| (no subject) |
[Sep. 1st, 2010|04:05 am] |
| [ | mood |
| | blank | ] |
| [ | music |
| | Cody-Mogwai-Special Moves | ] |
I have to get there
where is there
can i get there without help
turtle bites
and tv reflections
is it the music
is it the company
the audience
I was there only 10 minutes ago
and then i lost it
i just lost the game
what was it
where was it
a train of thought
a whisp of energy
when i try to get there
i don't get there
and then when i lose that last second
i am already there
like a memory of a love one lost
or grasping for the moment of existence in a dream
trying to sew the fragments together
to understand the whole
ahh cognizance takes me further away
from the detail and the point
and i am stuck on the process
and not the idea
because i know how it starts
and i know how it feels when it is
a dream
i am losing myself in a dream
what do i see
black and mishapened figures of light
i am no where
oranges and leaves
regrirateor cripers
smells of old plastic
pebbled tile
old toasters and brownberry wheat bread
white cabinets with crystal knobs
i peer to the necxt room where there are colony blue walls, cauliflorer blue... with white wallpaper with blmtaching blue roses
i am still not there, that is only a memory. i am very much still in
my bedroom. my eyes open.
with the two tvs blackness staring back at me
and the sound of the turtle tank water
trickling
and mogwai is playing. i didn't type well with my eyes closed.
i need a writing cue
cue ball
pool
smack my sense in an array of geometric pecuilarity so that i may anticipate the next angle
to get to my point
no soap box to be had, but at least i shaved my legs today
they're super soft and feel great on the sheets
shaving is the closest conversation i have with death
what a man must feel so close to his jugular
drips of water tempting him
masking himself in white
as if some mime or clown will derail his fear into comedy
no stubble for the ladies
la dies
no trash stash for the business man
no dali for the little la dies
red velvet couches and french opulence
maybe it is the music
damn you mogwai and your special moves.
sounds of audience members and claps totally take me out of my groove
maybe for the best as i'm talking about shaving and something of the abject
i like the abject
but i don't like your interrupted vibe
it's too much like my process
and i was so there
and im not sure how i got there today
soap box...maybe.
new music.
new entry.
im not satisfied yet. |
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| (no subject) |
[Sep. 1st, 2010|03:41 am] |
| [ | mood |
| | blank | ] |
| [ | music |
| | I'm Jim Morrison, I'm Dead-Mogwai-Special Moves | ] |
Deflection off a big bouncing ball.
People are evil, people don't care.
I am people, you are people.
We're dissecting too much and too often to see good.
We're fragmenting a postmodern society to understand how intricacies work and where the joints are.
Let's back off of this magnify glass.
Emerge and see how we work together.
Let's see what makes the joint and not how the joint operates
Let's not forget about the fragments though.
How are we all entangled?
If you do a bad deed, I do a bad deed.
But if it happens, let's not shrug, forgive, reprimand, or celebrate.
Let it happen.
Directives are pruned by morals and ethics
and any directives deemed morally or ethically good are fallable based that they are directives
but order in chaos is wanted for longer survival
and so i had some dinner tonight and watched a tv show searching for talent
but chaos in order is freewill with guilt.
and the president says we need to play offense for awhile
cause he needs to work on his swing
the last time i was in a batting cage
i broke the pitching machine with a line drive
and the ball hit my lower lip
after it ricocheted off the spinning wheel
my lip swelled and i tongued it repeatly
like my fist readying my pillow for sleep
hoping for blood, i only felt an engorged vein |
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| (no subject) |
[Aug. 9th, 2009|05:05 pm] |
| [ | music |
| | Avila-The Dylan Group-Ur-Klang Search | ] |
hawaiian rolls, mustard seed, sliced tomatoes, green beans, and ham.
a fancy feast before i board the plane to head back west. |
|
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| (no subject) |
[Aug. 3rd, 2009|08:37 pm] |
| [ | music |
| | Hymenoptera in Amber Crybaby-Hash Jar Tempo-Under Glass | ] |
fuck, school hasn't started and I'm already so behind on work!! blah! |
|
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| (no subject) |
[May. 5th, 2009|01:40 am] |
| [ | music |
| | Hang On To Your Ego - The Beach Boys | ] |
I'm having an awkward delight; like tom waits singing the beach boys. |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 9th, 2009|03:52 am] |
|
dripping off ferns growing in the gutter |
|
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 3rd, 2009|04:00 am] |
hurt which has no cure
camera with lens
soul with heavy breath
mind which has no clue
voice and song are lost |
|
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| (no subject) |
[Aug. 6th, 2008|05:12 am] |
beneath my dreams
an umber slumber |
|
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| (no subject) |
[Jul. 31st, 2008|05:06 am] |
reflections from puddled water ripple
i should have told him.
i just should have told him right then and there.
but that wouldn't be fair
to him
or me. |
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greypupil's journal