THE WORLD WILL BE MINE.

Congratulations on being the creator of a new

Evil Plan (tm)!

Your objective is simple: Widespread Misery.

Your motive is a little bit more complex: Love (Yes, it works)

Stage One

To begin your plan, you must first clone a pope. This will cause the world to slaughter a sacred calf to appease the gods, overwhelmed by your arrival. Who is this ripe bastard? Where did they come from? And why do they look so good in classic black?

Stage Two

Next, you must desecrate the moon (ooh, tides!). This will all be done from a ancient gomb, a mysterious place of unrivaled dark glory. Upon seeing this, the world will lose their minds, as countless hordes of animal minions (rats, birds, etc.) hasten to do your every bidding.

Stage Three

Finally, you must demonstrate your arcane ritual, bringing about pain, suffering, the usual. Your name shall become synonymous with blood, and no man will ever again dare cross you. Everyone will bow before your mystical abilities, and the world will have no choice but to fall madly in love with you.

You will cough up crows that peck my eyes and I will do nothing but go blind.

I'm listening to William Basinski's The Disintegration Loops. I highly, highly recommend.

Liz saved me from my insanity; I captured a gift for a twin (koalas are cute), and we gave the bird, so to say, to a Salvation Army sucker (they're an anti-gay church group; sorry [no, actually] if you find this act offensive .)

I bought myself Elvis Costello's This Year's Model on vinyl (it is in mint condition) for ten dollars. I was pleased. I wanted Liz to pick up the same, for they'd two copies of it, as she's been getting into him simultaneously--but alas!!

Her and eye also stopped by the computer lab to print off ads for Casandra's performance at The Next Page next month. We think they might have put a restriction on the number of prints because of our excessive printing of our zine!

http://justcantmaintain.wordpress.com/back-issues/

Here is a poem I just penned that is the first in a while that's been able to capture my own phantasy; it probably uses my usual unusual language, but I am beginning to appreciate and acknowledge the cohesion of my imagination. Always read aloud and allow line breaks to break:

"Pig-shapes"
Those ghosts have come to bury their names
upon my skin: Jim, John, Jake, Josh--
none whose letters can quite cross yours,
but a waiting morgue has settled to swallow this salt
like an altricial antshrike (to roost, to rot)
with my tongue that knows no other word.

Joe, the reproductive alcoves tied your tired teeth
to speak moxie oxymorons,
gods and swills that made you sleep
in pig-shapes. Wraiths raise their bones
to bludgeon my body with woman wounds.

Audacity of the Lower Gods

I just read this poem by Yusef Komunyakaa, and am utterly stricken by it (please forgive any typos eye might have made transcribing it!)

"Audacity of the Lower Gods"
I know salt marshes that move along like one big
trembling wing. I've noticed insects
shiny as gold in a blues singer's teeth
& more keenly calibrated than a railroad watch,
but at heart I'm another breed.

The audacity of the lower gods --
whatever we name we own.
Diversiloba, we say, unfolding poison oak.
Lovers go untouched as we lean from bay windows
with telescopes trained on a yellow sky.

I'd rather let the flowers
keep doing what they do best.
Unblessing each petal,
letting go a year's worth of white
death notes, busily unnaming themselves.

I've not gotten around to do much but observe this poem so far; there are the obvious descriptive colour wordings, the supernatural and nature--particularly on the particular (diversiloba and 'another breed', or even the more specific lower gods and railroad watch). The rhymes craftily woven throughout seem to mimic the aforementioned ticking of the watch, or the perfectly "calibrated" insects' fluttering. Probably the most astute thing I've observed so far is the "un-". It first appears in the middle stanza, and makes two more appearances, notably in the final stanza--as life itself is coming undone. That's all I can get at 330am.

It is my half birthday today.

I swear, I'm not a Nazi.

listening to faust

please check out http://justcantmaintain.wordpress.com/

it's a zine i contribute to. we're about to hand out the first volume this week (as the twinkie and the alien). download the pdf file if you're too far away to get a copy from us.

this probably needs revised, and is quite a simplistic style for me.

"There's a Deceased Disease in Your Name"
I know whose touch was a naked swastika
and whose heart could architect Himmler.
I know whose bald eyes would never see me
as a girl, the girl who could take his nude kiss
from his throat, light up her own skin--
stretched dead across lampshades made from old
Jewish hands, sabotaged in bomb sift,
but I am those ribs bent from this dominatrix'
onslaught on a pregnant heart,
though no morning sickness will make me forget
who's in love with whose limbs.

mind, drips. psychic chasms.

lsdafjalksdfjlkasdjfliaje



i can't realise these irises, no.
can you live with it, yes.
can't you believe me, dream.

saw mum today.. i skipped two classes. i only made one last week. i'm a wretched student, but i'll get better.
i promise.

eye just keep doing my own thing. stringing strings and strung out struggles in words.

seeing dad in an hour. guess it's a revitalisation of things. make it homely.
the ghosts of people that still exist haunt me, exhibit a mental block. why are they missing? i miss the people that have been lost. psycho.

i'm not sure if this is finished, but..

"Hunting Glyptodonts"
We lived in two fifty-two year centuries
by the time you were twenty-one.

