Sleep. Weep. Repeat.

It’s like a birth but it is in reverse never gets better, always gets worse

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12 Plays
Victory Pee. Hold my Wang.


The planet is dying. It’s a plague and it’s corrupted us all. Because there is no life in this prison of fear and reactionism, while the ravenous, avaricious elite consolidates its power in the panopticon that is the modern state. Coordinating and codifying and monitoring our lives until we’re nothing but products of this industrial elite. Sold, bought, traded, shelved, thrown away, covered in shit and bleeding raw. And we’ll watch as more and more goes to fewer and fewer: the hard-working and assuredly deserving prophets of the people, of the voiceless, grief-stricken, gentrified flock led astray by the calamity of prescribed hope. With patriotic zeal and religious idealism an idyllic future lies within the skies, but we’ll be dead long before it falls to earth. When we’re ghosts of the future, who’ll be left to speak out when our fries are stifled? Who’ll be left to teach our children how to speak? We’ll sit idly by and watch the future fold and collapse on a static tv screen; turn in on itself and consume, consume, consume until there’s nothing left. Was there anything in the beginning? I hope so…The future has been stolen from us, along with our free will because there is no future in social paradigms. The world is not now, nor will it ever be a human construct. There is no existence beyond our unique essence. There is no god beyond what we’ve created as the ideal for ourselves. I’ll choke on my words before I refuse to scream them. I’ll drown before I stop crying and raging against what the modern world has become. We’re buying nightmares sold to us as dreams because we all want so badly to fall asleep and never wake up. We live for it because we don’t know or have anything else. The meaning of life, the purpose of life isn’t as abstract as we’ve been told. It’s been convoluted and distorted in an effort to alienate us and turn us against one another. Little differences in the way people see the world are isolated and magnified like viruses on a Petri dish, and treated as such. We’re fed bullshit that spews from the assholes of ultra-national, power-hungry jingoists and we’ll eat it until we choke because we’ve grown to love the smell.

Filed under Happy Earth Day

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18 Plays
Trash Talk
East of Eden / Son of a Bitch

Open your eyes, the surface swells with blinding lights
The ash that once consumed has given way to waking life
No lust for power no man is king
This world survived the fall of man until I ruined everything
Just East of Eden a failing god’s crawled up and died
Divine extinction war erupts as worlds collide
My hands are hammers and everything is nails
Dead cats, dead rats rot inside a corpse’s shell
Passersby lay sucking on a dead man’s skin
The world was free of sin before I came and made it Earth again
Destroy the moon fist-fuck the sun
And rip my dying body to shreds to see that I’ve become
An outsider on a planet of peace
I bring you fear and disease Suffer my ignorance and apathy
Honestly I’ll bring your world to its knees
Until the pressure builds up inside of me

Struck from the stone that the building refused
Born from a hole in my soul
Torn from a mother abused
He was a son of a bitch
Hands cut from leather ring a rope around his neck
Drop dead Drop dead Drop dead
Son of a bitch

Filed under Happy Earth Day music Trash Talk East of Eden

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Life skipped ninety years in an instant like the kids skipped out on the rest of life. We were all compacted, even tighter, even smaller, even more insignificant. If you and your neighbor had your windows open you could kiss each other, you could smell their cooking, their sex, their marital spouts of dysfunction.

You were close and intimate with everyone, which made you dislike everyone at the same time. Women couldn’t finger themselves without someone next door thinking a faucet was running, men couldn’t jerk off without neighbors thinking the dog had flees.

And that’s probably the only beauty in it all, that everyone thought everyone else getting off was some sort of problem, that something was broken, that something was sick.

The women constantly spilling all of their heart out with the men constantly agitated, discouraged to feel, unable to put themselves at ease.

Life, was short. Cancer always astounded me. The way any body could go on any amount of years and then suddenly begin dying like that. This was how life became. If you didn’t die as a child, if you didn’t kill your mother coming into this world, if you didn’t divorce your parents while becoming yourself, if you weren’t trampled to death on the streets, if you weren’t forgotten or lost, if you didn’t take your own life, if some how you made it into adulthood, you never make it to old age. No one does. We all die young.

We are like bees. We are born, we work, we kill ourselves defending what we love, and we die. We don’t vacation, we don’t domesticate things, we don’t take photos, we don’t relax. Not anymore.

Highways completely crowded, bumper to bumper high speed gasoline chugging. Everyone ran into everyone else, everyone hated everyone else. The force of all those speeding cars caused casualties. People, fathers, mothers, children, animals walking close enough were pulled onto the highway and dragged under the quickest car.

This was the most common death and wasn’t realized until many, many, years later. You would be pulled into the air stream, thrown into the ground and ran over. You would spin against the car and the pavement getting chewed up and spat out until a few seconds later where another car would repeat. By the time anyone noticed you are so torn up, scattered, and burned, people just think you’re animal road kill.

Families, friends, police, just thought these people ran away meanwhile city workers picked up and bagged your inside out corpse, smelling of rubber, dirt, and shit and four a.m. where such conditions weren’t lethal.

The discovery of this horrifying death was broadcasted. The Mayor stood fat, rich, and happily in front of the highway reopening ceremony. The sunshine slowly chewing cancer into a few souls through the holes in the atmosphere in the park where the smell of fresh cut green grass reminded men what it was like to own land and not just a building.

The mayor proudly announced some inaudible things to the small crushed crowd who gathered to watch when the mayor was picked up from the ground and slammed underneath the passing highway cars. The highway shut down immediately, police searched frantically for his body in hopes of keeping him alive but only found what every city worker has been picking up the last ten years.

After that, highways were elevated above the city to protect the people which fixed the air stream problem, but created a “being crushed to death” dilemma. This problem was not a wound the government wanted to treat. If you’re ran over, torn apart, and spat everywhere, that’s a public concern. People can’t handle their mortality. People simply can not see their likelihood torn apart like a toy. If a car falls some fifty feet from the sky driven by someone who’s probably already dead and crashes into a house or crushes someone, overall this is not too gruesome. For the most part, the bodies are covered up and life moves on, as precious as we all hope it to be.

You can sell insurance for anything. The elevated freeway’s gave birth to “crashing angel” insurance. This of course was pretty much worthless, and another way to give your money away. Often times claims were denied. Insurance agents would ask “Why were they standing their?” “should they have been their?” “Do you think they shoul’ve known better to stand below a highway?”

We all got poorer, and angrier at one another. The deaths, the denied claims, all gave birth to a hate so wild and misunderstood most of the poor became feral.

Filed under writing exercises been wanting to write that highway death thing for a few days now random unfinsihed story time prose writing stuff junk dystopia

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Met this little geek in my bathroom trying to hide in a corner like a little nerd when I approached him. Tricked his silly ass into climbing onto me and blinded him on accident twice, put him in an old cobweb some other deadbeat spider left in the corner of my room, and told him he’s now responsible for eating any flies or bugs he sees.

Tomorrow looks promising.

10 notes

I felt older on very specific birthdays:

When I was eighteen
and my girlfriend approached a dimly lit house
didn’t think I was home
left a gift at the door
and then drove up to the mountains with friends

When I was twenty
and my backbone arched in anxiety
having a panic attack on a curb
at two a.m.
seven hundred miles from home
listening to two homeless people fight
across a five lane street.

At twenty one
driving to a hot spring
with her
ignoring me in the passenger seat
reading a book
headphones in
the sixteen year old in her
locked the door
and I just drove away again
hoping that distance would turn into loss
or love
or an invitation back.

Filed under poems poetry prose writing not bad just write exercises