harriett said that it was not good for me to withdraw but to lead my disciples. Who are my disciples? Harriett says they are buried deep within my subconscious and that I have to unlock the box from which they hibernate. "Is it a Pandora's box?" I asked in fear. "No" she said, "It is a box that houses all those that recognize your ability to lead them in to paradise." "There is no such thing as paradise." I replied. "Oh yes" she said, "You will see." I get weary of Harriett's insights of me. She has none of her own because she has no flesh or blood. I do not understand all this gibberish about Jesus and paradise and disciples. Do all dolls talk like this? Whenever I ask Harriett about herself she sighs and replies "I am nothing but a doll." I think she may be up to no good. She is a mischief maker for sure. All this funny talk leads me to dark places. This talk reminds me that I am truly alone talking to a doll that has bizarre prophesies concerning myself. Social withdrawal? Not entirely. I talk to the walls and to Harriett when she listens. I disagree with her. "How do I get the disciples to come out and play?" I ask Harriett. "Oh, not play, follow, they will follow you to paradise, but only when they appear will the path be set before you to lead them." Harriett is an esoteric doll I think. I do not quite understand her. She says strange things to me in the dark. Most of our conversations take place in the dark when I finally drop my insomniac head onto my pillow. Red satin pillowcases and Harriett await me in the dark. I wonder if Harriett wanders. There are times, I swear, I place her on the red satin pillowcase. But, sometimes I look up from whatever it is that occupies my time to see that she sits at the edge of the bed watching me with her sewn in smile. Sometimes I think I must be delirious and sleep deprived to see such things. I know I placed her upon the pillow. I always do. But, she always moves. When I turn to lay down after a good forty-eight hours of no sleep I see that she is back in the position I originally placed her: resting upon the red satin pillowcase. Hikikomori: social withdrawal. I never thought of myself as removed from the pester of others, but perhaps she has a point. People to me do not talk-they pester. I suppose this point of view is not shared among those that are social. So, hikikomori to me. So the doll says.
Goodnight Harriett.

Harriett and I...a continuation.

Coming soon to a monitor near you will be a continuation of the story featuring Harriett and her companion. To recall or refresh your memory:  "I am a repressed revolutionary. Are repressed revolutionaries inspiring Harriett? Harriett said no.
Then why do you treat me like Jesus? Because you remind me of him a lot. How could that be. A fragmented sentence just projected out of me. I suppose I should say that she told Jesus
many tales. Her mother was silent like my mother. She hated her for her silence. Figuratively she was silent. Folks can be loud and silent at the same time..."
To be continued...

And now a song to end this message:


Only The Lonely lyrics
Songwriters: Orbison, Roy; Melson, Joe;
Dum dum dum, dummy doo wah
Ooh yay, yay, yay, yeah
Oh oh oh, oh oh ah
Only the lonely, only the lonely

Only the lonely
(Dum dum dum, dummy doo wah)
Know the way I feel tonight
(Ooh yay, yay, yay, yeah)
Only the lonely
(Dum dum dum, dummy doo wah)
Know this feeling ain't right
(Dum dum dum, dummy doo wah)

There goes my baby, there goes my heart,
They're gone forever, so far apart-
But only the lonely know why I cry
Only the lonely

Dum dum dum, dummy doo wah
Ooh yay, yay, yay, yeah
Oh oh oh, oh oh ah
Only the lonely, only the lonely

Only the lonely
(Dum dum dum, dummy doo wah)
Know the heartaches I've been through
(Ooh yay, yay, yay, yeah)
Only the lonely
(Dum dum dum, dummy doo wah)
Know I cry and cry for you
(Dum dum dum, dummy doo wah)

Maybe tomorrow, a new romance
No more sorrow but that's the chance
You've got to take, if your lonely heart breaks-
Only the lonely
(Dum dum dum, dummy doo wah)

Lee Hazlewood - My autumn's done come

Lee Hazlewood - My autumn's done come

VANDALS UNITE!

Nothing makes me laugh so hard as when I happen to be riding on the shitty train or walking the streets I should not be walking, and clear as day, right before my eyes, is the word "FUCK" written in huge childish upper-case defilements. "FUCK." So blunt, so profound. It mocks factory buildings, bathroom walls, and, why nothing can be better then when the word "FUCK" corrodes the pearl-white siding of a trophy home in gated-community-ville  or the freshly waxed SUV of a soccer mom. "TITS, " "ASS," "FUCK." Why do I laugh? Why, I laugh because the vandals, making their profound statements, have given meaning as to what these victims of spray-paint and sharpies represent: SHIT. Now, there is a word. "SHIT." That's right. The shit that knocked down all the trees that made up the wooded areas I used to run through and explore as a child. The shit that clogs up the traffic, SUV gas-guzzling soccer-mommy exhaust pipe spewing "SHIT."

