Monday, November 23, 2009

His Punishment

Sometimes people are killed randomly,
like that scene in The Omen with the priest.
Obviously this is yet another poem
about smiting, and obviously someone will say so eventually, obliviously.

But, when he gets killed,
everything becomes a quaint village
with a small rusty shop in the corner
where you can buy tea and sip with your shaking little hands.

Women send their sons and daughters,
to be near him, because maybe it will rub off.
Occasionally he will impart some of his wisdom to them,
and they will feel really loved, and blessed, and special.

But he does not do it because he cares.
It's just -- it's just 'filling time'.
"I taught you mathematics just to fill time."
And he does it well, and with great benefit and plans for their futures.

He is not cruel, and he is not cowardly.
He is just astray, wandering in the dark of his mind.
Trying to find out all the different colors of black.
There may someday be a reckoning, but it will just pass, probably.

Sunday, November 22, 2009

It couldn't actually be doing something to my Brain, could it?
quake, quake? terrible litmeese/

I approach as as pilot,
then turned pirate,
apparently babbons,

self-promotion haas become olde.
now i must come for the other relics.
heart heart medikit ammo

0.99 milimeter goes bang

*poof* some people have to need voice.
cos they don't have their own voice.
how do you own your voice,
am i producing my actual signature?

i gathered all the money already.

Saturday, November 21, 2009

Insecure Person That Tries to Appear Secure

The person operates quite well, quite successfully.
Yet there is that constant nagging that it is an
insecure person trying to appear as though it is secure.

This often happens in common classrooms during an 'uprising'.
The class bully conducts an attack, and the Insecure Person,
finally full of whatever newfound cojones or wit it may have found
mounts an attack to prove its security.

Upshot is that the bully is discarded, and the Insecure Person
is promoted to a Corporal. He is given a badge, and a moustache,
and a skirt or kilt. If you are a girl, the moustache is just an option.
If you are neither then you will find it is nethers.

Then you are promoted to Captain.

coaxing the eye to produce different colors

First it was the Time,
then after that, the Location.
What else, Circumstance?

Funnily enough, "Yes."
then after that, Trials,
tribulations unto defibrillation.


Sitting in the room
looking at d0Ts and d0Ts
fist in eye socket's gloom.


scampering to coax some color,
form or depth into this eyeball,
kiss it, love the iris,


Friday, November 6, 2009

Some Benefits of Being Mindlessly Disposed

One of the lessons you learn is about how everything is not 'black and white'.
Because you were born in the late seventies, way after color was invented.
Too bad you got injected right into the eighties.
I remember your face, whenever they produced those ... 'scenarios'.

You were, like, "dude, i can totally pwn this."
Like thinking about how your baby brain had been operating,
at that time, not knowing anything about 3D glasses,
or invisibility suits.

Have you even thought about sniping somebody just based on sonar?

If I had the opportunity to choose, I would rename myself SonarSniper.

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

Pazuzu Made You All Slaves, Not Me

"Don't come crying to me about your two-bit philosophies
when I already showed you who did it, humanity," he'd said, majestically.

She turned the scroll, and found yet another example of his crimes:

"Pazuzu made you all slaves, not me," she continued, reading on. This was getting really interesting.

The man had made the mistake of questioning whether Pazuzu ever even really existed. Imagine, being that man. A soul that challenged a total demonic entity.

Immoral Fuck

, I've been trying to contact you regularly,
just to tell you that we will no longer be contacting you.
You have outspended your cool cache,
and all the art that you like has become passé.

We can't even go to museums with you, you embarrass us so much.
And I can't give you my credit card because you're under aged brain.
How am I supposed to pay you, without such economic facility?
And what brand of parmesan do you usually order from the stores anyway?

I return to life, resuscitating like the father who supplied arms.

Ghost Story NIN

This is part 8 of a Ghost Story. Part 1 is here, and Part 2 here. Part 3 is about lesbians. Part 4 is here. Part 5.666 Part 7. Part A8E. And, the untenable itch.

Trent had been wasting his breath trying to pimp his latest shoes, selling at whatever price they would pay him. 'How nice', is the obvious joke but there was nothing 'nice' about hiking into a bloody forest located in Madison, Wisconsin.

And Emma was getting bored through 'artistic reason', so she started a conversation with Peter. "Tell me about your old gf," she said.

Peter's eyes popped out of his skull, literally. "What?" he exclaimed, turning over to Harry, to check whether the father would allow such insolence. "Nobody said she is old," said Peter desperately. He tried to lock eyes with Harry.

The father just nodded, like there was nothing else to do. "Say 'what' again, motherfucker," he said, the father, Harry.

