Boom, and silence

Like a plane emerging from the sea, this daylight shouldn't be happening,
it's what all the passengers want, they'll wake up and take up some fine routine,
about gardening and exercise dreams. I stand sideways, while you all fall past my
window and the curtain whips me from the right. Some people have got clean track records,
a lot of people, actually. I don't know whether it's them or me, but somebody out there is blind, dumb and ignorant or whatever it may be. I know because eliajah had it once, he offered me a road forwards. Well of course, what other direction should I take. Well some people stopped and looked to the swallowing red deserts around the highway, or the white and black mountains with their name on it. But I seem to be digging out a trench around this road. What use is it to me, I can't even drive. I can't sleep or move to eat. That's a beautiful colour lipstick your wearing darling. Hows so and so, and who's he?

Palpitating so gentle, he's that guy who sits in the corner with his dark hair while some words which can't escape him, escape him.

I found some others down here, they think this is a home. Well they've got tall palaces upstairs and they know it. I can see my mother running down the escalator the wrong way just so she could teach me to lie still and follow it up when I was born. God damn, you ungrateful bastards. Why do you dig down here? I found some real friends, wish I could save them. I can tell you about them but I can't punctuate them to you. You look around and they were never born.

She's a real flower. I can't tell you anything else. But somehow she floated down beneath the cracks, and maybe, somehow, i'll grow a garden. It'll rain, but after all that, I will lie down in slumber and appreciate it wholly, completely, fully, and finally, absolutely.

Introduction to a book

god damn.


Blue down yellow, floating toxic tonnes of octopus.
Heavy muscle of olive wrapped around your head,
Dull slap as it pulls you up.


howintino laverero quintin tu pas e se can nubra campra tapa.


And then a pin burst through wet paper.

cigarette, holes of billowing, down and round, sweeped up in front of you,
and I reached out and thought it was true.

Tell me what time you start work. Take a cab to Mexico, too much freedom sends you over the edge. When you started to quiver i started to sell, and when I turned round to tell you, *Once upon a time a star interrupted a story and begun to tell you a new one.

Green Window

Hermann Göring

1936-

Guns will make us stronger, butter will make us fat.





---


Good at life.

Sleeve on mouth

And after that spit, I get an email from the Guardian, considering me for job uploading their internet articles... i guess it's ok. It's at night though, but i guess i can't sleep anymore anyway. I like The Microphones thats making me happy. I know i gotta lot of work to do but i got low self esteem about writing, that makes me unhappier. I would like to be with my girl. That would make me happyest.

Oh yeah

And I don't think the internet has any dignity. For example, what if you don't know a word? You could ask a friend and learn, but you might be judged. So instead, you silently find out. You look at pictures of places and people you will never see, and you throw emotionless characters out through metal and fibre and call it a conversation. You weren't at that event, but you found out about it without anyone telling you. Nothing is going to get in your way, you can escape anything. There is minimum effort. You aren't well read, you just know how to right click onto thesaurus, and most of all, you just can't fuck up, it's all virtual, history deleted.

It distracts you from life by giving you a window to the very things you're missing out on by being on it.

and i hate it.

Free Zine

inspired by ryan. Print out and fold. Make a W from 8 folds. Cut down the middle. Squeeze in middle and fold into book.

Chipped and eaten

Tatuke, assum, debucher,

All the dirt looked the same, but it all led somewhere different,
big bear, following his soul, with the red and black blocks of a Kodiak,
imprinted into dark ridges. He grunted, and they followed, under the trees,
trickling into bark and sawdust, as he cried out with a salmon held high to some god
of the month. Yellow hats, shiny with sweat and overused material, more markings,
something like a mountain lion but with less soul. You'll forget about it.

It was in these woods you tripped up and realised the issue at hand. To be caught,
if under the thumb, you need to chew through. Escape something forbidden with something far more criminal, save yourself. Take the widows son, I've heard he doesn't talk anymore, so no squealing. He knows what to do. He's not really there anymore; three parts gone, he can fit through small holes. In fact he can filter himself through the eyes of anything, nobody knows he's there.

The yellow hats are done. The receptionist will take your call; she is your god now, she'll tell you where to go.