Me and him (morbid cupcake # 1)

Musing: Some of us are just born a little differently. I don't think I was born a normal babe. But neither was he.

He sits, playing the banjo, pissing himself, stagnant. He will never move nor be moved by the world, motivation, a sense of fulfillment, complaints from his mother. He is the man on the corner, with saliva hanging off his lip, with dried semen on his pants, with an expressionless gaze that stares slightly to the right. His hairy arms cradle the banjo while his left hand holds three stings on the second fret and his right hand lazily plays the same repeating chords. Dirty plates surround him, but no one will ever see him eat, or fucking react. His is shit. He is the smoldering shit of our world; he is destined to smell.

He is my god, because I am his past. We are the same, he and I, we share everything from our college major to our favorite foods and music tastes in common. I know this from long talks with his mother. She gives me wary looks as I twitch and avoid eye contact. She experiences me with slight disgust, as she tries to imagine the bump on my head I must have had when I was a kid, the drugs I did before coming in, or the drugs I must have to take to stay sane.

I come to this house and speak with his mother out of necessity. I have to spend as much time as possible near him, to see if he moves, to see if he dies. Every action he takes tells me, perhaps with little reason, what I will do. Today, I go to pick up my depressing compulsion again, instead of searching for a job, or a place to live other than the sidewalk.

I approach the stairs to the house, as I do every day, but today, he has no banjo, he looks around as if cognizant. He looks at me. His eyes are so knowing that I feel as if his knowledge will sweep me away—sweep both of us away, and the world will be clean again. I move closer, and I feel our eyes grip each other, and our souls connect somehow. This is the best feeling I have ever experienced, and I smile a rejoicing smile. I jump. I jump so high into the air, god's groping hand could almost clutch my little head and pull. The sun rays hit my back and reaches straight in, feels my skeleton, and tickles. But he just looks anxious.

He stands, hiding his right hand, and comes in to hug me. Surely he must be coming in to hug me! My body is soft and waiting, wanting for his flesh and mine to graze, eliminating the only distance there ever was, but the steel makers are demons. The steel makers are demons! And they have placed an evil weapon in my—his—hand. We remain mediated by a bloody kitchen knife that now connects my throat and his hand, his emotions. But surely, when my eyes close so will his, and god's hands will lower enough to pull us up? As I collapse I see his mother's body on the ground in the kitchen, and realize my mother is still alive. I think this might mean we aren't the same person. My stomach begins to growl and I remember I haven't eaten. Now I get a terrible itching feeling along my left leg, and there is nothing I want more than to scratch, but I hardly have the energy, and it would be a ridiculous way to enjoy these last moments. I really want to scratch, but can't. My smile is gone just in time to see me out. He shreaks, and passersby notice and scream.

Posthumous:

Are the different really better? I guess probably not always.

An Aryan Eye: The Sky

On days just as fine as the one we had this March, today in fact, "men" such as the one creating this post would stand in earnest contemplation over the nature of the sky.

Wild, jittery gesticulations were all that he could conjure for some time, and it was another hefty "time" on top of that before he forgot those around him.

Add another "time"--it's becoming quite the load now--and this "man", before a scattered audience of perhaps 12, 13, began spouting lyrics. These lyrics were to the effect of (the effect of, of course because I am only human and I can not recall precisely the exact lyrics and lines of genius I lace into the atmosphere on a whim, for it is an all too common occurrence):

Aryan eye, aryan eye!!!
What the fuck do you see O Aryan eye?
Such tranquility you feign,
you fascist cyclopes, you feign!
A sceptre of passion I will drive into you,
I will!
And forever more blind that cool, blue dome.
That portal, it perceives, it perceives and prejudices--
but of course.
But alas, I wait, forever I wait
for it's not an eye at all...
and it won't ever be,
Until I puncture that portal and FORCE IT--
DEMAND IT adheres to human anatomy.

Self conscious author's note:
These lyrics are not meant to be respected. They aren't meant to be transcribed into a visual medium. They were meant for positive auditory stimulation. Any overflow into the realm of positive visual stimulation is perhaps not a coincidence, but definitely not an expectation.

Ancient ocean (Lautreamont shout out)

Ancient ocean, crystal-waved, I don't understand your depths. At one end of the world your waves are calm and gentle. They're gentle enough to carry me safely through a "Q-ball" night, or a codeine afternoon. On the other side you are daggers, thousands of daggers put together under a mirage spell of water. On days of Tramadol withdrawal, those are the only pillows I want to carry my head. Your essence is deceit.

