attempts at noir

smoke fills the bar like low hanging ocean fog. cigarettes in every hand. handsome men either the clark gable type or the james dean type smoking and smirking shit eating grins chasing tail and cunt, slapping asses tight and shaped like the moon wolves howl ta, everyone is dressed in black but a few of the dames have on tight red dresses, red lipstick, hour glass figure don't shatter baby sand drips down in it but times stops in here yeah baby time stops in here no matter who you are you aint got nothing outside/
bartender behind the counter, black bowtie, moonlight pale skin and soft grey eyes, wipes some of the glasses dry with a kerchief he pulls from his back pocket, talks like gravel and new yawk callous "yeah. ya hear bout ernie? the cheap bastard has a tab here longer than  that War and fucking Peace book" -"YA NEVER READ THAT BOOK RICHIE!" - "will ya shudup? it doint matter if i read the fucking book i know the damn thing is collosal! i'm saying the cheap bastard drank me outta house and home, owes me enough to wine and dine a super fucking model and have her tug my prick and put my nuts in her mouth and hum frank fucking sinatra tunes and the bastard has the balls to call me up collect at 4 in the fucking morning from rikers goddamn island, got stopped for taking a leak on someones front lawn and when the law patted the toothless wino fuck down they found a (voice slows down to softer gravel..like someone walking softly over broken glass) hypo and some of the morphine syrettes.. ya gotta slow down on peddalin that shit.. at least outta MY fucking bar!"- (the noise lowers to nothing more than a slight heartbeat. a loud voice from some unknown phantom overpowers it all. no one hears it. it is not there) : that's just a small snippet, a brushstroke on the painting of a bar you will never find in your town. they don't exist anymore. only in the dreams of the old men who sit handcuffed and at home in the bullpens, the top bunk in county jail, smoking top tobacco with an asshole fulla drugs and walking the yard up in attica, the old timers who remember the days when their was honor amongst criminals. how could you not learn to love someone you live in a cage with for years, spend 23 Christmases, turn the other way when the other one has to shit or jerk off, share your smokes, commisary, snacks, dreams, murderous revenge plots, fuck books, fuck dreams.. if the world is all in your mind, can't you bring yourself anywhere you wanna be? they would lay in their bunks and talk about when they were young and man, we would laugh so hard at the stories we'd tell we'd be hurtin in the bellies.. they were wrong. the motherfuckers were wrong. they locked us in cages but we grew. we found the light and we grew towards it. we were always free. we were always fucking free.
-everyone is drunk and laughing and stumbling and leaning on each other. everyone is dressed in black with white shirts underneath, white faces with black stubble, supple creamy milk legged girls hike up red skirts, black and red laced panties, a greaser with a motercycle jacket pulls hard on a cigarette, puts it out in her drink, takes it from her, chugs it, and kisses her hard like they were the only ones. adam and fucking eve.
-a man walks in. no one notices him but hes different from everyone else. his eyes hard color. they are green and his features are distinct, old fashioned. people don't look like him these days. only in old photos from the war. his hair is wet and he pulls out a pocketknife comb and slicks it back. he is wearing a pearl shark skinned suit. he walks straight to the jukebox. he looks through the records. two tall men in all black, black trenchcoats walk in behind him, smoking cigarettes, hard in the face, look like boxers, nose broken so many times a man looses count, eyes like ferocious animals but no one knows. they are wearing black sunglasses. it is nighttime. it is so dark no one knows where night ends and the shadows begin. the man in white pulls out change from his pocket. drops it in. The song he picks is The Witch- by The Sonics. he pulls a picture from his pocket and looks at it. he stares for what might be forever but it's closer to a few seconds. he puts it back away. he nods to the two men. they both pull out tommy guns and slaugther every living person in the bar. bottles shatter. glass flies and slices throughs wide open. blood spills so excessively its absurd. intestines and hearts and brain matter burst and walls chip apart. wood is ripped and thrown about. women are screaming, a deeper blood, a truly blackend crimson ocean stains there already red dresses. the men crawl on the floor and reach towards light or god or salvation but only receive an onslaught of bullets. "die you fucking fucks! die! die! DIE!!! DIE!!
-the man in white just keeps looking at the jukebox, smiling and smoking a cigarette. once the shooting and the moans and groans and farts of death cease, he speaks: "you know, people don't talk about the Sonics enough. their record, This is the Sonics? It's fucking brilliant. it's so fucking primal. fuck the mc5. fuck the stooges. the sonics started punk rock. i'll make it official. i'll say it for the goddamn fucking record books.."- (pulls colt 45 gun to own head) "see? i'll make it my last words. that way it will be infinite! i'll make it real! it's the least i can do them. they wrote The Witch and Stychnine! it would be a small sacrifice" (laughs. lights new cigarette.puts gun back) "we should probably get going. i know we paid the cops off already this month but they are gonna at least have to go through the motions and investigate this little massacre here.. c'mon boys. lets go shoot some heroin and get a lap dance"

