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Underground > Creation >

Free Association, Stream of Conscioussness, nonsense, experiment

We're The Great Old Ones Now

10:13 / 05.06.02

He stands astride, colossus in blue jeans, like a madman with a rabbit. This earthly carpenter denies involvement through a series of interlinked confessions for alternative crimes, thus by capitulation disavows all knowledge of the most significant. I hate these guys, rough clowns in workwear bearing petty convictions, minor larceny and major trauma. It's another rainy day where I come from and thank God I left the place years ago to seek the sun. This monstrous bastard refreshes the memory like toothpaste on fuzzy, morning coffee teeth, brings fresh reaction to an old wound.

I can't recall another moment when I wanted to walk away so much. It's more the kind of day when you just give up, but that's never been my style. The greyer, the more pointless it all seems, the more likely I am to be dancing the rhumba in the middle of the street, or at a crimescene, finding little truths and big revelations in the oil-smeared rainbows of the city.

So to hell with it. I take him to the interview room and read him his rights, then finish him off with a passage from Joyce.

They hate that.

13:11 / 05.06.02

Since its raining I can't go to the left side of the ground today, why understand me when dont understand myself? Love that dirty water. Smoke is there, smoke to the children
Little times to hear this, eh? Looks like rain again and again, the kings, justice is the fire of the day. The hours speed by the snakes are floundering in the sea and the circuits are filthy, waxing is in order

outside the bubbles are gathering

13:39 / 05.06.02

It should be easier, it should be easier to hold one's breath, or to rip apart white spider's legs, to count to ten and then to zero while waiting for the elevator, hoping that one year of unendurable suffering in hell might yield a second of light piercing through silky butterfly wings with thin blazing needles. I am really waiting for the quake that will summarize the whole of humanity's existence, it will write across walls all over the world it's tremor message of might with bodies of silent movie stars, they are descending slowly and they want to talk to the headmaster. Please take this cup of coffee, there's a spider trapped inside it, take to the garden, the one where we used to lay hoping to feel the soil breathing, put it somewhere nice and listen because now EVERYTHING IS SINGING...

13:45 / 05.06.02

do people's heads really work like that? god knows mine doesn't, full of scrawny sixteen-year-olds now battering their way through emptiness.

though it's not really empty, is it? it's sticky and full of webby rules, that's the whole point. that's why you have to break through it. slipknot t-shirts and grey circle-necked tabards, or was there ever really a fashion industry in the future anyway?

bollocks I've lost the thread now.

13:58 / 05.06.02

Bobbins unspooling under dark wooden benches, he stoops, conquered again by the smallness of undiscovered things.

There is dust in the corners, dust under the water dripping from windows and airconditioner units rusting, cool inside, outside facing the hot summer sun and driving summer rains. In the monsoons, no machine is safe.

He scrabbles after the thread, and, in the shadows, continues with the sewing.

14:01 / 05.06.02

Do people's heads really work like that, indeed. Friggin' Molly Bloom. Does *my* head really work like that, that's terrifying. I'm annoyed because I sat down one more time with Molly, this time slowly and moving my lips, and damn her to hell there is a string of thought there & now I have to find out what it is, and it's going to take me forever. Would putting in punctuation marks be a rape of Molly Bloom? Is it especially male of me to like punctuation? Too much Camille Paglia.

Meanwhile, I'm ripping strips of tissue paper out of this last portfolio with a pair of tweezers. I get paid for this.

gozer the destructor

14:14 / 05.06.02

and i have to stop and look at my shaking hands, vibrating from some primordal shuddrr that was strted by terracotta subteranian worms, bleak and blind nothing changes, we squirm to escape each day, each second. DIG! the charge come from behind us, DIG! further and onward this our only hope, like my maid Gunter, black with white essence to frame her muscular thighs, clamps like a nutcracker to my head, "AAARRRGGGHHHH!" my brain is a lemon on its last dregs, a dry whore, an animal with no legs "Let me go I will tell you!", I drop empty hollow curses dry white spit sticks to my moputh, the animals arrive to crescendo of rumbling, the earth breaks open, is she white, green, vitamin?

16:20 / 05.06.02

Intense longing breeds with overwhelming fear of captivity. I will not be sucked into the earth. I will not dine in this animal's grave. I was bigger than this once and I shall be bigger than this again. This should be easier. I should be able to rise as easilly as others walk and yet I am still on my knees. I am wiser that they give me credit for, and yet I am still so very confused.

The Apple-Picker

16:53 / 05.06.02

Yeah, I told you I hate you. No no no. I said, I fucking hate you. Those were the precise words.

All the while I thought, oh, he's so cute and demented. Cute, good. Demented, fine. I'm practiced in moderate dementia, trust my ability to handle severe dementia, but you know, you spiral into hyper-dementia, cutie. And I'm just not sure where that's going. Escalators, elevators, the highway are main means of travel.

So, yes. I'll make the lemonade (shut up, of course it's homemade--I said I'll make it). Yes, I'll wear the blue jeans.

I'll do what you want. But I hate you because you're crazier than I am, and you still never get bed head.

