Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in Sean Kilpatrick's LiveJournal:

Wednesday, September 10th, 2008
10:30 pm	Fence Forthcoming in Fence Fence Magazine Forthcoming, Out, and More LIT: New School Literary Journal, Forklift, Ohio, LUNGFULL!, 5_Trope, No Colony, Jacket Magazine E-Book Magic Helicopter Press Forthcoming E-Book BlazeVOX [books] Forthcoming Print Book Six Gallery Press 2009 Anorexic Chlorine Beholden Lactate Museum ( More ) Current Music: c. bower alcock (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Monday, April 19th, 2004
5:35 am	Daumal Skin of Light by Rene Daumal The skin of light enveloping this world lacks depth and I can actually see the black night of all these similar bodies beneath the trembling veil and light of myself it is this night that even the mask of the sun cannot hide from me I am the seer of night the auditor of silence for silence too is dressed in sonorous skin and each sense has its own night even as I do I am my own night I am the conceiver of non-being and of all its splendor I am the father of death she is its mother she whom I evoke from the perfect mirror of night i am the great inside-out man my words are a tunnel punched through silence I understand all disillusionment I destroy what I become I kill what I love. Current Mood: fuckable Current Music: Frank Sinatra - Under My Skin (6 Comments |Comment on this)
Wednesday, March 24th, 2004
12:19 am	The Bangles - Walk like an Egyptian (L. Sternberg) Vicki, Michael, Susanna All the old paintings on the tombs They do the sand dance don't you know If they move too quick (oh whey oh) They're falling down like a domino All the bazaar men by the Nile They got the money on a bet Gold crocodiles (oh whey oh) They snap their teeth on your cigarette Foreign types with the hookah pipes say Ay oh whey oh, ay oh whey oh Walk like an Egyptian Blonde waitresses take their trays They spin around and they cross the floor They've got the moves (oh whey oh) You drop your drink then they bring you more All the school kids so sick of books They like the punk and the metal band When the buzzer rings (oh whey oh) They're walking like an Egyptian All the kids in the marketplace say Ay oh whey oh, ay oh whey oh Walk like an Egyptian Slide your feet up the street bend your back Shift your arm then you pull it back Life is hard you know (oh whey oh) So strike a pose on a Cadillac If you want to find all the cops They're hanging out in the donut shop They sing and dance (oh whey oh) Spin the clubs cruise down the block All the Japanese with their yen The party boys call the Kremlin And the Chinese know (oh whey oh) They walk the line like Egyptian All the cops in the donut shop say Ay oh whey oh, ay oh whey oh Walk like an Egyptian Walk like an Egyptian Current Mood: tits (3 Comments |Comment on this)
Saturday, January 31st, 2004
8:29 pm	Hardcore Assignation (Dictated by a Governor of the South) The boy had an unfortunate over-bite, looked like a squirrel nodding in wet reverse against my abdomen. He’d have been shortly flossing, Current Mood: selfish Current Music: NIN - And All That Could Have Been (3 Comments |Comment on this)
Sunday, September 14th, 2003
6:50 am	No More Wolves: A Children's Tale (For Johnny Cash) (Published: Mused Magazine) All the wolves were dead and the other species of the forest thought they could relax, but soon a giant came with cupped digits, unlike paws, a top heavy man-creature, and scooped up their water. He pressed his webbed lips on the ground and sucked rainfall from puddles - turning mud into sand, emptied every river, and leaving, pinched the clouds under his arms. * The animals formed a congress and voted. * THE END Current Mood: hungry like the wolf Current Music: Mike Patton - I Killed Him Like A Dog And He Still Laughed (13 Comments |Comment on this)
Sunday, June 22nd, 2003
