I am in a place now where memory is happenstance. My alarm clock is no longer the enemy and time itself seems to be subjective to my mood, the date, and even the rising humidity this town has to offer. That and totebags. And snowglobes.
I don’t see much sunlight, and yes, I am melodramatic. And hyperbolic. But even in the figurative sense it isn’t due to fear, or social ineptitude, or any shitty vampiric novella. Let’s just say me and myself face back to back, and nothing makes it between us. Save for butane and bottles and botany.
Education has been hard to pursue. Or even peruse properly. Who could concentrate through the vertigo? With a belted bicep and still dizzy from a never-ending game of pin the tail on the jackass.
My family tree is more of a petrified forest. And I’ve slept through the last few explanations of how in the fuck that is supposed to work. So I’ve slowly been removed from their fossil record. And now I wonder if they even remember who I am until I catch a glimpse of my face on their refridgerator.
More could be said for what I consider home. And I wish I knew what I mean by that. But for now I will just be watching the three arms swing and counting the teabags along the way.
No matter the circumstance, the opposition, the occasion, or the time alloted. Tell yourself that one thousandth and first time that there is always next year. You’re wrong of course, but that’s not changing anything. And even if you swear to your guardian of choice. you never left the fucking table. Tap out a few more lines of code and run the program. Rude awakenings come only in the form of jello and armor piercing bullets. So pick up a spoon and then re-count your limbs.
Awake at the crack of an egg,
properly carbo-hydrated and losing this train of thought. The most vivid of the dreams, the least bizzare. Absurd, even coming from me, with 600mg of class action legal motion buoyant amongst my plasma. That same window: open again, and that will be the very death of my nervous system.
No fine Columbian brew, or laboratory Pez dispenser with percolate me these mornings. With petroleum weighing in just under gold, another day, another great social injustice, and believe it or not, we’re all fucking dead. So why not pump your understated fortunes into the hilariously ironic cliche on wheels. The one you spend your 60-hour week of rush hour tea parties and jack in the box cheeseburger catechisms inside of. Taking little notice of the quantity of little plantation raised assassins flicked into the flux. And once again I am a refugee and witness. On the run from the jury that I am a part of. My fakest fortunes are direct deposited. And the four tires briefly painting their own lane-lines. And that Arthropod in the aperture is still fresh on my mind. -EJH
I am.
We simply place the Dubstep-Affiliated Hipsters (DAH hitherto) on the battlefield
opposed by the Indie-Affiliated Hipsters (IAH).
…and anyone who can’t decide gets shot immediately by both sides for target practice.
-Bonuses (to speed things up a bit):
-Anyone without a Twitter account will be provided a Kevlar vest.
-But, any Hipster without a Facebook receives armor piercing bullets.
-And any individual with a distaste of The Smiths is free to leave.
I guess we’ll finally get to see if a Moleskine can stop a bullet?
Currently: Fuck Writing.
That is all.
Writers Block.
I’ve been up for days
But, Insomnia is but a simple side effect of my disease
The whine of this acropolis grinds away at my patience
As I stroll these killing fields of black gold
These People are falling into conformity
And Burning currency by the fistful
Producing the noxious fumes of dollar odor,
Releasing the toxic flatulence of “The Ride”
This acidic gas begins burning in my corneas
Further prolonging my restlessness
Clutching my head, I feel nothing
No one feels anything anymore, save for this comatose euphoria
Alchemy
The American Dream
The Great American Coma
Fall in line, or swallow a handful of servitude
My rushing palpitations are fading now, I increase my strides
My thoughts Drift to Theorem
Calculations of distance, subtracting sidewalk, counting foot steps
My stream of consciousness is halted
I’m but a victim of civil war
Domestic chemical warfare
Combat against any discomfort, individually packaged, personalized, and prescribed.
All of these, ingested without remorse or regret
Several hours on the streets, existing Only in my head, as my body wanders
Withdrawal, seclusion, reclusion, delusions
Paranoid hallucinations in the absence of chemistry
I’m lying face down in the alley now
Thinking of a time that they had noticed
A time that our fear spared no one and nothing and yet barred all
I have been staring at this streetlight for hours
Trying to discover new meaning
To answer the unanswerable
To fill this void that was once flourishing with my thoughts
I’m walking, drifting, to nowhere now.
