heirdo's New Writeups

November 15, 2009 (personal)

2009-11-16T19:25:21Z

5:32 AM: Startled awake by exploding head syndrome. I am fully dressed, sitting upright on my couch. In one hand, an uncapped black Sharpie is gently dangling from my left hand. A de facto hoist exists in the form of my stereo's remote control, prohibiting my jacket from syphoning a pool of permanent black ink. The pen has gone dry regardless. It's the third I've lost this week, alone. My spiral notebook is nowhere to be found, so I reach for the Moleskine on my side table. Subsequent examination reveals a faded and crudely scrawled message to no one; hence, my assumption is that the intended addressee is either God or myself to read in a fully-awakened state. Consisting of only two words, the second of which being "off," brevity will later prove apt and effective.
5:39 AM: Shuffle through my bathroom drawer for old Trazadone prescription. Planning to spend the day in a coma, I retrieve spare set of dark brown sheets from linen closet.

…

November 14, 2009 (log)

2009-11-14T15:25:06Z

Ask the dealership for an overnight test-drive. Newer black 5-series. They said "okay".
Stop at the Four Seasons; enter the sparsely populated dining room and begin playing the Kawai grand piano. Notice grim faces on large silver-haired men in suits entering the room. They speak to one another on their headsets, although they are no more than ten feet apart. Grim faces soon beget pleasant acceptance and jovial conversation. An older woman draped in a black couture dress and a dense batch of rhinoplasty reaches for her Sasquatched husband for a quick tango towards the exit; his plodding feet just trudge along and out the glass door.
Step out and up the marv white marble staircase with gold anodized handrail fixed-against a beveled mirror which almost obtrusively reflects faux gas lights which beam from the numerous Dynasty chandeliers. It's quite a tasteful array of mauve and teal furniture juxtaposed against gilt lanterns and an atrium…

November 10, 2009 (personal)

2009-11-10T20:32:03Z

When we speak to one another, in my mind I take cognitive precautions not to sound like a horny, gaked-out Pat O'Brien blathering into his mistresses answering machine. Abdominal constrictions and temporal excretions pump fresh blood and serotonin, and my breath staggers in the aim of your frost-blue eyes. I watch your pupils dilate and inflame like a concerted stargazer when you laugh; your gaze pierces with a feather-tipped suction dart.

Yet my mind's eye disallows view at the axis of desire's center. Close enough to feel your warm breath whisper secrets into my ear; all the while I am physically paralyzed in this state. Physicality is not of my choice - though I fathom luminescent, twisting souls and thundering orgasmic death-rattles. A forced-hand prohibition on touch, though I'd give away my stained-glass heart just to stroke your milky skin...…

Suicide with Daddy's Gun (poetry)

2009-11-10T17:16:14Z

Welcome to the metal embrace

Prick caliche from your skin

Deadbolt garden floor

Disengage and burn-on in.

Incidental pawn, only if inclined

Naught by naught the lessons taught

What now a barren mind

Ashy tastes marked undeclined.

Finding clues which help you find there might be something more

Kill yourself to stop the pain, step back

Dichotomies and whereto-fore's

Off-kilter, out of atmosphere - and now to be abhorred.

Subterraneous, so…

technolust (poetry)

2009-11-09T18:51:57Z

Arpeggiator chop an octave, mellow temporal.

Anachronistic lyceum synth vamp. Tie up and jack the saccharine, this is a night.

Fade-in: left channel one hundred twenty # per minute throb. Permeation flange click (clock response)

Discombobulate throbbing pitch parameter, drop connection. Steady to not fuck up the time.

C:> phase/decay TI circutboard: solder melting up the floor: rotary

Flip to mix: right... right

Ancillary twee Cassiopeia celeste; glossy hard disk plastic turns malleable under gaslit operation. Snowbirds languid, hummingbird harps.

Grace is a reflection in gold-leaf mirrored tabletops, mahogany lacquer-ish swizzles to twist…

November 2, 2009 (personal)

2009-11-02T21:21:13Z

I don't know how much longer I can take this. In "this," I exist in a perpetual cycle of nothingness; an omnipotent frustration causes me to gaze into the cold black night and plead for no tomorrow. In the morning I flake smears of dried salt from my eyes, having adhered to my pillowcase. I breathlessly curse the light draping over my white bedspread, imbuing a sense of clinical asepticism before muscle-memory leads me into the bathroom half-unconscious.

Western medicine provides no assistance for my condition. I've literally become accustomed to a state of dormancy, swallowing inordinate amounts of rage and disgust and conceding I've no control over a destiny which I never fathomed to pursue. I hold the key to my future, but exist in claustrophobic room where all doors are blocked by acerbic guards; meanwhile, once friendly and understanding faces have turned their backs in a state of…