12:06 am	Kill Me And Follow My Words To Hell in a Business Suit old old old old old poems i saw you naked through a toilet-paper roll and ate that image your feet were in a bathtub of candy apples you tore off smiling smoke a stale cigarette i accused love is ky jelly leaves knock the baby from its crib gramma's teeth and glasses dancer girl stuck my dog so i slept with his playing the banjo in a phone booth this coffee smells like shit this shit smells like coffee this smell shits like coffee maybe i'll hide behind the furnace crouch down next to some steam like pigeons in an ashtray flatten my sand castle with your ass smear jam across wife-clit your posh scream fetch me a kleenex babygirlbabygirlbabygirl dumb sleek peach everyday for a solid year we killed our babies with a garbage bag! all your fever-dream cuckolds are smiling in the basement Sunday Morning I stood in just tweed Snapping fingers to traffic Humming bottle caps and sour kidney The concrete spread like peanut-butter Like autoerotic asphyxiation bubbles The pillow kissed your feet With a cool idea. We lied in your mansion all day Wrapped in tin foil And prose from sad NYU novels Father's on the toilet Mother's on Prozac I miss toenail clippings and silence The lions threw her back Stop writing! They said And I went curd curd curd The sea made faces I launched my sputum We went to the supermarket in tears We sent email karma Upside-down habitual raindrops Creamed corn with a vengeance Comrad The state of media is blue testicular cheese The state of media is moustache with a vengence Start the coffee Pinch your husband paint everything you with a flashlight mirror pagan eye bathroom kiss run through your stinking name again plastic handfuls of warm with your childish vagina your rape victim haircut assaulted by abortion fetishists umbilical jump rope society fawning over sidewalks praise steel sharp leaves i don't mind your guts for decoration tender limbs in open mirror laid bare our pale flesh how shapely your short blonde hair combed by my fingertips unrelentingly caressed your reflection I am pooled on sheets our bodies patronized. How many sad excuses The world gives to be sarcastic I'll cry a river and drown you in it vagisil on my tongue we can spurt separately fall down stairs shityear this multicolored fetus tulip sang so well it gave me blue-balls happy insomnia filial teeth you observant old clot blah blah the dizzy faces please multiply the soft joints under your knees for me you pain in the wallet i promise nothing at all responsible my fingertips taint with objectionable beauty just cry because it's hot air Sault Ste. Marie a rat stoolie save my loins a bombcase savant only the truly stupid care I sat close to her. My schizophrenia. Kermit the Frog. Wife smells like cheese. Yeah. I sat close to her. My schizophrenia. Yeah. Current Mood: plucked Current Music: Nick Cave - Red Right Hand (19 Comments |Comment on this)
Tuesday, February 4th, 2003
4:15 am	Nail Gun Fetish In May, they detonated C4 in the vents. Then they used mustard gas and harsh words. Then they sent in Jessie Jackson. Tawdry fucking yes. Then they sent in Carson Daily. Okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay 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okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay Current Mood: what happened Current Music: Marvin Gaye - Let's Get It On (3 Comments |Comment on this)
Thursday, January 30th, 2003
1:56 am	Aunt Debbie "I love your forearms and everything about you." The End. "Ok, we have to get to the phone." She sobbed louder. Aunt Debbie came barreling in with groceries. Clawed and clawed, stuck inside her trembling nephew. The End. The dark spot around Winky's crotch reflected in her large-frame sun glasses. Sprout. The End. Current Mood: sprout Current Music: Roy Orbison - In Dreams (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Saturday, December 28th, 2002
7:17 am	Lap My Six I fuck a hole in the sun. I carve your daughter in god's ass. Shoot the sneeze out of a man. Tumbleweeds at my crotch. The sheriff branded my nutsac. He was in love. New Mexico Territory. Buried in red. Nothing left but red. Even the outhouse fell down when I opened fire. Sparky fed me liquor. "I just need to know before you kill me." "What about the girl?" "Fuck her with a stick-rag, Jim." "Snatch the blast I gave you." Mouth unfolding his insides like a blanket. Nowhere Smells Like Ass Dead Horse Pond broke our necks my accompaniment drew straws to see who got first pick the clothes were sticking blood-stunk jelly to the bodies in that hollow ridge the blind boy worked his fiddle Sweet Miss May sang apocalypse through her hanky Current Mood: scallywag Current Music: Ennio Morricone - The Good, The Bad and The Ugly (end theme) (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Saturday, November 9th, 2002