Underneath the waves is a mystery and man is barred entrance. Ancient ocean, you are the wild boar eyes of man, the animal spirits of economies, and more, so much more than I can imagine, so I symbolize you. I place you into the boundaries of metaphors and similes, and capture your essence and ignore your actual capture. Man can throw his seroquel, his lithium, his harpoons, his automobiles, his penis and soul at you, but you withstand. Ancient ocean, you bow to no one and we fail to conquer you even in the symbolic order.

Utilize your gracious winds, nourish your silly fish, quake our lands, whatever. We don't care anymore. You win, we lose, continue as you will, the skies await. We have bigger plans: the solar system, the heavens, the heart. But don't content yourself. We will return. Don't lure our eyes with tsunami disaster and monsoon ridicule, because we will look. Our gaze, with time, will pierce a hole into your abysses, and we'll come with a pump.


Thanks Maldoror

The Brooklyn Bagel Manifesto---

So many sesame seeds. Must have coffee. Scallion cream cheese, please--you're ready. I came far for this in many ways, you must impress me. You provide the medium for the review. Whole, hearty bites. Creamy, carefree bites it's spring break. Blend in a little cig, a little greasehair, a little indifference--BOOM--you got it. After 5 bites, I realize this wasn't toasted--BOOM--that's a bagel. Wipe lip, felt moisture. I'm in the heart of it and so was that sentence. Crazy cripple scrawl you are my future. Manic sips as if coffee:poetry--Jane Austen food of love analogy sequence. Liquid for thought. A penny for your thoughts? That brooklyn bagel man accent=background muzac. Talking business. The Modern O'Henry sammy g? Of course, this ain't no Kennedy's and it ain't no good. The bagel was good though.

Shade

There are trees up above, floating. In Manhattan they descend subtly. First one floating mass emerges, then another. Fifty, one hundred, thousands appear, blotting out the sky. And the sky, being a gracious host, is a perfect background of blue. It loses its position as the one and only upward marvel-- a discussion is for another time. Roots stick out from the trees, and remain in perfect permanent positions, resembling spider arms, or distorted witch fingers, menacingly pointing at the tree gazers.

“Dude, there are probably, like, aliens or something hiding in those green things. They wanna make you believe those are trees, but dude those aren’t trees, they’re transporters!” One high Manhattan resident claimed to a group of close confidants, while simultaneously another group of city-dwellers claimed, “God. Simply God and you know it. He sent them for a reason, guys, it must be a test. If we destroy them, he’ll send fire and brimstone down, just like in the bible. I swear I’m leaving the country if the government shoots them down or something!”

Emphatic claims and speculation are muttered by all, while the peacefully floating arbors come under constant watch. Their leaves sway with the wind, and their noiselessness echoes above the New York City bustle. Enormous masses of people clutter the streets to look up initially, but as minutes and hours pass only the homeless remain to ponder the world.  And life goes on after a momentary pause in a busy city.

The United States government listens to the pleas of the Christian masses and hesitantly decides to direct missile attention towards them. More trees appear, this time all over the world; they make a heavy darkness. The smell of leaves stalk every living soul, and the darkness grows, slowly. Frantic world rulers, not knowing what to do (after it is determined these were indeed trees, with no apparent means of floatation), wrestle with the idea of destroying them.

A young child in Mississippi goes outside every day, twice a day, to throw dirt clods at the trees, and they appear to grow closer to land. His big blue eyes grow big, and his forehead crumples like folded dough, as clumpy dirt launches from his hand, and drizzles back down onto him. He looks at his tree-house and wonders if he’ll get to fly when it takes him up. Smiles. In his smile are the limitless nature of life and the possibilities for the future. His faith and hope in life is beautiful, and he stays outside for hours, not knowing why he is throwing clods of dirt.

“THEY DON’T BELONG HERE!” Some jailed fellow from Istanbul yells (in English, of course) as he tightly grips the window bars of his cell. In his indignant expression there is nothing but the longing for freedom. His thoughts are those of all of humanity, because the world can't help but to feel the shackles the phenomenon has locked onto its ankles. The shackles don't seem too tight, their presence is the root of discomfort. Hate, pure unadulterated hate, develops for the trees, and the people yell. Protests, screaming outbursts, erupt at all times by the people in the shade. The smell of sewer pipes is now unidentifiable in the wake of the lowering leaves.

The missiles fly through the air and shoot down the trees, but there simply aren’t enough in the world to get rid of all of the clutter. “Bomb the sky!!!!” The trees continue to lower. They quietly approach as frantic scientists attempt to explain the phenomenon with large words and hastily published studies. The pages of citations don't explain what is happening, and the trees still plan to meet land. “They’re plotting, those twigs up there. But I’ll take a chainsaw to the first one of ‘em that messes funny around here!” In every thought the trees are personified, and alive. Twig becomes gun, leaf becomes bullet.

