We are our actions.
Slander and retractions.
What of good intentions.
The signposts for the road to hell,
Where else I am going to find a match.
Comes to your attention
These doors are missing a latch.
This burned down bastion
With half a warring faction.
Trading presumption for pretension
Consumption for contention
We don't keep in touch because I never liked you much
Monday, February 15, 2010
"Your weird and your interests are weird" sic
(Interesting list...its de rigeur for the art school postmodern genre...there are some gems hidden in there, or should i say "diamonds"?)
You raise an interesting point on the nature of being via "the internet", if I do say so myself. The meta reality of being over an expansive medium...
I want someone who isnt just looking at a picture. I like lists, as a base line. Anyone
can, and many do, claim to "be funny". Well, there is a huge difference to me between early Jim Carrey and Maria Bamford, both of whom are funny objectively. I hope that being so specific, I can find someone to lighten me up, but know who I am or have the potential to be. I am tired of guys writing how they "like fun" or hang out. I mean, we all do, so how does that let me gain insight into someone. I would assume that everyone on here is a human being. Check. So fun and pooping come into play somewhere. I would prefer it if people would just say (even through the veil and projection of the internet) Looking for someone to laugh at their jokes and thus validate themselves as being interesting and humorous. Or someone to reinforce the cultural aesthetic decisions I have allowed to dictate my perception of reality. Or someone to blow me in the parking lot at my job.
My favorite are those that say if you want to know more, ask or post one line and complain that four lines is too much on a voluntary site aimed at getting you to connect with other people. Truly, you get what you pay for. So without sounding like a total jerk, people are types. They do things to attract those similar to themselves. If I put I liked "da beach, hanging out and fun" I'm sure I'd get a different and probably more frequent response. If I can't be honest in cyberspace, then where can I be.
Brevity is the soul of wit, after all. :)
so my question is: why do you let your intellect screen so much of your experience?...why dont you let your heart breathe and beat?...who killed that heart...what would it take to revive it again?...why must the world burn so that everything will remain frozen inside...i want to know the story!...i want to know how it happened...
When one makes a self fulfilling prophecy, one gets the desired results. If I had open standards, it would be constant weeding. I suppose mine are a bit constrictive, or intimidating, but I dont know how to relax. Fantasies are easy, life is the hard part.
Intellect doesnt screen my experience, it shapes it. Part of growing up is the tenuous balance between how something is done and whether you don't want to know. From rainbows to special effects, something is lost in knowing, I'll admit. But I am who I am.
Who killed my heart... no one in particular. I was a very sensitive child, raised Catholic, surrounded by the thoughts of redemption, reconciliation and sin. I was an altar server, I stared at a large crucifix for long periods of time. There are so many
terrible things that go on and I'll I can do is be nice. It seems kind of pale in the cosmic balance. Holding my 2 and 3 year nephew and niece, watching the sun set, finding a great restaurant, singing a song or sharing a laugh with a friend ... I do these
things, but just not enough to keep out the thought that it isnt enough.
You raise an interesting point on the nature of being via "the internet", if I do say so myself. The meta reality of being over an expansive medium...
I want someone who isnt just looking at a picture. I like lists, as a base line. Anyone
can, and many do, claim to "be funny". Well, there is a huge difference to me between early Jim Carrey and Maria Bamford, both of whom are funny objectively. I hope that being so specific, I can find someone to lighten me up, but know who I am or have the potential to be. I am tired of guys writing how they "like fun" or hang out. I mean, we all do, so how does that let me gain insight into someone. I would assume that everyone on here is a human being. Check. So fun and pooping come into play somewhere. I would prefer it if people would just say (even through the veil and projection of the internet) Looking for someone to laugh at their jokes and thus validate themselves as being interesting and humorous. Or someone to reinforce the cultural aesthetic decisions I have allowed to dictate my perception of reality. Or someone to blow me in the parking lot at my job.
My favorite are those that say if you want to know more, ask or post one line and complain that four lines is too much on a voluntary site aimed at getting you to connect with other people. Truly, you get what you pay for. So without sounding like a total jerk, people are types. They do things to attract those similar to themselves. If I put I liked "da beach, hanging out and fun" I'm sure I'd get a different and probably more frequent response. If I can't be honest in cyberspace, then where can I be.
Brevity is the soul of wit, after all. :)
so my question is: why do you let your intellect screen so much of your experience?...why dont you let your heart breathe and beat?...who killed that heart...what would it take to revive it again?...why must the world burn so that everything will remain frozen inside...i want to know the story!...i want to know how it happened...
When one makes a self fulfilling prophecy, one gets the desired results. If I had open standards, it would be constant weeding. I suppose mine are a bit constrictive, or intimidating, but I dont know how to relax. Fantasies are easy, life is the hard part.