Walking until I find peace
Peace within this open aired prison
What buys you security?
Mine was paid for in blood
Increase the passion please
Because I strive to discover their motives
This city never sleeps
But I will
Now I more often realize that I am not invincible And in this epiphany I feel finite and weak My only enemies, insignificant and distant I select my nickel-plated reaper Holding her i conduct my wrathful symphony of vengeance My scythe to harvest redemption I am a composer of murderous muscle memory Writing the sheet music of this necessary atrocity Villains: Enter Stage Right Oh with such rage I begin my orchestral assault I provide the ten meager pounds required to manipulate the hands of god Percussive blasts of black powder ignition And the soft melody of brass against stone Ring out at soprano register Swiftly shattered was this surrealist frame of influence I am sedentary and unmoved in the act of death A shameless artisan The effortless brushstrokes weigh tenfold in significance Bi-chromatic are the canvases of my crimes Malicious intentions dipped in arterial red Contrasting the green pigment of my jealous torment Leaving the easel unsatisfied still I wander into anonoymity
Any aphorism for ideals?
Nothing irritates me more.
Perhaps junk-mail, or other erroneous letters “to current resident”.
But paper shredders are as useless as return correspondence.
Something equally disturbing.
No one lives beneath man-holes. Or at least I hope not. A concept I never grasped until my adolescence. Even though I see the hot breath they emit into the fog. When the mercury has long evacuated the glass.
And on the topic of blood poisoning. Where did all the mad-hatters go? They would have made the most interesting hosts on talk radio.
And to my great disappointment.
I have only met cats that have already died eightfold.
12 oz. hollow points to start the day. And no one drives a stick shift anymore. We start to merge into a scarlet current opposing a bright stream flowing to the left. Curse them. For where ever they are headed is not half the hell you’re parking in front of.
A laughable predictability the canvas footed armies, and drug stores with drive-thrus. Find a new way to pass the time, but thanks to you I at least know how to be cool.
Our ultimate irony in idolization. Colonists gone rebels gone Anglophiles. Steven Patrick wasn’t god.
Red, brittle and frail, the people I see. With no one to break the molds made by the Fortune 500. And if someone does. We mold them.
And then outsource it.
And then Market it.
And then belittle it when someone else does.
We’re all so fucking cool.
Being a breathing excuse for a houseplant isn’t as bad as it sounds. As long as you manage to make the world around you believe that you’re four times the man that they are. Not to be politically incorrect but the seasons still change without any of your help, and only dead presidents are found as portraits on currency.
Believe that when people laugh behind you, that something must have been fucking funny. Nothing hurts more than an inside job from the top of your list of insecurities.
And keep your eyes on the road and off your self contained pussy hunting apparatus. No one needs you killing their toddlers during an emoticon.
Here we stand, or should I say squat. In this place where the creative seem to be invalids and are too often cited to be of literary madness and not of reality.
Tiny shuffles of feet taken in opposite directions that seem to be splitting us at the core, and not unlike the things we say, will further turn us quite visibly inside out, and smother us in our bedclothes and t-shirts.
Our posters and cosmetics.
We of generation “what the fuck ever” take offense to that. And also to that. But to you in the back with the Polaroid camera, you can stay. And why not brake for train tracks? Or at least brake for something. Twice a year an anti-lock tongue and tooth would come in rather handy. Instead of scribbling around in some brand-name journal looking for some acceptance into an over-charted electro-paradise.
Take a step back on occasion. In fact, never step forward, because in doing so you will realize that the back of your head really isn’t as attractive as you would like it to be.
And just in case you cross paths with something you can’t dissolve with some search engine homeopathy, lose yourself in something darker than you’ve ever imagined.
And then wake up and die.
Acrid Tasteless and stale These are what we are What we have become With irony pure we sketch with our progress a potrait Our everlasting hunger for growth scratches the pen against our fate Holding the calendar Oblivious and ignorant We savor our affixation on tomorrow As we slowly tear out the pages Removing the months to come Leaving us spiral-bound to nothingness
