BALLS BABY BALLS!

When someone dies, everyone asked about the deceased has nothing but sweet and positive things to say about them. "...was a real family man." "... had a true sense of community and duty to his fellow man." Every time this is the case. Any article in the paper is filled with praise of the former. But, if every person who dies and gets a write up in the paper as "...someone who would go out of their way to help anyone out.", then why is this world in the shape that it is in? Is it sympathy for the dead or are we just lying to ourselves? Not every person who has died has been a "good" or even acceptable human. The sad state of human affairs currently is enough proof of that. If a racist gang member gets shot or the head of a failed bank that screwed over millions of people out of billions of dollars commits suicide, they should get a more realistic write up. "...was a decent neighbor but really obsessed with his possessions.", "...was in and out of jail for beating his wife", or "...never really talked to anyone much. He would do things for the community but you could tell it was just because it was good p.r. for his company.". Maybe once we stop lying to ourselves about the dead, we can find the truth in living.

weekend

we fly all around
days
we wander and we wonder
"where is the lunar landscape of my distressed soul?"
"where are it's deep valleys and expansive craters?"
"where are it's barren landscape devoid of color and life?"
Where aren't...
who knows.
Among the sea of red white a blue
among the vanguards and the trotskites
among the "virtuous" or "just"
among the powerful and oblivious
among the obvious

maybe it's every time i look into her eyes and float in that sea of darkness.
Damn girl that shit is deep like an ocean.
Maybe you'd be cuter if I shot you in the face.
Your body could fall down from the fifth floor
slowly
in black and white
as a soft but dark melody is played on piano two floors below
just low enough to be in the background but impactful enough to film

after all this, we wonder if we even knew what it was we are searching for.
can't even get a wage from the bottom of the barrel in this town
why look?
Well I know. Praise be Mummu, the awoken.
You just have to pull the cosmic trigger
right to the forhead

Let's beat up the Poor! - Charles Baudelaire ("Assommons les pauvres!")

For fifteen days I was confined to my room, and I was surrounded by the sort of books that were fashionable then (this was sixteen or seventeen years ago)--I mean to say those books in which is treated the art of making people happy, wise, and rich in twenty-four hours. I had, then, digested,--I should say, swallowed whole,--all the lucubrations of all of these entrepreneurs of public happiness,--of those who council all of the poor to make themselves slaves, and of those who persuade them that are all unthroned kings. You won't be surprised to learn that I was in a state of mind close to dizziness or stupefaction.
It seemed to me only that I felt, confined in the depths of my intellect, the obscure seed of an idea superior to all the old wives' tales collected in the encyclopedia that I had recently read through. Bit it was only the idea of an idea, something infinitely vague.
And I went out with a great thirst. For a passionate taste for bad reading engenders a proportional need for fresh air and refreshments.
As I was about to enter a cabaret, a beggar held out his cap to me, with one of those unforgettable gazes that would cause thrones to tumble, if spirit could move matter, and if the eye of a hypnotist could make grapes ripen.
At the same time, I heard a voice whispering in my ear, a voice that I well recognized: it was that of the good Angel, or good Devil, who accompanies me everywhere. Since Socrates had his good Demon, why shouldn't I have my good Angel, and why shouldn't I have the honor, like Socrates, of obtaining my own certificate of insanity, signed by the subtle Lelut and the well-advised Baillarge?
There is a difference between Socrates' Demon and my own, and that is that Socrates' only appeared to him to forbid, warn,m and prevent, whereas mine deigns to offer council, suggest, and persuade. Poor Socrates only had a prohibitive Demon; mine is a great affirmer, mine is a Demon of action, a Demon of combat.
Now, his voice whispered this: "He alone is equal to another who proves it, and he alone is worthy of liberty who knows how to conquer it."
I immediately leaped upon the beggar. With a single punch I gave him a black eye, which became in a second as big as a ball. I tore one of my nails breaking two of his teeth, and since I didn't feel strong enough--having been born delicate and being little practiced in boxing--to beat this old man to death quickly, I seized him with one hand by the collar of his jacket and with the other I grabbed his throat, and I began to bang his head against the wall vigorously. I must admit that I had previously inspected the area with a quick glance and that I had verified that i would find myself, in this deserted suburb, out of the reach of any police officer for a fairly long period of time.
Having then knocked down this weakened sexagenarian with a kick in the back, energetic enough to have broken his shoulder-blades, I seized a big tree limb that was lying on the ground and I beat him with it with the obstinate energy of a cook who wants to tenderize a steak.
Suddenly,--Oh delight of the philosopher who verifies the excellence of this theory!--I saw that ancient carcass turn, stand up with an energy that I would never have expected to find in so singularly broken-down a machine, and, with a look of hatred that seemed to me a good omen, the decrepit ruffian threw himself upon me, blackened both of my eyes, broke four of my teeth, and with the same tree branch beat me to a bloody pulp. Through my energetic medicine, I had returned to him his pride and his life...
Then I made him numerous signs to let him understand that I considered the discussion ended, and getting up with all of the satisfaction of a Stoic philosopher, I said to him: "Sir, you are my equal! Do me the honor of sharing my purse with me; and remember, if you are really a philanthropist, that you must apply to all of your brothers, when they ask you for alms, the theory that I had the sorrow of testing out on your back."
He swore to me that he had understood my theory, and that he would obey my advice.