"You really want to learn about Nadine?" asked Peter.

Emma nodded. "Do I look like I mince words?"

Peter examined the little girl, and SAW that she was not kidding around. "My relationship with this woman is kind of more complicated than some common child's fantasy," he said. "It's not like 1-2-3."

"Hah," laughed Emma. The path into the designated zone had taken a turn for the more leafy. Everywhere around them, the vegetation grew. Some of the deep trees began to bark. "This was always the section I had lamented having to watch you produce, ever since we locked eyes."

"What?" said Peter. They took a turn around the corner, and suddenly, they were there, where Bobby had been murdered by a cult. Peter noticed that he'd not had to say anything about Nadine at all. "Oh, this place," he said.

Everybody then turned their head towards him, and in the horrible zone of the pagan child sacrifice was a huge mansion instead. Decor circa 1873, windows by the ego of somebody who just named himself 'De Fenestre'.

"Now, will you not fuck me like an animal?" said Peter, his anus constricting according to the homely temperature emanating from the House.

Wake Up Neo, The Ego Is Calling

I know you have been running around as a simple id,
messing with all the defense mainframes, playing like
nothing matters.

You went into shock. And you have been running ever since that
entire debacle, like a crazy person, when in fact,
it is not you who is crazy.

We worked on your body with finest needles and threads, weaving your soul
back into some kind of form or shape that we can, as a group,
look at and admire.

I know you were hurt the last time, and you said some things that not only the world balked at,
but even you did, yourself. You stuttered upon your mispronunciations,
knowing full well.

Wake up Neo, the Ego is calling. Go ahead and make it somebody's day.

Helping The World To Absorb Moisture

At My Company, people often ask what is it exactly that we do. No question mark there, since it is a statement. You add the question marks only when you are confused.

We try to help all the humans that are around us to see the splendor of the world that is around them. Not the sugar substitute, but *real* splendor. For example, imagine a lush tropical forest being shot at you from way back in time -- it's like that. Like a time-travel experience ensconced within a chi-energy fireball shooter, and your kids wonder who brought the baby along for a ride?

This is what My Company does. It is what we are good at, and it is what we will be doing even after your last great-grandchild has died. We like to show you what the coffin really looks like from inside. We like to detail the varnish. We like to spend extra on paupers, because paupers are funny people, almost clownish in their paupering little ways.

But most of all, we like to waste our time writing thrilling little bits like this -- oft-forgotten but never unremembered.

Thank you.

Ideas Man

I am what they call in the business.

That's it, there is nothing else.
Using things inappropriately is my forte (with an accent).
For example, one time I used a text-editor programme
to woo sexual favor, internationally.

"Did you really love her? Did you did you?"
people keep saying these things to me,
not realizing that they are completely
missing the *whole* point.

The point is not about some kind of cheap
male chauvinist pig pleasure.
I'm not like this just to declare myself --
I'm like this because I'm trying to eat a noodle with a spoon.

Only some people realize what I'm doing,
and none of those people ever give me any love.
They label me, tag me, like I'm some kind of corpse
flown into the morgue by helicopter.

They don't realize that *I* was the one landing that chopper
on that building rooftop, precisely upon the letter 'H'.
I flew my own body back home, thank you very much.
Don't need you losers to do everything for me, nor your 'lovely precious little children'.

Making love to electrical sockets is never easy,
but it is zestful, full of life and more fun than,
say, managing all your time every night in dream state,
simply to wake up fresh. All that is so overrated, and not good.

If it's my dream, then let me dream it.

Tuesday, November 3, 2009

Writing as a Writer

The best thing was when she swallowed my cum,
simultaneously saying that I am a "Writer's writer'.
Meaning that I produce work that other writers
take their time to look at.

Tomorrow morning I will probably h8 myself,
but today I am free. I am allowed. I am Alladan.
I'm your genie, and you are allowed to wish for more Wish.

Don't ask about the Wish :)

closely monitoring all your spending habits

made a joke about about young nuns
't type to make any sense longer ...
still on line two, imagine if this was heroin.
i know where to direct my eyeballz.

the internet is not supposed to be your outlet

The Internet is supposed to be the place where you find new people.
It is not just 'your outlet', not just a place for you to seek victims.
On the Internet, you can read literature, and jokes, and quaint ideas.

A lot of people are using the Internet for their own nefarious reasons, now.
Honestly, it disgusts me. Because I'm a snob like that. I'm an Internet snob.
THey don't even know what they've gotten themselves into.

On the Internet you can find girls, and food, and culture.
Yeah, you can find culture, on the internet. Lots and lots of culture.
Also, you can hire someone to murder you on a future date (make sure it's EST!).