-a black girl and a white boy ages 17 lay naked in each others arms in a motel room mostly in shadows but the fluorescent turquoise motel light creeps through the partially drawn shutters like a peeping tom.his head is in her lap. he's rubbing her breasts absentmindely and she's running her fingers through his hair. clothes are thrown about the floor. there's a bottle of whiskey on the dresses, a motel bible open to the book of revelations, and a Glock with loose scattered bullets on the nightstand, cigarette pack open with a few poking out. she picks one up and pulls it out with her teeth. he lights it. she takes a drag and blows it up.

him: the smoke looks like the ghost.
her: what's wrong
him: what do you mean? i'm fine.. i'm just tired
her: no.. i can tell. i can see by looking at you. your thinking about something. your mind is always going. like a big clock. i see the gears constantly grinding, grinding, grinding,
him: please.. just thinking about that.. it's giving me a headache.. i'm just.. i dunno. how long can we run?
her: until they find us baby.. until they fucking find us. and then we'll take them to fucking hell with us..
him: sometimes i don't want to run. i want to just stay somewhere. i want to stay somewhere with you. i want to hold you forever and not let go. i want to make a baby. i want a baby girl. i want to look in her eyes and see you. i love you so much i want to see two of you. and watch her grow into a beautiful woman and find someone who will make her happy and for her never to have to know the sadness that i knew.. that sadness before i found you..
her: that sadness, that sadness that you're so terrified of.. is why it felt so sweet when we found one another. why it felt so perfect..
him: you know.. you have to know.. that if someone ever hurt you.. ever thought of hurting you.. i wouldn't be able to stop myself.. i wouldn't be able to stop myself from tearing them apart, doing it so slowly, so FUCKING GODDAMN FUCKING SLOWLY.
her: baby.. baby.. stop.. stop.. please honey. please calm down (runs fingers through his hair. rubs his head and kisses his forehead) nothing is going to happen to me. we found each other. after all those lifetimes, maybe we've been looking since the beginning. maybe we're adam and fucking eve and we've been looking since the beginning of time. we finally found each other. that was the hard part. nothing could take us apart from each other. nothing. nothing.

camera slowly rises and spins. they caress and kiss and cry and shudder in the darkness and the blinking neon.

him: i will find you even in death. the hardest part was finding each other for the first time. your in my dreams now. why won't you be in eternal dream?

coins in the eyes of the dead/ do we seek to help others or ourselves when it comes to charitable acts (mitzvahs)

They, whoever the fuck "They" may happen to be, claim that a good deed only makes the cut off and is considered "legit" if it's done unnoticed. If you give to someone but don't let them know that you were the mysterious giver. The personification of altruism.