3:14 am	Patrick Clay Mister Pat Clay, sir, yes sir, oh yes sir. "Here I am again, slowly drowning in what beauty summers radiant glow sun showers in droplets and shatter on cement tombs." "Smells like happiness face down in the dirt" "Watching the rivers of life fall away - Emptiness without a word or breath" "My jingling pants, my worn ways, my shattered existence, my endless haze, Sean Kilpatrick - is he gay?" "Cascading the night calls on chilled breaths from parking lot to store front to heavens gat to the pitted bottle of despair broken with streetlights gallivanting in December frosted sheets too once broken on the floor of an old apartment" "Each snow bound hill set off into the horizon meeting the sun in a blood red infinite clash of evermore." "Everyone's mother is a sloppy cunt wrinkled foul hollowed bitch whose prosthetic words far exceed her willingness to offend with potent odor." "The monitor settled on a static beep that echoed into eternity then faded out slowly, distinctly into the cold, crisp November night. The lights dim onward into the future...Morning light hit me like a bad hangover" "I wanted to tear the heavens from the sky. To indulge the earth's appetite in my sweat. The lights dim, evade and wash from my pupils. A silence of insanity knows no bounds.....knows no end. The empty beaches and wastelands of mini-malls, cold air crowded intersections. Breezes like the ever flowing bravado of mankind" "Miseries spread legs beckon wide smiling and arrogant with loves powdered blue evidence of a 1970s romance novel dating disco-teche soldiers of the dance floor - Masters of my fate cracked with delight smoking rasp left handed lighter brigade impressed with a twenty one finger salute assaulted negro shadow men bound gagged slept in the absence of life riot shielded yells stuttered gunfire cleared grey brick county buildings smearing bled aesthetics limbs into the sewer" "A mournful bloom of angels' wings sprout to crawl" "what a fragile little boy is love...that when beaten hides his teary eyes from the world...." "On the forfeit of this last day, on the summer smiles fraught with sadness disarray and sharp seductive notes smoking in the nights air on a wall sat tomorrow believing another day will come again." Current Mood: bumpin beats Current Music: Butthole Surfers - Dust Devil (3 Comments |Comment on this)
Thursday, October 17th, 2002
2:47 am	A Pugnacious Converging of Lollipop-Faced Meat (Published: The Glut) A Pugnacious Converging of Lollipop-Faced Meat Cold Sex, Hot War I Hope Your Mother Dies Swallow Your Mushroom Cloud Current Mood: Swift Current Music: Anal Cunt - Jack Kevorkian Is Cool (3 Comments |Comment on this)
Wednesday, September 18th, 2002
4:23 pm	Little Red-Cunt Once upon a trick there was a twelve-year-old piece with an explosive tongue who would swallow anything. I broke her hymen, sold her ass wholesale alley to alley, and was rich before she turned fifteen. She one day sold trick to a cross town pimp, and I, having never before taught her pain, compounded the lessons afforded her peers and shoved a broken forty-ounce bottle between her legs. The result was a purplish-red, dotted scar round the lips; so we called her Little Red Cunt and she ran away. My license plate read WOLF and I whispered through the cracked window that I knew what color pajamas the chauffeur’s daughter wore. We often escorted Congressmen to Meat Alley. The trick sat his three-hundred-pounds-in-a-shitty-toupee on my cape. There was a jungle of ashen buildings floating behind the square outline of his head. “Stop!” We didn’t stop. “What’s this?” Politician’s anxiety. I had found Cunt, after years of slow business and gulping sour twats, limping down Gratiot in a red, torn miniskirt. She held a basket - an outfit for a job, or drugs, she was obviously a crackhead, my little crackhead. I sent the limousine window down with a violent hum. “Hey, girl! Ever been to the Rickety Rack Shack?” She hesitated first, then hobbled closer, her voice shook and broken: “What you got?” I showed her. “Get in.” “Naw, hey, man, I’m about to go get paid, can’t you wait two blocks up, last house on the left, there, till I come out?” "Spin on the fat man, Cunt!" I grabbed her arm from inside the car. She tried to slip free, kicking the limo for leverage. I opened the door, knocking