So, yeah, what could be better revenge than  good old-fashioned vandalism when it comes to getting some revenge against the upper classes that plug our streets with brand new, GPS included, seat warmer, butt-fucking air extinguisher, piece of shit disguised in platinum golden spokes tacky toys that clog the air, streets, MURDER...ers. "FUCK" How does that toot your horn. How horrid. I am having a heart-attack, no, wait, really, I just had that siding...ouch...just bought that Audi.....ouch...I think.....WHERE THE DICKENS ARE MY HIGH BLOOD PRESSURE PILLS!!! OUCH!..........

See, officer, I thought that stuff was cleaning fluid. Yeah, I really did. But, after all that hard work on Mr. Vanderbilt's novel audi/SUV, I had, I needed a smoke break. I hardly lit the match and POOF! Like Armageddon! I swear officer, I had no idea. Someone must have labeled the cannister wrong. I get straight A's in school. Please don't tell my mommy, please? I didn't mean it. I didn't.

Nothing like a "Gated-Community" to keep the zombies locked away from the lower classes. Thank God. Throw away the key I say!

STAY AWAY!

Oh my, what happened to this fine looking piece of plastic?

Those evil vandals! Where the police around here? How do they get in to OUR neighborhood? This land is our land what? No, no, no, This is our neighborhood; we pay to live here and we pay for its comforts. How could such a thing happen to OUR neighborhood? Beware! Vandal!

Every nice white upper-class neighborhood wishes death upon the vandals, but I believe there are more vandals than they can handle. Get to work vandals!

Jesus! Who ripped up your lawn and kicked your make-believe flamingo to the ground. Who would do such a thing! And television room window....mauled by a huge football.....strange! Is this the Armageddon? Where are the cops? I bet it was a bunch of uneducated drug fiends! Let's get em'!

Whoah Soccer Bitch! What happened to your prize? Your mobile looks terrible! You better get those suckas! Who is the sucker really? Well...uh... never mind...where'd they go?

WOOPS!!!!

UH-OH! Here comes the wrecking ball! RUN FOR COVER!!!!! How did they get hold of a goddamn wrecking ball! SHIT!!!! Here it comes!!!!

Excuse me. Just taking OUR land back. Beware.

VANDALISM IS KEY!

I live for it and i have a pet-peeve (among many) concerning artificial flowers. Actually the white suburban flash of white trash and trophy neighborhoods make the snot in my nose cry a river, albeit, a raging river. I live next to a town that claims:Stratford-The town of forest and sea. Uh, where is the motherfucking forest? All I see are made in China houses and slow restaurants, and of course, THEE OLD LIQUOR STORE. I have a pet-peeve against signs that lie. Like the Stratford, My town motto is one big lie. "A Small City With A Big Heart" is what the sign says as you enter my town. But, really it is just a dumb suburb with a big dick. FALSE! ALL OF IT! Go buy your artificial flowers and stick them in your eyes because I'm afraid you have seen too much "small-city" person. That is enough. ENOUGH! I dream of vandalizing (not that this has never happened) every shit-ugly gated-ish neighborhood that make the deer homeless. With can in hand I spray these words: YOUR LAWN LOOKS LIKE SHIT. Bye.

But vandalism can be beautiful, especially when what is being vandalized starts out ugly.-http://sniggle.net/vandalism.php out ugly.

Vandalism is what I want to be when I grow up. My middle name  revenge. Now get into your over-sized gas waste shit soccer mom vehicle (All spray painted with the word "FUCK" on it) and drive to the nearest garbage can. Amen.

WHY?

WHY?

WHY Do People refrain from asking...

WHY? WHY? WHY? WHY?

Amy Miret of the band Nausea asked WHY?

Why or How? Why do you think that? I quote Bryan Loder of the Trick-Vatican, an expert on "WHAT?" says that all the philosophers have given up on why. WHY? WHY do you think this is? Do you think?

Do you ever ask WHY when you see this man?

WHY?

To ask why is to endanger the ignoramotic-hypnosis Our Country 'Tis of Thee has given us in many different forms. Capitalism, for one, and the one with the most toys wins......Who needs to think? I am still worried about how the rims on my new Lexus Supreme are going to come up. I hope those dirty mechanics do not fuck them up again.

'Why? Come on REALLY?!

I do not understand: Why not ask why?

William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)

    THE SECOND COMING
    Turning and turning in the widening gyre
    The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
    Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
    Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
    The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
    The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
    The best lack all conviction, while the worst
    Are full of passionate intensity.

WHY? WHY? WHY? 

Do you want to know why... never mind, I know you have to buy Slaughter Vampire Fucker IV...you're busy.