You've seen them shuffling their feet and grinding their teeth and smoking cigarette after cigarette and slurping down that sweet and hot ol jamaica queens coffee. good time of the month. welfare benefits arrived.. cash assistance and foot stamps on the ebt card which is as good as a debit card if you know the right individuals and locations. For a couple days they are as a generous and selfless as the new testament claims jesus fucking christ was. they were able to re-fill their bottle of xanax. they get 60 1 mg pills (the "sticks" that everyone talks about when referring to xanax are 2 mg and are named for shape. the most a doctor may legally prescribe to someone in NY state is is 3 of the 2 Mg. pills a day and that's if you're dying of cancer or have a crooked doctor. They are notoriously addictive and the withdrawal has the potential to be fatal.
along with alcohol, it is the only drug where you can actually DIE from it. yes, i reiterate, you can die from the withdrawal after having seizures.) The Xanax bottle should last them a month but they always finish it in a few days. (it's so easy to rationalize getting high when it's what you want to do) They can spread it out for maybe a week and change if they are as frugal and exercise herculean self control. They're taking hand fulls and chewing em up and laughing and bullshitting, and running up to everyone on the block, offering them cigarettes because they know the other 2/3 of the month they won't have two pennys to rub together and hope they can ask those they gave one cigarette to over that week for one every time they run into them for the rest of that month dribbling that same tired fucking bullshit outta their chipped tooth, chapped lip bastard drawl, "you KNOW when i got it, you got it. I'd never leave a man hungry. never leave someone hurtin for a cigarette with their coffee in the morning if i had.".. lays it on heavy. he knows what he's doing.

I despise when people do a favor just so they can keep that card in their back pocket (redeemable anytime, day or night). A chance to ask and guilt the other party. It's an extremely manipulative tactic and never believe them if they feign ignorance to their actions. They know what they're doing. I know, I've done it myself.

I catch myself slipping. I wonder at sporadic moments, perhaps when I'm walking through a "park"... those little squares with one tree with a few benches they scatter the cities boroughs with like a type of vegetative rash , especially where I'm currently staying in Queens. These parks have their usuals, as does any bar from the highest to the filthiest and other gatherings of sorts..A few Spanish day laborers continuously drink all day and night by the bench. Coronas on payday, Steel Reserve 40s or brown bagged hip wine every other day. they don't stop drinking. in the summer it's sweltering and i don't know if they eat or drink water, i suppose so because they don't die. they see the flowers the city planted die and then feel the autumn breeze run down their lower back like the whispers of the dead. they see the snow blanket the benches. when the snow melts, they are resting in the gutter, drinking a warm beer for breakfast and reading a few days old news paper they found beside them when they woke up.

they see me pass on my way to the methadone clinic or if i have a take home bottle that day they see me on my way to the library. it's usually around a quarter to one. I get up at noon usually. Well that's when I rise up out of bed. I wake up countless times throughout the night, morning and just lay in bed until the urge to piss becomes uncontrollable.. if there's a bottle or bowl or cup at hand i piss into that until its almost about to overflow, throw the piss out the window, repeat process until desired results (no more painful feeling in bladders and i can sleep away more of my life). i don't move. i think my girlfriend does the same thing. two people laying in bed, pretending to be asleep.. pensive, peaceful. sometimes i dream while i'm not quite asleep. last night i dreamed of a plane crash. my whole family was on it. my dad, brother, and my mom. she was alive and on the plane;. it crashed but we lived..

they see me pass daily and i don't do something to help them. how can I? what do they want? What do I want? Money? What would that do? Have they lost love? Have they never found love? If they found love would they know what to do with it? Would it be like handing someone blind and deaf a 12 string guitar and ask them to play you something? Would anyone? Would they want to talk? I have my acoustic guitar with me because I play guitar on 7 flushing bound train for change and money and food before and after I go to plumbing trade school.Would they want to hear a song? What can I do to help? What can I do to help myself?

I lay in bed, it's late or early, i'm not sure. the blinds are drawn tight and the room is dark. I haven't the slightest idea what time it is. I look over, my girlfriend is asleep. She is naked and beautiful. My bunny rabbit isn't making any noise so she must be resting. My guitar is standing upright and quiet, stoic.. It's dark but my eyes adjust quickly. Everything is in it's perfect, chaotic, disarray. Just the way I like it. Am I happy?

Am I happy?