her on her back. The trick exited and waddled hurriedly away. I dug my claws into Cunt's hair as she scrambled to stand and dragged her two blocks in front of the house she pointed to. "You turning tricks in an old folks home? That's the Cunt I know and love. Show me the client." Cunt turned sideways, bit hard into my cheek, dropped weight and hung there until a wad of my skin ripped off with her. I stomped her kidneys. She screamed, laughing, "AIDS!!" I scooped her up by the neck and dangled her a foot above the sidewalk. She was barefoot. I grabbed her calf and steadied it, so that the tip of her big toe rested on the cement. She said, "don't don't don't don't don't..." Her toenail scraped loudly on the cement and cracked in half backwards. I moved her leg back and forth in short fast jerks. Wide pools of blood streaked. I formed letters. Current Mood: awww Current Music: Eyes Wide Shut - Orgy Theme (7 Comments |Comment on this)
Friday, September 13th, 2002
1:16 am	Virginal High School Scribblings (Didn't write well because didn't sleep with many people) THE SAD PRIEST (March, 2001 for Mr. Strunk's sixth period RhetoricIV, senior year of high school. 3 +'s) The priest was a courteous lover. The priest only considered a few of his boys mongrels in need of immediate leather. What strong Catholics they all were, faith abounding perhaps from the excuse of a traumatic life. The priest often wept and once burned a boy’s scalp with a lighter. The priest stole a Honda to bribe this boy not to tell anyone what had really happened. The priest feared imprisonment because it was all he knew and he was tired of the choices he'd made. But maybe the priest could stitch them up. Thoughts of his arrest, in time, made the priest giddy. In the confessional, the priest sometimes stammered and moaned. During his reading on Methuselah, the priest nodded at an altar boy (with a black eye from time to time, or a bad limp), and the boy would cut himself and bleed into the sacrificial wine. Soon enough, however, like everyone, he was lonely enough to expose his sins, and the priest, after his picture was in the paper, and thinking he could cheat at suicide, closed his mouth around the tail pipe of a car in traffic and died after being dragged for a mile. GOTHIC STORY - (April, 2000 for Mr. Strunk's fourth period RhetoricIII, junior year of high school. 3 +'s) THE BIG KISS Justine sits next to me in my third period Spanish class. What I admire about Justine is, aside from her formidable physical beauty, her attitude. She has this untamed apathy; a countenance of indifference that she puts into effect so well. I have taken under consideration that the most solid human relationships are based on communication. To hell with that. There are three years between us. Sitting behind her, by now what is said must be perfect. Thoughts of Justine, sentimental, she’s younger, her cheeks are freckled, her hair is shoulder length - a deep crimson red, placate and so it is that she remains always in mind, and knowing this, understand that every valid opportunity to speak with her is taken into consideration, as with today. Justine lies with her head down, turned in my direction. She looks up, noticing that I stare, her attention is on me, and after three years I want to open myself to her (perhaps she’ll really appreciate the words I have to say, they have been accumulating for some time and I think that I might look back at this moment in the future when we’re married and have kids and remember this day with such fondness) The empty seat in front of her suddenly becomes occupied by this someone who Justine knows and in fact has sat on before. She likes him and they speak in these exclusive fake-ass hushed tones. The sinking that becomes me, as in death, at these times, although cliched, seems indescribable. Ted Bundy lives in my jaw. Tension gives rise and when he kisses Justine (just a peck just a peck) it is that I, (Justine’s cheeks are so pale – his filled red with blood. And the teacher, a nun, is not punishing them, is punishing me with her sore sight) jealous to the point of getting sick. Days like this, I realize my chances with Justine are far off, I go home and there is a small portable chainsaw which fits into my school bag, (I’ve tested) that I will apply to anyone caught touching Justine in the aforementioned