[From sketchbook:]
i'd like to put just a lot of poison up in
my lungs and my stomach and my body but
not my eyes because i use them to see
you and not my fingers because i need
them to touch you and not my mouth
because they let me kiss you and
definitely not my heart because
it's no longer just mine. so
as my veins fill with
tarnish and my liver caves
under the strain and
my throat burns from
the pressure and heat
and pain i hope
you can just let me
tell you this one thing
- i love you.
February 10, 2009
February 9, 2009
Good Morning, Mass Media!
[From sketchbook:]
Huffing
Film
Fuck
SkinnyYou got a face like Norman Bates.
people
are
weird.
Got no reaction timeyou have no idea what i'm fucking up against
Your God is like getting raped by gasolineGod
Huffing
Film
Fuck
Not true
February 8, 2009
Jewel Case.
[From sketchbook:]
A switch
Crosswise and
Lengthwidth
Brand nor post office
Cunnilingus
Je Suis The Fucking RevolutionTake
A switch
Crosswise and
Lengthwidth
Brand nor post office
Cunnilingus
February 7, 2009
Romance is fucking dead.
[From sketchbook:]
for cutie
I can't guitar!Fuck me
"None of thedeath cab
girls like me
because I'm a
fag."
for cutie
TokyoHa hahaha hahaha!
Gore
Police
"Give us"Admit it!"
a kiss,
luv!"
AAI
February 6, 2009
Rargh.
[From sketchbook:]
"Most people don't really interest me as much as they probably could"
"I mean, back in the day, it was interpersonal relations that caught my attention most completely. I lived for the weirdos, you know?"
"Most people don't really interest me as much as they probably could"
"I mean, back in the day, it was interpersonal relations that caught my attention most completely. I lived for the weirdos, you know?"
February 5, 2009
I Kill Rapists.
[From sketchbook:]
defense
is a
murder
weapon
with no
fingerprints
to the point where I can no longer
see.
suicide denizens. Emote the
fact that you can no longer
survive without falsities, you
mother fucker.
Fuck!"Soz?!"
Dude, it'sAcid Casualty
an airport.
GTFO
tarmac.
Fuck yeah!#1
defense
is a
murder
weapon
with no
fingerprints
"I kill rapists"The information Age has paralyzed me
to the point where I can no longer
see.
Bruce Fukiin CambelI fuck the life of automatic
suicide denizens. Emote the
fact that you can no longer
survive without falsities, you
mother fucker.
February 4, 2009
February 3, 2009
They smell your brains.
January 30th, 2009.
The night was a calamity of lost souls and degradation. Kids all around were whirling through the night; it was uncontrollable. There was a certain desperation in the guys standing too close to the walls, their beers too empty to drink but too full to toss.
We'd all come together, across that bridge. The trek was cold, the wind was foul. I was surrounded by my drunken friends, my own sobriety still very intact. From the first moment out of the door, the ice blasted our faces in some sort of frozen bukkake . Staggering over to the house of debauchery, I felt lost, gone in some sort of transition phase between secure, sleepy, failure in my room and the sense of euphoria and escape that comes along with the consumption of alcohol. I'm sure everyone who drinks has at some point shared this experience, but it remains unnerving.
Inside. No one knew what we were there for, but we'd be damned if we weren't going to enjoy ourselves. The dance floor was a joke, shambling corpses pulling a facade of joy over their own heads. The beer was caustic, the women cold. Strangers' faces leered overhead and behind our eyes. I could barely stand the pressure of the air.
My friends slowly trickled back home, as I stayed behind. One of my better friends gave me some cash to buy some grass later, after he'd gone. So I waited and drank and waited some more. I asked around, saw the kid who I was supposed to talk to, but my friend was still there, so I held off and went to take a leak. The door was closed and four girls stood inside, just talking. Their fitted caps seemed to ill-fit their broken, sad faces. I shoved the door open after knocking a few times and relieved myself in a urinal on the other side of the room. They said something about impoliteness that I tried to ignore, but when they chided me for not washing my hands, I broke down.
Home again. Cold, icy. Sleep seems like a good idea. I pulled my shirt and pants off and curled up in the meager refuge of my covers.
The night was a calamity of lost souls and degradation. Kids all around were whirling through the night; it was uncontrollable. There was a certain desperation in the guys standing too close to the walls, their beers too empty to drink but too full to toss.
We'd all come together, across that bridge. The trek was cold, the wind was foul. I was surrounded by my drunken friends, my own sobriety still very intact. From the first moment out of the door, the ice blasted our faces in some sort of frozen bukkake . Staggering over to the house of debauchery, I felt lost, gone in some sort of transition phase between secure, sleepy, failure in my room and the sense of euphoria and escape that comes along with the consumption of alcohol. I'm sure everyone who drinks has at some point shared this experience, but it remains unnerving.
Inside. No one knew what we were there for, but we'd be damned if we weren't going to enjoy ourselves. The dance floor was a joke, shambling corpses pulling a facade of joy over their own heads. The beer was caustic, the women cold. Strangers' faces leered overhead and behind our eyes. I could barely stand the pressure of the air.
My friends slowly trickled back home, as I stayed behind. One of my better friends gave me some cash to buy some grass later, after he'd gone. So I waited and drank and waited some more. I asked around, saw the kid who I was supposed to talk to, but my friend was still there, so I held off and went to take a leak. The door was closed and four girls stood inside, just talking. Their fitted caps seemed to ill-fit their broken, sad faces. I shoved the door open after knocking a few times and relieved myself in a urinal on the other side of the room. They said something about impoliteness that I tried to ignore, but when they chided me for not washing my hands, I broke down.
"Go fuck yourselves. There's an ice luge in the next room that is currently spreading every single communicable sickness to every kid who sticks a mouth on it. Fuck you, fuck you, and fuck your stupid bathroom antics."I got another beer. The dealer had left. I had money to return, a beer in my hand, and no friends left in the building. After bidding the house owners a good evening, I walked home, staggering slightly as I kicked through the snow. I finished my beer and threw it in a garbage can or the snow or the ice, I'm not sure which.
Home again. Cold, icy. Sleep seems like a good idea. I pulled my shirt and pants off and curled up in the meager refuge of my covers.
February 2, 2009
Seven Sevens.
[From sketchbook:]
"Don't mess"
it's your fucking birthday
she hopes you celebrate
but don't go overboard
necrotization isn't that hard
go up to the fridge for a beer
but fuck it, die of bloodloss instead
I am a parylz paryl"Blaugh sksaak"
Parylzar
"Don't mess"
"Hammer'd"Knifewound, nine o clock
it's your fucking birthday
she hopes you celebrate
but don't go overboard
necrotization isn't that hard
go up to the fridge for a beer
but fuck it, die of bloodloss instead
February 1, 2009
Sent from Hell.
[From sketchbook:]
We could get all the denial
And put it in your baby's mouth
Maybe that would hurt more.
RadiowactiveI'm sure if I took time out
Russian
Wodka
We could get all the denial
And put it in your baby's mouth
Maybe that would hurt more.
Get out of my faceJesus!
You son of a bitch
I've worked too soft
For it to end like this
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