They are nearing land and this world becomes claustrophobic; the people’s souls are choking now. The dirt clod children weep openly in the streets as they await impending doom, forsaken by the comfort of science and political speeches. The world is absolutely helpless and distraught, and more papers are published, quickly, in buildings that will soon be underneath the trees.

Something must be done. Politicians and military generals begin to fear that the tragedy may go away abruptly and life will resume (Hope never dies). They don’t wish to look like invalids to the masses. “Bomb the sky!” They shout to the world, and the world shouts with them, until a chanting globe cheers for tree doom in unison. “Bomb the sky,” becomes humanity’s last call, and leaders hit the buttons releasing atomic bombs everywhere. Cheering pours through the streets, and is heard slightly above the chanting.

Somewhere in Arkansas, a man with a grimace and a cane looks out the window, and thanks the lord he never rose to the call “Go green.” Somewhere in Tel Aviv, a woman under a tree realizes she could have been eating fudge pops and donuts for the last year. Somewhere in Boston, a drunken student burns his book, and then cries, because he realizes his 4.0 won’t get him into medical school. The bombs are let loose, but the sad helplessness kills the world long before the explosions. But it is sweet to see the world join together, even if it is in doom. For it is in these moments that humanity can be seen, and nature can be overlooked. Humanity becomes obvious on the faces of the pirates, lunatics, CEOs, and whale watchers. Their human-ness is disturbing, but it has been even more so troubling to those of us who saw it within the banality of the everyday, as the Economist informed us about massacres and economic collapses. It is even more troubling to We who watch the tree death, squirrel death, climate death,World death on the daily. On our last day, we lay in the shade.

Patrick's Visit to Cornell

My friends hate me now.

I hate Patrick now.

Patrick's lips were fused to a bottle. Patrick's lips will always be fused to a bottle--a bottle of alcohol.

"Beer!" he shouted, "More beer!" as he sat on the ugly couch in my living room.

He took off all of his clothes. Everybody knows Patrick's naked body.

Almost all of my frie--everybody cried. Everybody.

Patrick was insulting, he was condescending.

"Jargon, jargon, jargon!" I shouted as he spouted his theories of literary criticism.

"Do not belittle the ART of literary theory! I, and I alone wield the power to disassemble--nay, to destroy great works of literature!! HAhahaha! Yes, I, Patrick Reynolds am lordgiver of the land!!!!" He cackled and sent smoke from his dragon nose. Smoke from his $9.47 pack of Camel cigarettes.

Patrick slept all day. All day long. I went to school and he slept. When I got home at night, he was drunk. He was always drunk.

March Guest Posts

Grown poodles


Light in the attic and then burn them and then waste not want not to type anything with a wocker for a sock. Get angry at all the socks in this place and then let them drift down into the ocean as if they hadn’t gotten lost in the first place. And why not she said? Because any old fruit could walk in and take advantage of them? Because an explanation is not what makes the mind go out of wack for repair? No its not all the inhibition or the inspiration from the surrounding world, from the music and the breathing and the crumpling of paper. It’s not just from the daydreams, thoughts sounds acting upon me, day dreams acting upon my toaster straddle for maximum effectiveness when distorted into randomness. No it’s also my rain. My damn brain makes war look like two giant gallant wizards stuck inside a tornado with no way to get out. They twist and turn and shun and burn until it itches so much that you can’t breathe. Is that what tis’ like to melt in a fire enveloping you in a room? Is it painful? Would you climb the fence remanu? Even if total despair and total despair alone lay on the other side? No I would let myself be eaten up by the plants, disregarding a legendary disappearance form this world, disregarding that and instead realizing that I am not a part of the world any longer after I go, and so how I go should not be that important to me. And so I die, and that should be enough.. I need not make it be an epic death. But dying in a fire would be easier than jumping off a gorge or something. Hanging yourself sounds like a good way. Cause once you set it up write and you put it around your neck and you kick away the chair, you’re good to go. So doing that would probably be easier for me than the fence stuff. Although why this subject is on my mind defeats me. I just had an amazing night. There was good sleep too, after. And to be honest I’m not sure how I got on to the topic. So let’s turn it back aground to the poodles, three fo them walking in a line, perfectly wild, untrained untamed, no fame, no shame, they are the ones who I will search after and when they are found I will go on vacation.