We'd toss hajmola with one hand:
"do as the women do", who ovulate
in unison--painting pink scutum moons
on tampons like the sallow tobacco paper
smears we, breeding yellow collisions
between our closed, red irides.

I slept beside two fifty-two year centuries
by the time you wouldn't know.

You were hunting ancient glyptodonts
on ayahuasca runs, blood mornings
with diamond tears for birthing stars,
thumbing shells that held patterns miming
such constellations: our noses turned
red, too, like muscle memorisation.

You died in two fifty-two year centuries
by the time we rode another sun.

Fellas Fallin' for Fairy Farmin'

(image: berdache. listening to fever ray.)

I must preface that I realise most of whom I tag in this do not spread the vitriol of homophobia, but if I have tagged you and you do as such, I hope you won't take it as a personal insult; my own brother continues to spread homophobia and my own father fails to realise me as a first-class citizen, but I still find time to talk to them too.


“Fellas Fallin' for Fairy Farmin'”

Eye assume most of us have seen or heard about the ad campaign from ThinkB4YouSpeak.com. The commercials involve celebrities (such as Wanda Sykes and Hilary Duff) coming into contact with an individual who uses the word “gay” as a negative adjective, following with the celebrity's dismissal of its usage. Whilst the intentions of the advertisements are, I'm sure, founded on pure intentions, they fail to provide the levity to this issue that it entails.

Our language affects our thought processes; this can be displayed in something so seemingly simple, being subliminal masters of the English language: English speakers rely on terms of length when dealing with duration (“The interview didn't take too long”, “That was a short meeting”), whilst Greek speakers identify duration with terms of amount, preferring words such as “much”, “big”, and “little” as opposed to “long” and “short”. Though these are such basic cognitive abilities, English and Greek speakers fail predictably from the metaphors of their languages: English speakers are usually confused by distance information while Greek speakers struggle with amount (see this study* for further elaboration).

So, when one christens something considered bad by society's standards as “gay”, this carries exceptional connotations to the unconscious mind: not only does this word denote a sexual orientation, but also encompasses an entire body of people. The pairing of gay persons with an undesirable object, moment, or idea is an insult to intellect, acceptance, and utterly desecrates reality with an unreality that becomes a very real threat—a poison promoting homophobia, intolerance and blatant idiocy. I don't find this nexus offensive as a man who is attracted to other men, but as a conscious human vessel.

Surely, words do evolve throughout our kind's history, but the pattern of such words transmogrified in our recent progression are now too commonplace for me to see them as coincidental: “that's retarded” is excusable, for the word's origin does not sprout from mental retardation. “That's so gay” and “that's so Jewish”, however, are unacceptable—especially when we consider their creators: these bloom from Nazi ideals. Yes, all three of these “adjectives” spur from the group of enslaved corpses Nazi Germany slaughtered during World War II. I guess “that's so gypsy” just doesn't quite roll off the tongue?


*http://edge.org/3rd_culture/boroditsky09/boroditsky09_index.html


bobby, baby, you make me blurry--so blurry inside. says: (9:52:58 PM)
i'm writing a brief essay on "that's so gay" because i'm so fucking sick of hearing it.
Bored... says: (9:53:14 PM)
ROFL
Bored... says: (9:53:19 PM)
That's awesome
Bored... says: (9:53:31 PM)
I'm sick of hearing that's so Raven
bobby, baby, you make me blurry--so blurry inside. says: (9:53:34 PM)
ROFL
bobby, baby, you make me blurry--so blurry inside. says: (9:53:36 PM)
<3

bobby, baby, you make me blurry--so blurry inside.

Jeremy, I doubt you recall ever meeting me, but the get-together we co-existed in quite harmoniously is vivid in my memory. I do wonder if you felt, even then, that my existence was but a carapace of human skin.

You said "I do believe that a hope of a better future is the origin of happiness. Whether or not that tomorrow ever comes, it makes us happy in times of darkness. An atheist only really lacks this when they live for nothing, but it seems like so many do."

That's fine if you need to wish for something more in your life; we all do. However, that is not the root of elation; there is a magnificence in the present that many feel. (We are breathing. That is beautiful enough.)
When you are in love, and the oxytocin is surging through your mind, do you still hope you will find 'real happiness' in your future? You can listen to an uplifting song with the right chord progression, and the mere sounds (!!) of the music will induce endorphins to cripple your brain with bliss.
Verily, our head-spaces will need encouraging surgery in more saddening moments, but we are not unrecoverable, and we need not live upon the dreams of a distant future to feel joy.

Your second point... you think atheists live for naught, nothing but themselves? "many of the atheists i know live only for themselves, they push others away, and they never do much of anything good."
I know Christians that fit this description too. The only thing that binds atheists together is that they do not believe in any deities; that is all. There is no other universal theme. No other nexus.

I live for a meaning that I have found through my own life's experiences--not just something that was put upon me in my youth with the portmanteau of religious prescriptures. I'm sure you have come upon literature that you identify with... movies, music... Your very name has meaning to you, and that isn't because your deity bestowed value upon it; indeed, it is because it identifies you as the unique individual you are through your own life's reiteration.

Reason isn't given to you. It is gained through you.











EYE MISS YOU DANIEL HAHAHAHA