manner. As I watch them, giving his skull some air and just eating his brains out of the containor, to perhaps inherit what the feeling of kissing Justine would be, yeah. "The element of crime is always studied as a society, but why not in the nature of man?" I am more machine than man from the start (baby birds with a shovel). But I apologize in my pitiable way – I don’t mean to pout or to sulk like I am, Justine is still this beautiful ray of consolation and her kiss has just now ended. Sandy is admirable. She sits next to me in my fourth period Rhetoric class. Current Mood: dying Current Music: Nine Inch Nails - Quake Soundtrack (3 Comments |Comment on this)
Thursday, August 15th, 2002
7:47 am	Homage to the Marquis De Sade - 50 Corrections for a Slow Day at Work. 1. Woman tugs her impertinent child by the shirttail to keep it from dashing at cars. Growing impatient, woman shakes her child, and finally satisfies its curiosity by lifting the screaming offender and hurling it with inhuman vigor into the street's middle. The child skids a jump rope length of blood on concrete, under the tires of my passing car. The bump is moderate. Rest assured, she yells after, I'm pregnant again, thank God. 2. I admit, unabashedly, I cannot parallel park. An old bum walks into my car's blind spot and yells directions, expecting a tip afterward. I exit the vehicle, leaving it slanted, and throw today's thermos of hot coffee into the bum's eyes. He attacks the wall until his shoulder dislocates. 3. Upon entering the library, with its marble floors and faint pull to the nose of sodomy, I retrieve a heavy crate of balloons, which have been filled with Clorox bleach, and toss them into the crowds of noisy children. They scatter, half-blind and choking, for cover. 4. Having cleared a path to the back room, I enter and organize books on carts with my co-worker, who tells me his mother was diagnosed with cancer. He helped her achieve suicide earlier today. Now he can stay out late with his friends. We have a masturbation contest for celebration. 5. Putting books away, I am followed closely by a young woman in a belly shirt and tight jeans. She entreaties fellatio for a twenty dollar sum. I drag her by the hair into the break room and rape her with the sharp corner of a Wagner biography. Blood curds slowly from the white paper-cut lines that cover her twitching cunt. The pain alone croaks her. I wait until hot urine spurts into my mouth. 6. Her stench ingested, and the books coming in slow, I read the Wagner biography. 7. Entering the children's section, that rainbow spattered cave where mothers leave their infants for the state, I shoot a canister of tear gas across the library and run the book cart through, masked. Some kids have adjusted to the gas by now - I carry a whip with a spike at the end. 8. A brat absent-mindedly leans on my leg for support while choking. I kick it three feet into a bookshelf, walk over and stomp its jaw. The jaw completely separates with a distinct pop; the bone tears a hole through the brat's cheek and is awkwardly exposed. Har Har, so like a cunt, thinks I. A cunt with vocal chords that is screaming permanently. So I fuck it closed, fuck it quiet. 9. Another child approaches and asks if it may use the bathroom. I close an Arthur book on the child's small nose with a loud clap. Not just tears swell. Current Mood: jejune Current Music: Nirvana - Rape Me (3 Comments |Comment on this)
Friday, July 5th, 2002
5:55 am	A Dying Man Calls A Hotline (Published: The Raging Face) "Hello, suicide hotline...hello.." The atmosphere is thick, it's strangling me. I need help. I don't understand oxygen. "What is your name, sir?" Please don't vacuum my plasma with your tired shit. "For blood donations you wanna call..." Martyrs die opulent. Penetrate my esophagus. I am your Jenna Jameson. "What?" I made love to my sister with aluminum siding. She bled across the slink impending coal of six days and I was forced to cauterize the wound with battery acid. We looked into each other's eyes and fell off cliffs. We were sliced to ribbons over the gorge of our own ironic tampons. I'm somber maxi Sault Ste. Marie. "Pardon?" The insects in my hair said mother. "Pardon?" I'm using a bulldozer to slit my wrist. "Don't do that." You make me impotent. "Go to hell." Sorry. "Move to Europe. They're abstract and stuff." They're the same, with more hair. "Keep telling yourself that." I'll spread Velveeta across your mother's joke of a pussy. Even if someone you loved bought it. "I don't appreciate that." You should. Ho-bag of the pro-life. "Shut up." Tug my sappy ending. "Die." Can do. Good call. Current Mood: masochistic Current Music: Butthole Surfers - Creamed Corn From The Socket Of Davis (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Friday, June 14th, 2002