I think so. I really do.

the beauty within the lair of the head hungry female praying mantis

i used to think that people were selfish, hedonistic, perpetually child minded, talk is cheap spittin bullshit nonstop walking, smoking black and milds, giant slabs of meat somehow stuffed, perhaps up the ass or cunt, with a soul.

it's because that's what i was. we only know our life. sure, we take the TVs word on some pertinent issues. and the expressions (say more than volumes of dictionaries, dust, maybe even a two dollar bill bookmark stuffed in..that actually happened to me years and years and years and years ago when i first got breakfast of chapmions by kurt vonnegut. turned out to be a true masterpiece) and words of the people and the music and the preachers and the promises and the imbalances in the brain and the voices that creates.. we listen to that. listen to all that shit.

but we only know us. that person that when your taking a shit and it's so quiet you can hear the echos of thy heart and your shit plopping in the toilet. even the flutter of an eyelash is amplified by the solitude and can sound like angry hordes of monarch butterflies approaching from horizons unseen.

we only know us. and that's what i was. i was a selfish, hedonistic, perpetually child minded, talk is cheap spittin bullshit nonstop walking, smoking black and milds, giant slabs of meat somehow stuffed, perhaps up the ass or cunt, with a soul.

i was a junkie. it was a horrible way to live. i don't know if i was punished for something in this life or something in this past or maybe it's something i will do and there is nothing linear about time other than we just perceive it that way. perhaps retribution happens whenever it needs to. i suffered in advance. because addiction is hell. it is true demonic possession. you don't sleep, you nod and those nods are fleeting. every waking hour, day and night is "how am i going to get as many bags of heroin as possible. what do i have to do. who do i have to steal. who do i have to lie to. who needs to be fucked/fucked over. what pills can i trade." it's endless. it's maddening. truly. it's the only way i can articulate it the feeling of being wrung out so tightly, like a sponge, inside fucking out.. your eyes bulge outta your head, veins on your eyeballs even, fat, like little worms that sipped water under a blood moon

the memories are under yellow scabs, almost calcified because i always pick them just to peak and see underneath.. here... look.. i'll show you. lets lift this nice big crusty scab right here...

i'm in a basement. it's were i live. laundry is hung from the ceiling prison and tenement style. shoelaces drapped over beds, draws and socks wrung out, rinsed with dirty old soap. me and a few other junkies live there. it's a halfway house. it's usually raining so we sit in bed, nod, smoke.. me and my friend jim read. we trade books. the others look out the window. the older guys think a lot. i don't blame them. they must have a lot to consider. they have lived longer than me. some of the young ones.. young black boys, fresh outta prison, have the 7 p.m. curfew but we talk and they slip me a few cigarettes and gimme a call and i sneak them in my window. i like to let people enjoy themselves. the man did some time. he wants pussy. i'll assist the man by whatever means possible in his search to obtain some vagina so put his penis in. he was in a correctional facility and when i look in his eyes he looked like a child. he loaned me his bike... he looked like a child. why do we hurt our children and our parents and friends and animals and adults.. why do we hurt? i know we were hurt, but why can't we stop the hurt.. please..

but look, i'm showing you what's under the scab. everyone is asleep. only me and jim really slam dope. my needle is filled with water. I already had gotten high that night so i was slipping in and out heavy eyelid crescent eyed biting cigarette tip nods. i was shooting ants with water. my needle was locked and loaded and i was shooting them. the basement was infested. there were hundreds in the basement. i was sitting on the toilet, pants down, belt around my arm, dried blood on my forehead, cock hanging between my legs in the toilet, head falling, jerking it back up, smiling, shooting ants with water..i was smiling but everything hurt. it felt as if instead of oxygen broken glass was in the atmosphere. i breathed it, got it in my eyes, it got in my throat when i cried out for help.

i don't know what happened. i don't do hard drugs anymore but i still see the world from the perspective of the hidden crevices, the darkness where just enough light enters so you can see the eyes of those around you are grey and there smiles.. a yellow like a dead moon.

don't let them take you without a fight. 

. 

love and the need to be warm.

I got into plan-it-x records and folk punk when i was around 16, 8 years ago, and it had a profound impact on me. it was so striped down, so raw, so filthy and my mind couldn't help but conjure these visions of james dean looking teenagers with stick and poke black flag tattoos and spiderweb elbows and ripped the fuck up jeans safety pins in em, knew all about japanese hardcore and which Au Bon Pain threw out the best bread at closing time and they hopped freights on the fry and the scars to show. went to portland and the LES and oregon... i saw the rails and i imagined autumn. i knew they left NYC before it got too cold, when the lines at the shelters were wrapped around the blocks, shivering dope fiends wrapped in reaper robes, hand shaking slightly as they smoke a cigarello, snot dropping down the curves on their angular, thin, dope fiend face from their red nose to their tight stretched chaped lips.. shivering, sniffeling, eyes just truly exhausted. but no, our heroes, our punks with bandanas around their necks and acoustic guitars were on the trains, watching the autumn trees fly by at freight train speed, trees all the colors you ever thought they'd be and then some! laughing because they are all friends and when old friends get together after not seeing each other for a little you do a lot of laughing at first don't you? i'm talking the REAL friends. the ones you can not see for a few years and when you run into them it's like no time has passed. strumming songs with hand rolled cigarette in their mouth, kerouacs dharma bums paperback rolled in leatherjacket pocket, friends passing around some cheap wine.