The Apple-Picker

19:01 / 05.06.02

I am many things. High density fiberboard is not one of them. Neither is "coniferous" or "palacial." I contemn you, you and your argot. Ergot-visions bely the fact of this bovine experience.

19:15 / 05.06.02

and then there is nothing; nothing save the humming of the daffodil it hides furtively in the summerhouse. what is it doing here? bah! the sleeting thoughts come back to me again on wings of tidal mouthwash.
bing? and then the- Bing Crosby? I'm leaving dude, you're just too damn wierd. gad, this desert is going to take us forty dollars to cross, mustaffah.
and then the sentance begins without proper consideration to the paragraph that has gone before and my letter D has hidden itself somewhere in this labyrinth of keys and plastic trains that shunt and steam and nothing is flowing through that great vast, interstellar tube now.

02:57 / 06.06.02

So, I'm walking in the field now. Looking for some lost sense of harmony among the hill and green. Its as if I'm still shaking from some long forgotten trauma, echoing around my subconscious like a tin can in an empty parking lot.

I'm trying to breathe. Hold a breath and let it go. Trying to be natural, in some hypersynthetic way. I feel infected with rot. Churning up from below. I want to wallow in the sesspool of my own selfpity, drown myself in loathing and disgust.

But here I am in a field. Walking. Breathing. Trying to let go. Trying not to let the neurosomatic souldestroyers back in through the small door in the middle of my forehead. Let things fall, like leaves. Drifting on subtle breezes, towards still waters, in silent places.

Breathe...

12:23 / 06.06.02

if i had a hammer if i had a hammer if i had a hammer
Wealth and tranquility, she said. I didn't believe her of course but that's just me, golfing and all that is for other types of folk, magnification and viruses.
I don't really mind the gaps in her teeth, I just say I do and try to convince myself I do so I won't do anything of a villainous sort, lost trust is hard to recover god knows god sees and disapproves.
vanilla coke vanilla coke what the fuck

Less searchable M0rd4nt

22:10 / 06.06.02

OcciputL: the word lodged in my head for weeks. I kept repeating it as I paced the green carpet, as I passed and re-passed the old church pew that stood by the door in the lobby. That summer, all the clockes stopped but one, and I was stricken with a fever.

Less searchable M0rd4nt

11:08 / 07.06.02

Awl owl thine, mute moot mate, written across the top of the dictionary on every page. You read too much. You don't read enough. Why is this important to you? Turn; look from the window- the white roses dance silver in the wind and the willow-herb wears a halo of blue around each pink blossom. Take a pill, take a drink; turn, kneel. But remember the shape of the branches, creeping like viens against the pale sky.

08:51 / 10.06.02

Now I'm cooking some steak in The Outer Loot, because the fields have forgotten about my true destiny.

It's as if this was what I came here for.

Medium rarities of limitless harmony? Please don't tell me you're not ready for such conquests. I pick up the phone as I tap out of The Outer Loop into Zen Fuck. They can't find me here. No. They cannot.

They can't find me here. I am a liberal.

I smoke the cigar as the wires perish into flames of anti-globalization protests. Reclaim the streets! Anarchist living!

But those were the old days.

One thought I cannot escape: The Outer Loop was my high school sweetheart. If only she could taste my flesh. If only.

10:50 / 10.06.02

wonder what the weather will be like, the lifeguards, the cameras surveillance photos of your kids and the question remains
my cheek feels funny, is that a mark? everything is well in hand open closed ha ha
cigarette butts follow me around and laugh at me taunt me and heap their scorn upon me, hide in a box the wrap and the trash signs go up on tuesday, what's new?
sweet jesus forgive me but my my my she does give the best back rubs ever

21:25 / 12.06.02

Or how I learned to stop worrying and love the bomb-
her rouged blue eyes batted, they were spinning on ice cream stand stools in the sunlight, grinning wickedly, thinking of flavors that they wish would come to pass: espresso gummi bear, oxy clean ripple. Her shades were the color of blood and perched on her nose proper, bright eyes like lips parted and batted and flirted, and spoke every word in iris contractions and ice cream reflections.

Summer has come, the hottest sun is rising, and we will burn up all the last of it...all these things will melt away.

14:33 / 13.06.02

I didn't understand her, if you want me to be honest. I blinked my eyes as I sang mega-original songs of rainbows.

But I didn't understand her. No.

It wasn't like the time we were floating on the Milky Way without our helmets. No. It was more like that conversation I'd had with my old mentor. The one with the yellow bathrobe. He lied to me, he did, but his sincerity, his kindness, it was as if the apocalyspe had decided not to come forth due to his mega-powerful energy.

Energy.

But I didn't understand her. I swear.

14:52 / 13.06.02

She appeared to me clouds of rose, red hair sinning under blue veils, the color of old dust and denim, smiling, always smiling. There were beetles beneath her feet the color of used motor oil and emeralds, and her fingertips were stained.
Our Lady of Ill-Use, Our Lady of the Workshop, Our Lady of Making the Broken Machine go, go, go.
She went, went, went.