3:45 pm	Old Agent Sex Agent Sex Part 1 - The Librarian Flowers mean electrical castration. Current Mood: end transmission Current Music: discard this information (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Sunday, June 9th, 2002
12:37 am	Quotes Friedrich Nietzche: "'Faith' means not wanting to know what is true." "A casual stroll through a mental asylum shows that faith proves nothing." "Being evil is being 'not moral', practicing immorality, resisting tradition, however reasonable or stupid tradition may be." "Convictions are more dangerous enemies of truth than lies." "Under peaceful conditions the militant man attacks himself." "He who despises himself, nevertheless esteems himself thereby, as a despiser." "What is done out of love always takes place beyond good and evil." "Ah, women. They make the highs higher and the lows more frequent." "Hope in reality is the worst of all evils because it prolongs the torments of man." "In Christianity neither morality nor religion come into contact with reality at any point." "Morality is the herd-instinct in the individual." "I cannot believe in a God who wants to be praised all the time." "We should consider every day lost on which we have not danced at least once. And we should call every truth false which was not accompanied by at least one laugh." "What someone is, begins to be revealed when his talent abates, when he stops showing us what he can do." "Without music, life would be a mistake." "Wit is the epitaph of an emotion." "Woman was God's second mistake." "If you go to see the woman, do not forget the whip." William S. Burroughs: "Desperation is the raw material of drastic change. Only those who can leave behind everything they have ever believed in can hope to escape." "Language is a virus from outer space." "A paranoid is someone who knows a little of what's going on." "Perhaps all pleasure is only relief." Franz Kafka: "I think we ought to read only the kind of books that wound and stab us... We need the books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea inside us." "My generation, faced as it grew with a choice between religious belief and existential despair, chose marijuana. Now we are in our Cabernet stage." "Anyone who keeps the ability to see beauty never grows old." Jack Kerouac: "All our best men are laughed at in this nightmare land." "The one thing that we yearn for in our living days, that makes us sigh and groan and undergo sweet nauseas of all kinds, is the remembrance of some lost bliss that was probably experienced only in the womb and can only be reproduced (though we hate to admit it) in death. But who wants to die?" Hunter S. Thompson: "A word to the wise is infuriating." "The Edge... there is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over." "The person who doesn't scatter the morning dew will not comb gray hairs." Dylan Thomas: "I know we're not saints or virgins or lunatics; we know all the lust and lavatory jokes, and most of the dirty people; we can catch buses and count our change and cross the roads and talk real sentences. But our innocence goes awfully deep, and our discreditable secret is that we don't know anything at all, and our horrid inner secret is that we don't care that we don't." "An alcoholic is someone you don't like who drinks as much as you do." Jean-Paul Sartre: "She believed in nothing; only her skepticism kept her from being an atheist." "Freedom is what you do with what's been done to you." Jonathan Swift: "Blessed is he who expects nothing, for he shall never be disappointed." "We are so fond of one another because our ailments are the same." Williams Carlos Williams: "Nothing whips my blood like verse." "What power has love but forgiveness?" Marquis De Sade: "Imperious, choleric, irascible, extreme in everything, with a dissolute imagination the like of which has never been seen, atheistic to the point of