that's not how it is. for the most part they don't even look at the nature. the wonder. the county. america. as fucked up as the country is, you gotta admit parts of it are beautiful. they are laying with their heads in others laps, thinking about heroin, shooting heroin, methadone, suboxone, subutex, getting "straight" until they get to another town. others are late stage alcoholics. delirium tremors and all type old school training hustlin and bustlin wino only they are in their late twenties, strong greasy hair, wipers shirt, drink cheap vodka all day because that's what the older punks did when they were young, 14, sipping robotusin and passing one joint around between a group of 6 kids, everyone getting absurdly high and just watching.. wondering who you were and how you wanted to become.

 punks are people and people are fucked up. but you find some good ones.

i have been posting on the plan-it-x for years now. since i first got into Rosa, Defiance, Ohio, Ghost Mice, Rio De La Meurte, Sexy (the best rock n roll band), future virgins, the bananas, and ESPECIALLY one reason! it was so exciting. i can only speculate because i only know my own life but i assume it must of been like when 80s hardcore broke and people heard bands like bad brains, crucifucks, die kreuzen.. just stripped of all excess and leaving only enough for the individual to survive. to purge so thoroughly and so ferociously that it's almost terrifying and frightening in it's honesty. voyeurism

once i heard it? it was a cataclysmic implosion.. every memory, dream, de ja vu, epiphany, god, hope collapsed in on me from my the songs coming out of the headphones and i realized i wasn't completely alone. (tumbleweed through a project hallway. the end is everywhere)

but i had mentioned that this wasn't a music blog. this was about discovering the depths of my mind and what it's trying to simultaneously hide and show me. I'm looking for subconscious messages. i'm looking deep. maybe my mom is trying to communicate with me. perhaps it's madness. perhaps i'm just getting tired and returning gradually to the earth. to the soil, to the branches, the sap blood and chipped bark. and nothing embodies insanity like love.

why i mentioned plan-it-x and the message board I'm a member of and have been for quite some time is because an individual mentioned that he was with a lovely young lady who makes him feel ever so happy and light and infinite and his love is the first and only real pure true love. however, he has only been with this woman for three months. is it possibly for the love to be pure? is their any validity to love at first sight? is love even real or do our brains remember being an infant and held and caressed and kissed and we want that and it's so cold at night when it's only you in your bed and you don't have drugs and your brain just thinks of the bad. and there's A LOT of bad (and good. yes i know that. i'm in a relatively outstanding mindframe and time of life now. I'm in school for plumbing and I've been off hard drugs for almost 3 years. A lot of this is recollections of years past that just won't die. because they were a truth once they are a truth now whether i want them to be or not.. 

i won't add his posts because that's not necessary and i don't think he wants me including his innermost thoughts and contemplations and life altering decisions so I'll just mention my insight into the situation that I posted. It is pertinent to why I created this blog and should offer more insight into myself than him when read from this perspective (the absence of his words) and that's entirely what i want..



POST #1

i agree with those who believe it's a little too soon. you are still typically in the honeymoon phase. you see the awesome in them. it's one of the greatest feelings in the world when you find someone amazing and you guys really enjoy being in each others presence... you feel like there's not enough moments in the day that you can see them and you are always kissing..hugging.. touching.. fucking.. all that great stuff.

then after a little bit you begin to notice tiny little things.. very small at first. sometimes they are so subtle you don't even notice them or if you do they are very easy to ignore or disregard because the person seems so amazing and you think the good immensely outweighs the negative.

then one day you wake up and all you can see is that thing that seemed so little and it's so obnoxious and gigantic and the only thing you can think of when you see them and it's almost catastrophically imploding like mountain goats song-esque disaster affairs.