Intellect doesnt screen my experience, it shapes it. Part of growing up is the tenuous balance between how something is done and whether you don't want to know. From rainbows to special effects, something is lost in knowing, I'll admit. But I am who I am.
Who killed my heart... no one in particular. I was a very sensitive child, raised Catholic, surrounded by the thoughts of redemption, reconciliation and sin. I was an altar server, I stared at a large crucifix for long periods of time. There are so many
terrible things that go on and I'll I can do is be nice. It seems kind of pale in the cosmic balance. Holding my 2 and 3 year nephew and niece, watching the sun set, finding a great restaurant, singing a song or sharing a laugh with a friend ... I do these
things, but just not enough to keep out the thought that it isnt enough.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Get It
If ever I wanted to class up the base of a penis ....
Also, I cannot wait to see how many HOT BOIS by this, sight unseen.
http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/alltherage/2010/02/qa-cyndi-lauper-one-of-macs-new-viva-glam-faces-1.html
In the Car, Trains and Graves
Coming of age Reagan post divorce, you can carbon date the apathy of the anti-Izod ethos. The road to my generation's atheist aesthetic awakening was paved with cigarette butts and second hand clothing. His eulogy made his observations somehow more valid, as if the pain of understanding was what consumed him. A convenient attachment for another malcontent to be crowned a prophet. The narcotic slumber and the worldwide attention, this is how we watch an implosion on the human scale. We can only take so much, before we become one with the indifferent universe.
If you allow me to indulge in a cultural delusion, this guy deserves a VIP pass to the drug filled disco ball promiscuity of an afterlife filled with bi curious straight boys. When you work around florescent lighting that makes unhollywood undead of us all, there is usually a jukebox. We are accustomed to ironic detachment, after all, there were raisins in our toast. But when you hear peole filled with patriotism, earnest sincerity and a lifetime of heart disease singing it's five o'clock somewhere at 10 am, it's no wonder we turned to drugs and drag(cigarettes and queens) to gain a sense of realism surrounded by the absurd.
Authentic music, death , computers, acceptance and coming of age in the south. This is how we roll, all the way to the grave.
If you allow me to indulge in a cultural delusion, this guy deserves a VIP pass to the drug filled disco ball promiscuity of an afterlife filled with bi curious straight boys. When you work around florescent lighting that makes unhollywood undead of us all, there is usually a jukebox. We are accustomed to ironic detachment, after all, there were raisins in our toast. But when you hear peole filled with patriotism, earnest sincerity and a lifetime of heart disease singing it's five o'clock somewhere at 10 am, it's no wonder we turned to drugs and drag(cigarettes and queens) to gain a sense of realism surrounded by the absurd.
Authentic music, death , computers, acceptance and coming of age in the south. This is how we roll, all the way to the grave.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Untitled, half formed
We all pay a price to revel in vice.
I hope yours is cheap, for the silence of sleep.
The slaughtered sheep are yours to keep.
Take your advice, poured over ice.
Keep it down.
Keep it down.
Rome after the fall, I've seen it all.
Often pillaged, the rest an empty village.
Progress stalled, morality appalled.
The gall and the guile, the stall and denial.
I hope yours is cheap, for the silence of sleep.
The slaughtered sheep are yours to keep.
Take your advice, poured over ice.
Keep it down.
Keep it down.
Rome after the fall, I've seen it all.
Often pillaged, the rest an empty village.
Progress stalled, morality appalled.
The gall and the guile, the stall and denial.
Stinking of Your Ex
So you fucked an icon, and in a way, he fucked you too.
Your ungainly evolution with the flashing lights and the frequent fights
With all the icons and exes you put in the ground
With only you to hold their sound
How's it looking lovely?
Always keeping lively
Typecast as your self
Completely exposed
That familiar sneer
Seems a bit posed
The price you paid
The gods you laid
You should have stayed
That glamour fades
That narco cushion
Doesnt stop the fire
In your veins
In your heart
The truth stains your clothes
Like the pen to the page
Evidenced in your art
Your big break (up) is all the rage
You coulda done worse kid,
Too bad that limo was your hearse, dig.
Occam's Razor, applied to dating
The genetic fallout of a match made in Chernobyl. Coming apart at the atomic level,still looks good in a suit of karma. Blood stained charmer
This is what it comes to; a sick degeneration of morals and a fear of intimacy, glad I signed up!
Conjoined at the forked tongue because that brain isn't big enough to share.
That van-i-t-shirt,
Tight enough to show how much "you dont care"
Apathy b(r)and and you
Your face couldnt sell it
With that oh so styled hair
Wake up and gel it
It was only a matter of prime (mortgage) and numbers
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)