Monday, October 31, 2011

"Freeze Your Blood And Then Stab It Into In Two

Stab your blood into me and blend"

And I wish to never pull you in by your collar, pull you close to me, and make you believe the awful things that haunt me. I wish to never instill the coldness of my eyes in the warmth of yours. I wish to keep you apart, away, and alright. But here you are crawling around dark caves with me. Feeling with our eyes closed; straining, fumbling, and nervous. And once I'm trembling and softening in the darkness, you reach out, drag me out, and life as I knew it finds clarity again. Finds hope again. Faith again. And I'm whole again.

Sunday, October 30, 2011

The Smoking Pose

With the color in your eyes ablaze
Sleeping but awake
Desperately, you're searching for remains
To feed that part of you
Crawling and scratching
Sifting through ashes
Your fingers are blistered
Right down to the filter
The blistering that carved that shape in you all night

With your chin down to your chest
Speech drooling out in a mesh
Of baritone slurs, incomprehensible, unaware of what you mean
Of baritone slurs, incomprehensible, unaware of how you seem

Your eyes were just blatant hints at your elevation
Allowing the two of you, completion

Singe your throat when the door is open
Beneath the smoke that I can see that,
I can see that you have come alive again

Saturday, October 29, 2011


According to the New York times, the following are several factors that contribute to addiction and/or addictive personality:

  • Impulsive behavior, difficulty in delaying gratification, an antisocial personality and a disposition toward sensation seeking.
  • A high value on nonconformity combined with a weak commitment to the goals for achievement valued by the society.
  • A sense of social alienation and a general tolerance for deviance.
  • A sense of heightened stress. This may help explain why adolescence and other stressful transition periods are often associated with the most severe drug and alcohol problems.

Friday, October 28, 2011

A Big Bad Wolf

It was in the way she pursed her cold, thin lips. The way her head bobbed at each condescending syllable. It was her empty eyes behind her glasses. It was her neatly clasped fingers placed in front of her, demanding my submission. I whisked her away with slights of my smiles and the thousands of my nods. I called her a cunt, and it wasn't so bad. It's just the mornings. It's just the bitterly pleasant way of reminding me how enslaved I've been with my own temperaments. The merciless melancholy I surrender to.

I could never sit still in a classroom anyway. I still can't now and I probably never will. I started walking to my car after that infuriating class and recognized a long piece of brightly colored yellow paper lounging on my windshield. I dropped my sleepless head on my shoulder and shuffled sluggishly to my car. Another parking ticket. The first parking ticket is still sitting in the glove box, waiting for me to pay it off. I remember driving home, submerged under my carelessly 'suicidal' thoughts. Anger don't mean a thing. Sadness don't mean a thing. But death will remain meaningful. And so, I found myself home, craving some mindless emptiness as I sunk deeper. But as I do recall, I always find myself sinking anyway, wishing I was a rather bit more mindlessly empty.

Sweating. I remember the warmth that would veil my face. I'd feel immobilized. Paralyzed. Breathing out of pace. And I finally remember; I produce nothing. I construct nothing. I have done nothing for as long as I can remember. And all I ever plead for is to rip away from my own consciousness. To rip away from every rotting bone in my body and from every straggled skeleton in my closet...

Monday, October 24, 2011

Foreign Game of Cricket

After Andro's most aesthetically commendable blunt, we played a friendly game of Butt's Up next to another group playing a friendly game of cricket. Our friendly game seemed less interesting next to the cricket players, so we sooner sat on the bleachers and watched this incredibly foreign game. I couldn't recall much except for the fact that I couldn't connect how the game worked and the fact that the way they spoke made my head spin. I wasn't quite sure what language they spoke. I have no familiarity when it comes to Middle Eastern languages, but my ears fed off the energy of their words. They were jeering and cheering and rolling every word in a way I didn't even imagine possible. And in this place I reside in, I am surrounded by all things foreign, granted that this night will spark me nothing more than it already had. But this night proved different. Maybe it was the bright white lights contrasting against the crisp night. Maybe it was my undivided attention channeled toward the cricket game instead of my usual routinely brooding and self-deprecating smoke of thoughts. I was weightless, and I thought about nothing. And this should come to me with a sense of calmness and contentment but that very moment that I realized that I was free of all my drudgery, all I wanted was to crawl back to the solitude of my quietly distant disposition.