soon you start fighting or if not fighting you realize they aren't perfect. no one is perfect. if you can make it past a few years, once you've seen all sides of them and they've seen all sides of you.. once you've had brutal fights and were brought to tears and insanity and madness and have suffered and still remain with them (you also have to make sure it's not a co-dependence thing once you get to this) and if you can still stand one another than yes, i believe it may be time..

life and love is a funny thing.

but i don't know. everyone is different. for me personally i don't think three months would be enough to understand the complexities of ones personality and be able to make the decision that i want to spend the rest of my life with them because I'm an honest person. when I'm in a relationship i take it very serious and am entirely monogamous.

do what you think is best.

and enjoy this beautiful phase in the beginning. maybe you're an exception and you found the most beautiful and purest form of love in it's raw essence. or maybe you're like almost everyone else and in a wonderful honeymoon phase. think it over. wait until after a few fights and you let your guard down and so they do and you learn who they are. and you learn who you are.

POST #2

the ring. the wedding. the ceremony. pomp and circumstance..

it's all symbolic. only you know if love exists. when it's just you two lying in bed and you have nothing to do for the rest of the day but laugh and fuck and dream. it's a beautiful thing. I've been there. it feels so right and if it existed for a moment then that mean it has to exist forever and no one can ever take it away. sometimes a few months or years down the line that's all you remember and it seems so far away. so many fights and bitter resentments in between but every now and then, for a fleeting second (but once again, a fleeting second existed so that means it exists forever) it feels like how it used to. in the beginning. and you think that you guys can fix it. and everything will be okay. I'm not sure. i really don't know.

I'm there with someone. yes, we fight. somethings quite bitterly and sadistically and we say very hurtful things to one another. but it doesn't mean for a second that we don't love one another. it's actually quite the contrary. i love her with every fiber that makes up this conniving, playing guitar on the train to fill up our bustello coffee cup with change and money for rent, giant heart of mine that is still strong somehow. on sundays when we stay in bed till 2:00 p.m. she puts her ear to my chest and listens to my heart and tells me it's so big. and it's so strong. and that i have to die before her because she says i'm stronger. she can't live without me. and she cries. and i cry. and i don't know and i wish that death was a joke but it's not but we really believe, no, we KNOW we will find one another as will anyone else if the love was pure. the heretics might be shackled but they are together..  

the only way i can bring myself to get angry with someone is if i actually care for them. I'm the most laid back, easy going individual when it comes to strangers and acquaintances. everything's cool and nothings a big deal. I'm a lazy apathetic bastard. the 10 years of constant weed smoking and 130 milligrams of methadone a day plus some xanax will make an individual quite lucid.. it makes me feel like sunlight. i feel like i can slide anywhere i please and when i get there i wish i hadn't because it's quite scary.

 i just want what i thought i didn't want. i want what my parents had. they were together since high school. they used to do what everyone does when they were young. my dad snuck outta the house because he had a basement window and he ate acid with my mom who once was young (even younger than i am now!!) and they ate acid and went to disney world and hitchhiked across america as soon as they finished high school to go to a willy nelson concert. they were people and they lived and hurt and my mom is gone now. passed away April 16th 2012 (i will never forget when you sat across from me mommy, a glass window between us when you were visiting me at nassau county jail (my 2nd time there. 3rd time it was only my father and my soon to be wife because mom passed) and we cried together and i told you my biggest fear was to be alone and she cried and said i'm always here (pointed to my heart) i'll never not be.) and i can see it in my dads face that a part of him was torn from him. it's physical. i see the emaciation. but it was love. and it was real. and he had it and i want it and i think i have it and when she was alive for a little bit i wasn't sure if i believed in love because they would fight and when i was younger i felt divorce was around the corner but they always wound up laughing at night. my dad would put his massive tattooed arm around my nagging jewish mother and she'd grudgingly smile and say how she loves her boys.. and look at me and my brother and then at my dad and he'd smile too. we were a fucked up family but we were a family. 

my dad always made me come home to eat dinner with the family until i was 18 years old. every night they'd make dinner and we'd sit as a family and eat and talk. it was important to them and i believe now it was beautiful.

