page one OCTOGONAL sunshine blots out my windows lustfully consuming dark shapes A IGNITE F A line starts Many universes find themselves I the wave pulls trapped between my walls as G back, recedes, sand limitless atoms arrange and H disappears with it, drifting rearrange in the perfect T further from the confines of a square harmony of the utterly meaningless Alligator music tends to scare —- the sound far too intense for the tender ears of the common —- stretch out microphone fuck—split scream of pain/ecstasy —- where do you draw the line between fiction and the stories festering behind my back like milk curdling screams; sour notes play in my jazz nights —- staying awake the music keeping my mind help apart together with the idea of escaping all the invisible shackles I love to tie around my neck, ankles, wrists, etc. I am less than the broken guitar, it broke for me and I feel fixed —- fine bubblegum —- take it out when you kiss me... page two Lamp illuminates/dark one—half, up against the wall as the light flickers without my eyes moving silence carries yellow its shoulders sagging under the tortuous weight of colour... sound escapes the pages Unsuccessful suicide attempt. Wakes up sick and hungover in a strange & unknown place. Crying in public. Sees a business woman fall on her ass. Laughter ensues. Need a muse or some other form of cure for the blues... what drug can I now abuse? At home, sober, he sulks, sitting cross-legged, grey sweat pants, light blue t-shirt too small, gut—swollen depressed bored so fucking far out of the ol’ head case that nothing is beautiful. sex seems disgusting. Is afraid of what dreams might creep out —- once I clothe my eyes... what to do —- lacking inspiration everything is bread + butter + water. How can you establish coherent narrative when nothing makes sense? rearrange the poles and call me when something comes up... page three spaceman finds himself at the mercy of machine —- plagued by torturous dreams this one man crew isolated indefinitely resorting to bouts of mania, detachment from the self and chronic masturbation, he descends returning to earth, re-entering society, clearing his mind of all thought relaying my (rest of page filled with dark and chaotic sketches) page four (page filled with a dark sketch, this time less chaotic. appears to be a man hunched over with his hands balled into fists. the man has no pupils and a large nose. intelligible writing and what appears to be stars hang over his head. seems to have been drawn in an extremely rushed fashion —- in dark blue ink, obviously showing high levels of tension and anger in the artist.) page five (crossed out with the exception of a few lines) [missing] shit I’m abandoned and terrorized in my eyes I see my past lives realized guess how many times I’ve died? guess how many flavors of pussy I done tried? [missing] page six the ashes of a dead mans thoughts festering foetid scars of an unwritten history Drawn from darkness Candlewax on black table tops And red lights like buoyant demons Beckoning; beginning to bleed diluted drops of cells and all manner of what I see as Organic Waste. This urn i hold in my trembling fingers; freezing. Forget philosophy the contricting claws of more dead men’s deeds words of wasted wisdom—wishes—we Wait, watching, wrapping our fingers around the corner of conscience a solitary blade of grass in the garden of invention And the birth of man A crudE cesarean procedure Surgical silence of mansions of machines of mans sins birthed premature, i’m sure anything else would be no less than catastropic lets change the topic (in the bottom-right corner of this page a strange and sad creature with a slightly human face built of unintelligible words and chaotic scratches of black pen is being ridden by what appears to be a jockey. it is hard, however to determine the intention of this piece. our interpretation is probably wholly inaccurate, as the piece can be viewed from several angles, drawing forth further interpretations... something of an ink-blot test.) page seven TAKE A PICTURE Please leave a lasting impression of your unjust obsession you left a letter; I laughed, scoffed and probably coughed [lines crossed out] goodbye. hello. goodbye. hello. staircases shaking, like escher obtuse walls & design without discretion this house of nothing seems a bit ridiculous no ghosts, just the ghosts of ghosts meta-decay, meta-afterlife I am still paying for the sins of My father’s father’s (ad nauseum) Where would we be if ADAM & Eve DIDN’T learn how to fuck? & o you sad white man who judges the beautiful echoes (at this point the words begin to stray from the constriction of paper—they spin and curve up vertically along the side of the page, eventually ending up somewhere in the margin, to the left of where the page begins.) of his ancestors fates projected unto the mesas, the redwood tunges, and the tundra… —o the tundra— an ice age we’re living in… But All Life centers around some green & brown mass; pulsating amidst the undergrowth page eight (this page seems to be written in a different style; by the same trembling hand, evidently, but this time all in BLOCK LETTERS. this has been avoided so as not to offend the reader.) something of a cold callous creature, her breasts like great sand dunes, smooth, soft formations assembled through the pure randomness of consequence; random in the sense that we perceive it: meaningless if viewed as an abstract and unique entity; more complex than god, if each grain of sand is to pass through the hour glass —- under the microscope —- dissected with dexterous precision as the distant thumping of a nightfuck rumbles