fanaticism, there you have me in a nutshell, and kill me again or take me as I am, for I shall not change." "The idea of God is the sole wrong for which I cannot forgive mankind." "True felicity lies only in the senses, and virtue gratifies none of them." Wallace Stevens: "Success as the result of industry is a peasant ideal." Dutch Schultz "A boy has never wept, nor dashed a thousand kim. Sitting Bull (motto): "There is no more." "A widespread taste for pornography means that nature is alerting us to some threat of extinction." J. G. Ballard "God has been replaced, as he has all over the West, with respectability and air conditioning." Imamu Amiri Baraka "A judgment about life has no meaning except the truth of the one who speaks last, and the mind is at ease only at the moment when everyone is shouting at once and no one can hear a thing." Georges Bataille "...and I sink into the terror whose child I am." - Georges Bataille "I shall state silences more competently than ever a better man spangled the butterflies of vertigo." Samuel Beckett "Make sense who may. I switch off." Samuel Beckett "Beauty will be convulsive or will not be at all." Andre Breton "Leave everything. Leave Dada. Leave your wife. Leave your mistress. Leave your hopes and fears. Leave your children in the woods. Leave the substance for the shadow. Leave your easy life, leave what you are given for the future. Set off on the roads." Andre Breton "In the Halls of Justice the only justice is in the halls." Lenny Bruce "Every day people are straying away from the church and going back to God." Lenny Bruce "The mercy of death is like flowers." Charles Bukowski "The trouble with these people is that their cities have never been bombed and their mothers have never been told to shut up." Charles Bukowski "Love will stroke the balls of your worst enemy." Charles Bukowski "This poetry-thing is the worst sort of crutch. It weakens a man. And if a man is weak before he writes poetry he becomes, finally, through the strumming of shadows and wailing, he becomes finally what he is- just another fine pink juicy boy doing his god damned job in the frailest and most vomiting way." Charles Bukowski "Salvador Dali seduced many ladies, particularly American ladies, but these seductions usually consisted of stripping them naked in his apartment, frying a couple of eggs, putting them on the woman's shoulders and, without a word, showing them the door." Luis Bunuel "I have no consistency, except in politics; and that probably arises from my indifference to the subject altogether." Lord Byron "There are nights when the wolves are silent and only the moon howls." - George Carlin "You were my death: you I could hold when all fell away from me." Paul Celan "If you are a Westerner, you are a Christian. Period." - Harry Crews "I never wanted to be well-rounded, and I do not admire well-rounded people nor their work. So far as I can see, nothing good in the world has ever been done by well-rounded people. The good work is done by people with jagged, broken edges, because those edges cut things and leave an imprint, a design." - Harry Crews "You have to go to considerable trouble to live differently from the way the world wants you to live. That's what I've discovered about writing. The world doesn't want you to do a damn thing. If you wait till you got time to write a novel or time to write a story or time to read the hundred thousands of books you should have already read--if you wait for the time, you'll never do it. 'Cause there ain't no time; world don't want you to do that. World wants you to go to the zoo and eat cotton candy, preferably seven days a week." - Harry Crews "I saved a girl from being attacked last night. I controlled myself." Rodney Dangerfield Current Mood: naughty Current Music: Stravinsky - March From "Peter And The Wolf" (Comment on this)
Friday, June 7th, 2002
6:49 am	cut up Now scales ten and ten on the cut up machine. AND GENTLEMEN FOR SUCH A KIND RECEPTION. WILL MURDER POSITIVE DINNER. THANKS SPILLED BRIGHT OVER THE MONITOR HUMANS. A PRISTINE AGENT YOU LADIES CRYING LIP PULL SHAVINGS FOR PATRIOTIC. SHE WOULD BITE DOWN HARD ON HOW MUCH I WAS POINTED ROCKETS NOTHING IS IN TIGHT YELLOW MOTHBALL AFTERNOONS REEK OF STALE CIGARETTES, DARLING. PEDOPHILIC REPUTABLE NOTHINGS BAIT COLD. NOTHING OF THIS IS NOVOCAINE. Now scales 6 and 6 HUMANS A PRISTINE RECEPTION FOR KIND. WILL MURDER POSITIVE WHAT WRITTEN HAIR THANK YOU. MONITOR HOPELESS PATRIOTIC EVENINGS. GNAW HOW MUCH I AM NOTHING IN TIGHT YELLOW AFTERNOONS. PEDOPHILIC REPUTABLE NOTHINGS BAIT COLD. YOUR LOVE IS POOR NOVOCAINE. Current Mood: usual cuckold Current Music: White Zombie - Blood, Milk, and Sky (Comment on this)