 the only people who can conjure genuine emotion from within my body and mind is the love of my life and my family.

i hope you find happiness. but just think about this..

is it this person, ******, that you love or do you love the concept of love? how it feels. what it entails? that you are never alone. that you have someone to hold and someone to hold you. i was confused and in the beginning when i found random people on dating sites i would do these things and it felt right and i thought that was love. that was just the temporary abscene of loneliness which hurts so bad.. it's like a cancer. i felt it consume me with sharp fangs and talons from the inside out every moment. i felt as the immortal Prometheus, restrained forever to a rock only to have his insides ripped apart by a massive eagle, consumed.  

i don't want to be alone. i want to be held and warm. 

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 Love is quite frightening. I wanted to help him. I wish I had the answer.

Pablo Neruda speaks of love in his poems.

Absence

I have scarcely left you
When you go in me, crystalline,
Or trembling,
Or uneasy, wounded by me
Or overwhelmed with love, as
when your eyes
Close upon the gift of life
That without cease I give you.

My love,
We have found each other
Thirsty and we have
Drunk up all the water and the
Blood,
We found each other
Hungry
And we bit each other
As fire bites,
Leaving wounds in us.

But wait for me,
Keep for me your sweetness.
I will give you too
A rose. 


Everyone wishes to understand it. We feel it. It's that atomic expansion within when you see them after not seeing them for a few hours, days, maybe.. when you learn that the trick is to allow yourself to miss them.

remember what it is about THEM, the individual themselves, and not how you want them to be. if you say "well, i really love her a lot she'd be the most perfect person in the world if only ________ ).. i don't want perfect. they are who they are. even the shadows and the demons and the lies and deceptions. i'm a scumfuck myself. just don't go looking for love. it will come to you. i hope

no one deserves to be alone. this world is so big. and i'll end it by reiterating the name of my blog..

i am quite scared.
 

these days my only dreams are awake, looking out windows on subways. i float from one thought to another. life is hysterial

hello friends, strangers, enemies, cyborgs or computers intelligent enough to process the information that flows through their syntactical ocean of words.. pixels.. smaller than atoms but like what makes up a t.v. if you step back.. you will see it all. it's there.. to all of these and the billions more that could make up this world....who knows, the angels, the anti-Christs, whatever the Scientologist fucks believe in, who knows.. it could all be bullshit or all real so hell to all!

i have another blog where i ramble about things that are somewhat intertwined with punkrocknroll and outsider trash and splash.http://www.t1melesstrash.blogspot.com i also strategically place brief mentioning of my band fried chicken n gasoline http://www.friedchickenngasoline1.bandcamp.com brainwashing style.. like splicing raunchy porn into movies in a theater (you know, tyler durden in fight club even though i'm not a big fan of the book the movie is interesting on drugs or sober..) don't even know what hit you because even though you're watching a movie, maybe, MAYBE 32% of your attention is on the movie.. the rest is on the drugs you either have or want to get. bowels like a sponger being wrung over a filthy sink.. (mind: can i scrape the bag and get a bump of dope to at least take the edge off? can the cigarette filters be crushed enough to get a shot that at least turns brown and TRICKS MY STUPID FUCKING JUNKIE MIND THAT I"M GETTING SOMETIHNG THAT SORTA LOOKS LIKE A SHOT????  ---- big side note.. i don't do "drugs anymore"- I'm on methadone (we'll get into that soon in to be written threads, believe me.. we will get heavily into my opinion on that enigmatic, controversial, almost futile to argue because it truly comes down to the intention of the users.. see i started already.. in good time dear enemies. heed you frothing at the mouth imps of fire.

this is about my life. and about how i don't know anything and i'm scared and i want people to read and let me know if they understand. if they can help. if they have felt what i've felt at some time in their life. if they know the feeling of laying in bed and looking at the clock and seeing it's after 12:00 noon and you wonder what would happen if you just didn't get outta bed. you don't want to but you think you have to... it's a voice that's juxtaposed, loud as book of genesis God and subtle as whispers of welfare hookers in shadows of subway.. it's the voice of my parents, my morals.. "wake up on time and get out and find a job. get outta bed. be a man. be an adult"

i don't know.