tropic flowers and garbage, the fragrance of the streets ... it is all accentuated by the heat which consumes us. it pervades your thoughts and influences every small nuance of survival, not to mention day to day conversation. and everybody expects the worst. unusual heat in the gulf. droughts. early delirium. and all in june. I know that in my moving here I am responsible for this. the weather has always been my connection to the oceans in far away places. it is the breath of my mistress, the rise of the beyond, and as such, the weather, it carries my thoughts and presence back to her as rain. It is my eyes, I am the eyes upon the sea. and I will destroy new orleans by proxy when her royal highness finds that I am unfaithful and comes forth with a biblical fury to exact her revenge.
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who writes this fucking crap? I'm high like the sky digesting howlin' wolf and good googoly moogoly. I am also hung over like a bastard. be sure, the villain doesn't write off bread alone. and the evidence is in my actions, they lie close to the surface ... last night I bought the most expensive miller high life in history, bought it after many others, bought it with the boosted loot and even bought a right breast because I could. the life of crime, it's all love and no hate ... and under this pretext I will make mince meat of the wasted good and create a world of wonder from the fleshy remains.
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somehow my brain has left me. I think it evaporated in this heat. but things are good, dog gone lucky in fact. I have no money, no prospects, no women, no mind. my left big toe is crippled and I hobble from one sweltering moment to the next. if you read what is above, then you know that what I say is the truth. abstract violence is my usual answer for this, deranged and public, a drunken lunacy to balance the scales of laziness and misguided productivity and boredom ... but it's just too god damn fucking hot. and as the scales have tipped past their limits and are thus rendered useless, so you discover the opposite all together. you discover gandhi. a zen-like state of non-violence rooted in a concrete resolve, an infinite dissidence against all injustice and everything inhumane. harm yourself and no judgement shall be passed, harm the innocent and the hammer will drop swiftly on its mark, the people will rise and they will conquer. and this appeals to me. but not because of the victory, nor the ultimate power of the masses. it is the sadness. the good torn to pieces by the hands that bled for its creation. forge a tangible hope in anyone and you will see the imminent doom that walks beside it hand in hand. and the future becomes clear. you climb the walls and see with glaring clarity every battle and skirmish, every clandestine raid, insurgence, revolution, every victory from now until the end of time where the war is finally lost ... you come to understand and live by the notion that we were created to survive and destroy ourselves outright, and I know that I incessantly return to our demise and I do apologize, it must be annoyingly redundant, but it devours my every thought, strikes me with every pair of eyes I consume, every time I look in the mirror.
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I know it's dead, but I prefer to remain optimistic.
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"In my early manhood and in middle life I used to vex myself with reforms every now and then. And I never had occasion to regret these divergencies for, whether the resulting deprivations were long or short, the rewarding pleasure which I got out of the vice when I returned to it always paid me for all that it cost." - mark twain.
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I am enchanted by the distortional sound of flesh against steel. there is an angelic presence to it, a caress, the gentle fragrance of a woman that slips into a hell and blood-red dress. imagine it falls and moves over her body as prairie grass in the wildfire breeze and fading sunlight, as a kind breath that dreams of someone else. it is something created beautiful in contradiction and thus otherworldly. it is also ingratiating grating insanity. and I really should be condemned. or at the very least, be forced to drop all future endeavors to pursue the fiery art of erotic novels, which I will learn to love. my fans will adore me and my hands will spark lust and madness and I will assure the hordes, promise them forever, to use my theosaurical dictionary for sex and as a foundation for my writing and no longer as a footstool or an ashtray like it was in my evil wasted youth.
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I can't write anymore. sorry for being so disjointed. feel weird. adderall. pot. booze. there must be something missing. see paragraph three. all this was written over the course of four days or so. so don't get any big ideas.
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