isn't anything?

Did you ever think you would be standing over the toilet in a dirty bathroom with a cigarette in your mouth, admiring the smoke as it floats out of the window and into the upper stratosphere when you were 11? Seeing the smoke form into letters that spell out "evacuate" is sometimes what it takes to jolt one from ones "discontent" with ones surroundings. One would say, if one were so inclined, that awareness of the situation is the first step to resolution but really the first step is the reality of it all. The situation itself is the real first step.

As I sit awake at 3:30 am, lighting another cigarette, reminding myself that I don't smoke, the smoke spells out more words. Words in a language somebody at some point in history has to have seen before. Words that speak to me in new levels of my being. Words I have yet to decipher except Evacuate and, now, Alone. The smoke, still pulling towards the sky, forms a spiral that intwines my visual perception into an argument between Set and Harsiese that just never seems to finish. Neither side will have anything to do with a diplomatic end to their contest so why the fuck should we even tell them it's an option.

Sometimes.

some pleasant day

the flood

As she walked towards me I felt the oxygen molecules rush past me,
in a panic,
from her overpowering aura.
Her smile brings a familiar florescent glow.
"two cafes s'il vous...erh...please. Very small. Like Pandora"
My bewilderment overtaking the space my breath once held
Mind reeling from the blow oh her oddly chosen words.
Thoughts flood me like Johnstown
Words remain as ghosts.
One simple phrase transports me out of my plane of reality
into the 10th dimension.
We are one and everything around us at once.
Dream fills the background
creating a spiral of waves and lightning bolts that fill my chest.

Then, as if it had been the faint recollection of an intense R.E.M. dream
the moment ends. All I can see is the black ocean of her hair as she walks away into the decontaminated corridors.

The next person to walk up to me doesn't even look me in the eye.

Agony

One day
not too far away
but still light years,
Tones and chorus spoke dissent
spoke magnitudes for the true saint.
The poet.
The connoisseur of cheap wine.
Unashamed of uncomfortable pitch
or continuity issues.
It seems so far away when you look at it all now.
It was 30 B.M.
christ had nothing to do with it
because how can you vouch for existence you've not lived?

The familarity of the piece is a surrogate for the quality ascribed to it.

They.
Have.
Gone.
Too.
Far.
City of Baltimore Fire Department: MUST BE POSTED ON PREMISES
Fire Prevention Permit.
Can't even put out a fire these days without asking permission.
45 dollars.
That is too much to ask.
We blew the money on junk and empire building.
A sick and twisted game of risk gone right for the wrong people.
Red took the Ukraine from green but goddammit
THE UKRAINE IS NOT WEAK!!!

Nothing on the walls.
No spark.
No Theory in the scientific sense.
No colour.
No hope.
"No Joy".

The tiny creatures that inhabit our reality are vermin in the eyes of house wives and bourgeois
upon entering our domiciles. They pay us visits like old friends who know us very well yet are always unwelcome.
We are all created from the same star.
All atoms forged at the heart of the sun by mexicans being payed, on average, a few less than minimum wage. Cheap labor built this planet goddammit and that's the way we're going to keep it.

Neon Guru

An Albatross - The Family Album (2008)

Try it here!