the infrastructure of my displaced conscience: a well worn plastic bag, no, paper bag, no, a black garbage bag oozing garbage water onto my fingertips... still! my beating heart on her hand, i can feel her hold it like a naďve pre-schooler fondling her first lump of playdo cold and smelling like nothing else in her clammy claws... but to say her breasts were nothing less that extra-ordinary would be inaccurate and a great disservice... to her... for those two folds of flesh were more than just flesh or even flesh with a soul; within the deep canyon they formed as she lies on her side, naked, arms crossed under pushing them up to perfection... page nine within it she contained the world. For those breasts are forever imprinted on this paper (if a manic episode doesn’t render it an art piece of ashes or paper balls titled “my fucking life”...) and in turn my mind, which may fail, but still; they imply the world. for they have touched my mouth, my hands, my penis and the bed on which we laid... one night... the same bed it ended on as I heard the bittersweet singing—her voice—through bathroom walls, O to see what those walls have seen... O to see what she saw... the terror... i wonder if she saw his face as he raped her... if she smelled him... tasted him like she tasted me... heard him... did he make a sound? Anything more than the quiet scratching of my inner dialogue expressed in... english? did she scream or did he gag her? after the 5th or 6th time did she just go numb? did she cum? Did she —- i can’t even finish this thought. page ten another tree falls wonder what the taste silence of another page turns my esophagus silence, again as disintegrating inspirations in dire need of is like... as drano another tree falls *** its creeping up on me again this subtle feeling of sleepiness and I’m too tired to CAPITALIZE, although the laziness of a lower-case eye is quite peculiar but this pen won’t fucking leave my hand we’re just stuck to these sheets… i am sperm how do i taste? *** (here the words seem to spin inwards; spiraling star formations of words; their apex a fading origin) regret ...and now and this galaxy contemplation watch a wheel on a piece of paper melancholy stops; imagine obsession spinning and slowly who suicide dies wrote the world? page eleven (an attached page, visibly folded into quarters, written with a new, almost alien style, scrawled quickly and desperately.) of flesh circus, circular surfaces another surfacing substances singluar opening orifices, suffering sicknesses pavement the pestilent passing of flesh circus, cell-phone of opening ontology conscription of organs on top of me yellow unprotected vex white lines of flesh circus abandoned forest Your three ring circus, & the mountain top And shelves thick with dust, like a building of flesh circus fossils & falls in of flesh circus spills & august. The microphone stains on the window sills fuzzy like a soul the pantomime of human kind, ACT 2 burnt toast on bus toast to this service in which force choking noises bring to my attention the repetitious nature of pens. Penis crucifix of holy flesh circus. admire—the elephant this clown with paint, the point dulled with the excess of ethanol fuel of flesh circus admire—the spectacle, mine, they are off, on the nightstand as I admire Your three rings of flesh circus (continued on other side of page) prescription pain the page turns over “have a hug” says an unfamiliar voice marred with the distortion of a poorly configured P.A. and metal sounds of vocal chord throbbing like the tinny taste of electric peanut butter. Microwave Menage a trois have the clown send flowers to his victims, beloved host, this ghost is chokes [missing] page twelve (again, the words are all written in BLOCK LETTERS) nonstop nonstop nonstop stop blue on grey/white tight, blood stained in the margin, overflowing i am; and this A4 world written rushed mispeeled badly organized with little to no cohere nt (at this point the text diverges into two different directions, forming a circle around yet another abstract drawing —- this one resembling a face getting its skin pulled off, swirling darkness and abstract lines surrounding and enveloping it...) [the first, descending down the page; the final word ‘away’ echoes into the distance, growing smaller and smaller as it ascends up along the upwards curve of the skull:] dead-end turn around clear throat perspire walk the fuck away away away away away away away away…. [the second, curving up and around the skull, snakes up along the right side of the page vertically —- at first —- eventually curving around and ending up coinciding with the first line of the page:] structure, outside of that which mankind tries to PROJECT [the word is bold and spelled with large, jagged letters] unto everything… why do you continue? You just keep going like nonstop nonstop nonstop (in the middle of a page the word DISCORPORATE is written in bold block letters; the words bleed down onto a simple looking man, no hair, no distinct facial features, no pupils, but his eyebrows are perked and his eyes are wide open and his mouth is stretched ajar, forming a scream. his arms are stretched out in front as an extension of his abdomen, and they are dripping blood, starting from the inside of his elbows down to where his hands should be; but he has no hands.) page thirteen feeling sick eating a lotta garlic incidentally haven’t run into very many vampires ...lately met a girl named [missing] think she wants to fuck me... yeah you... do you wanna fuck her? i really dunno... lets just play it by ear... as usual... yeah.. my ear exploded and my throat is gonna fall off