Anybody Out There?
If I can tell you something of importance, then choose that easier word. Foreswear a difference while fairytales that compliment
an era usually express brings me back roses row kingdom ashore. The last time I felt this, so long before, I met the the one who
I still adore. Trite and deceitful, she snapped, bit, and clawed. A chest made of metal, puss spewed from her pores; her long face
was dreadful, her mustache was worse. Then all of a sudden a ray of sun burst through the clouds, and shined golden light down,
upon her dear eyes. One at a time my two feet started moving, there in the factory underneath space mountain. Foreshadowed
by railroad vertical kingdoms stretching over the horizon joylessly sat balmy and long-lipped, with electric nights passed phloem
and gases on the wheezy hacking machinery, like my cousin with a propensity towards cats, who plays with herself in the corner
when she thinks she's alone. She had a trustworthy scent, like a dog after a good run around. It appeared from the contours of her
shirt that she was as fulfilled as her age would allow. Years talking with therapists about every kind of flower that grew in his head,
or handcar in his pocket smudged in to a few moments, punctuated only by my calm encroachment on her cheeks of cloven ashes.
It was obvious why only she could give me such a profound hurt. I would never return hence. What did it matter if my looks were
as deserted as a dried up well is deep? I was going to feel integrity, if it was the freest I ever made it.
On the curative power of disease:
Jerk tug chirked my touching fetus. If only for a moment. Go with him. From flight to annual suggestions. Punt survival don't nobody care, while you exhibit signs of abandonment, or perhaps proximate nuclear swiss pushed the weather down. So I come visit away met it hurrying. Fear disingenuous integrated tinges of anguish turbo defense similar illusion but must be serious. More than fine. Symbol of truth, that one day everything must end, and life is all that matters. Remember that it is not they who may banish you from innocence, only he. Though they wanted to know that I could be understood, I was empty inside. All I ever wanted is to be good. A vote of no confidence from the stars and I tearfully stumble through an abyss the likes of which are infinite; glimpses of my past are all that light my way. In galaxies of faces and quasars of recognition, my love weeps as the sun disappears behind a pillow.


Not Based On A True Story



Hi!!!!!"
(She practically lost both her eyes with overwhelming zeal.)

THAT, ladies and gentlemen, that simple hello, birthed from the influx of alcohol that slashed any trace of inhibition surging throughout her blood-bubbling body, was the beginning of a two and a half hour conversation about everything and nothing which, ladies and gentlemen, hurtled her consciousness directly into a spiraling vortex of incarcerated love.

Yes. She was in love.

Like a magnet, her body snapped from starting position up to his own flesh and blood, and she feasted upon the lengths of his knowledge. She feasted upon their similarities and she feasted upon his smile! She was so full by the end of the night that she lugged herself home in a sort of whimsical bloat. She swung on street lights, singing, "I could have daaaanced all niiiight" and she threw pine cones at her friends. She vomited hearts and pulled out all of her hair.

She tore off her clothes and screamed "I'm in love! I'm in love! And I DON'T care who knows it!!!!" Soon she began to care, though, when police men from all angles came darting at her. With a smile the size of Texas pasted onto her face, she ran in manic frenzy away from those love-slashing cops, away from those law enforcing, doughnut-eating scoundrels who thought a girl like her would be easy to catch. She went from a sprint to a skip, every tranquilizing bullet dodged with an effortless spring.

"We're going to need back up!!!!!!!" A cop panted into his walkie-talkie, resting his hands on his knees, bent over, head down, catching his breath taken by the chase. She was relentless, she was. Prancing to and fro on Cupid's potion. That rascal Cupid. Always getting people into ruts.

Soon, she was in a dark alleyway where she encountered a rabid dog. She took one look at it, and turned around. Total buzz kill.

Then, she got Antonio's pizza and had a restful sleep.

END!

http://turtlesurprise.blogspot.com/

The Best Beat Boxer in The World

I heard him. I heard her? Who was that mysterious beat boxer? That beat boxer who, every night at midnight holds a concert atop Olin library. That beat boxer who mixes in scratchy sounds, incorporates breathy gasps and awe-inspiring screeches.

For all I know those concerts are just for me, because no one else ever seems to be around. I have even perfectly timed my cigarette breaks from my stacks of books that cloud my vision, my vision that remains cloudy until the fog lifts during that beautiful interval of 12am-12:15.

The chimes that reverberate through the valley of books rouse me from my stupor. I file into the elevator and it de-elevates me. I go down. I jog to the door and tackle it with my shoulder, stumble outside.

My thumb greedily spins the wheel on my lighter and I fill my lungs. As my thin chimney stick ejects a wispy plume, I am carried to the heavens where I am battered by percussive bliss.

Either the fog has lifted or I am merely lifted with it. I can never make out who that beat boxer is.