Thursday, June 6th, 2002
4:45 am	Cut Up Of Pat Clay, Amanda Shaver, Self the pools it gathered Images of her face Images of her tears cloud mine Beyond the life I know Beyond the hills I’ve seen Beyond the hills I’ve yet to see Beyond this ocean and other oceans Beyond what light shards spear my heart Beyond The truth Beyond all humanity Beyond the end What lies? What is here? What have we become here? Why am I here? What is here? more than blue, yellow, green and pink currency. The ugly old bridesmaid dresses the color of an old lady's lipstick is for real and ages too close are dressing in white. Steady I grazed the homeless hands Walked a fortune in time Gave into everything and everyone Crawled back on both knees crying Wishing like the starving sentences I can never feed With hope on my fingers slipping away In tear-dropped livelihood In make me look like I come from a poor family. I still like to overturn rocks and stare as the crabs scatter but too afraid to touch. I see to many places to curl up and make houses for my dolls then pass them by. I am my own Barbie never going to fit in her clothes. Little girl's grown up. Playing store is bought with hated to be called dishwater because it implied that she was dirty. No more skipping down the street with training wheeled banana seat bikes with pink and white stripes handed down from her sister. It's not make believe anymore and she stuns herself with alcohol to forget that the way the boys look implies that she is dirty. I still want patchwork skirts that mom says can go to real bars now and split up when pursued by more attractive temporary things. They didn't ever want a long term thing anyway. And sister Stacey prostitutes out of a strip club saving up money to look just like that bitch sister of hers; when it fails she looks for a man to make it better. Lost somewhere is the blond headed girl who it to my nose, a lying a severed abdomen. I don't get to hear any death-rattle. Pinocchio." Warm spots of sun filter through the trees and Even in her death, she gyps me. Her uterus is white. light on her face, glowing through the blush. Gone are the days when nakedness and dancing are innocent and cute. When round bellies are a sign of health. Barbie and Ken the sharp used to have a sticky nose in the summer when end of the hammer, demolishing flesh till I tear an the helicopters were ripely clinging in bunches to the trees artery, which spurts blood in bored, decreasing, streams. She dies. because I would peel apart the seed casing and use There is no convulsing or shaking. Just life drained through the stickiness to hold beat (in horror, I presume). Then, slowly, it her chest and suppresses it at the same time. There decreases to less than healthy. I pinch a sewing needle is nothing she can do about the sweat, it comes through her clitoris. She is in a coma, I guess. too easily and drops in spatters on the ground. "I What a waste. I hit her cunt with away the rain. Sweet know through how much of it she is awake. The Lilly of the Valley hiding in the dark, fragrant as bandages are too tight, and she is too weak to innocent sex so fragile and unaware easily trodden. Her eyes scream anymore, but I feel, through her chest, an occasional she defines with dark powder as her life grows from rapid heart "My lips look purple," she says as she piles naked with a white, misshapen, bandaged head. I, a hair on her head, hoping it will stir deep have fucked her cunt twice and ass twice also. She beauty known but not seen, like warm blanket forts made still bleeds on the chair from the latter. I don't under sheltering canopies of trees spattering Current Mood: towers open fire Current Music: Radiohead - Everything In Its Right Place (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Saturday, May 18th, 2002
3:14 am	Turd Smiling Pussy When they bleed a white flag, sniff nothing unique. Go and say something droll. Current Mood: nostalgic Current Music: Stone Temple Pilots - Sex Type Thing (1 Comment |Comment on this)