Scatter Brain's Nervous Laugh

Having lost my sense of sobriety, I walked to my class with my head still up in space. My eyes refused to focus, my walk barely my own strut, and my bag of books begging to be left behind some bush somewhere. I avoided all signs of my reflection. From the rippling distortion of this morning’s sprinkler puddles to my dark mirror image of the building’s glass windows, I darted passed all versions of myself. This morning was just another forgettable story to start my meaningless day. I knew once I sat down in my seat my feet would shuffle and my pen would tap on my notebooks. I bit my fingernail and inhaled a small and deep breath. I held it, shuffled some more, then exhaled into one of my quiet frenzies. I felt eyes on me, but they were eyes that felt like they’ve been left dead. Empty like mine, I thought. Idle like mine, I thought. Except I was still in space and I wanted to be able to hold a stare with someone and make them feel any of my intentions. I, ironically, wanted to read myself through someone’s eyes. But just like every morning in that room, I felt nothing and felt no semblance of who I could possibly be for the day.

I sat through an English film with poor acting and grinded my teeth all through. I felt myself space out several times but the movie demanded my attention and I passively submitted myself to its semi-irritating and semi-bearable drone. I couldn’t understand the tugs inside me as I watched. Between needing to kick off the table in front of me to let papers fly around the room and wanting to vanish into thin air, I felt the war inside me. I felt all kinds of wars inside me. I even felt the ghosts and the ghouls and lurches in my throat that murmured into memories. I felt faces I’ve held before. I felt old promises rise from forgotten places that I labeled graves. I felt my lips pull back into a smile at the thought of images I froze to preserve just in case I couldn’t remember anything else. I knew I’d be anxious and I knew the pit of my stomach would stir and make me regret. I quietly gagged once, then quietly tapped my pen, tapped my foot, then let my eyes swim around in my head.

Again I felt eyes on me. I felt careless, limp eyes on me. I thought I was dissolving into my seat, dripping through the cracks of my chair, and being absorbed into the carpets covered in eraser shavings. And then I heard her nervous laugh and I was alien then; the instructor’s nervous laugh climbed up my spine and rested at the back of my neck where I felt the hairs rise and my stomach twisting into livewire knots. The movie ended and I fished for my bag of books under me. I tossed my bag around and let it clank wildly with its metals and keys and I dashed out the door, out the building, and to the brightly lit late morning that only sent me to a squinting jolt of the realization that my day will never begin today...

Monday, October 3, 2011

I haven't been sad much

I'm starting to see things look steady again. Steady somewhere. I'm just a little slow. I mean it. I have been extremely slow. But it's of course just the trees blowing in my head. I was looking through photos last night. Of me. Of my friends. Of my niggas. Photos from a year ago to photos from recent days. And it's slightly astonishing to see the difference in our eyes. The light in it. We're so tired now, so exhausted. We're worn out, washed out, and literally just hanging. Strange and dark things happen sometimes. It's ok. At least I haven't been sad much. Maybe I haaave been too passive lately. Too indifferent. Shoulders shruggin'. I just don't want to look exhausted anymore. I don't want to look like life has been sucked out of me already.

I'm turning 20.

I'm turning 20.

Overcast Afternoons

Saturday, October 1, 2011

You're the Good Things


Irish Cream

Dear sir, I have a complaint


Needs A Frame


Some Early 90's Shit

Fish in the Afternoon

I usually feel like I'm losing my mind. But when I have fish in the afternoon, I feel fine. I feel mighty fine. And today, I can feel my drink settled in my stomach pit from the night before when my best friend and I talked shitty about everyone at 4 in the morning. I thought about doing nothing today but listen to songs about roads shaped like a figure 8. Crayola Peachy salmon.

"Spent 18 hours waiting stoned for space, I spent the same 18 hours in the same damn place"

Willful Suspension of Disbelief

Stay awake at night and mumble lessons to myself. Murmured names and the guilt of my life. No whistles, no wind, just the silence of a fan. Of an old song. Of vibrations through the dark. And a few fucking shots. Just a few.

ARCHIVE, FUCKERS (for Ace-like purposes)