Thursday, December 23, 2010


Every year we waste away
We taste the fruits of labour
Whether ours or those before us.

The socialites gather
In the royal dining hall
Drink champagne and eat
Endangered species.
There workers eat
homemade sandwiches
In the basement of the mansion.

There are dreams with a fix in reality
There are flaws in reality
There are walls in reality
Take me to your metaphoric garden.

We will roast the dodo
And drink the blood
Of a fresh finned shark
Laughing in mirth
About our worth
And our power of seduction.

We will dance in our Italian shoes
With no thoughts of Chinese debt
We will revel in the glory
Of pomp and prosperity
To witty for wondering
To classy for regret.

See now the slave that takes the stage
A creature of habits
Dancing for the next fix
We will sell it to her for double
What we paid
And scorn her for her poverty.

See now the juggler
Clumsy fool
Playing the princes part
Trying to make his rags look expensive
A chiseled jaw and chisler hands
We will spit on the working man.

The gift of time is hours
We of royal parentage
All the time in the world
To shirk the dog and hurl cats
To wing our powers
To greedily devouring
The soul.

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Sunday, November 21, 2010

Never called, so appauled

Least I could do was think of you,
Trapped in my world
Time unfurled
Your friendship a pearl
And I, a swine.
Strung up in the butchers shop
Trying to turn a dime,
Trying to survive
But failing to remember
The best things in life
The simple pleasures,
Waving back and forth.
Falling to pieces.
Here take my bacon,
Take my chops and my sausage.
Take my pig head so full of regret
That it forgot.
Hope you are bem
Muito bem
I'll call soon my friend.

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Friday, November 19, 2010

The richness

Every year we waste away
We taste the fruits of labour
Whether ours or those before us.

The socialites gather
In the royal dining hall
Drink champagne and eat
Endangered species.
There workers eat
homemade sandwiches
In the basement of the mansion.

There are dreams with a fix in reality
There are flaws in reality
There are walls in reality
Take me to your metaphoric garden.

We will roast the dodo
And drink the blood
Of a fresh finned shark
Laughing in mirth
About our worth
And our power of seduction.

We will dance in our Italian shoes
With no thoughts of Chinese debt
We will revel in the glory
Of pomp and prosperity
To witty for wondering
To classy for regret.

See now the slave that takes the stage
A creature of habits
Dancing for the next fix
We will sell it to her for double
What we paid
And scorn her for her poverty.

See now the juggler
Clumsy fool
Playing the princes part
Trying to make his rags look expensive
A chiseled jaw and chisler hands
We will spit on the working man.

The gift of time is hours
We of royal parentage
All the time in the world
To shirk the dog and hurl cats
To wing our powers
To greedily devouring
The soul.

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Wednesday, November 17, 2010


Levin / lexicology

Observer / orthology

Monday, November 8, 2010

Non Legal Voices

They tell me, that I shouldn't..
That the pass wouldn't...
Or that my chances couldn't

I hear Jeff Vanessa and Faiad call my
name out loud., but by then my heads
light years ahead.. Elis looking at me
coming back from the dead...

The chances of me finding a quarter in
the street are About the same as the
disparity of Jj coming back from his
winter wonderland...

New friends become desperate old
friends fifteen years ago.. some become
brothers others turn to craigslit'
brothels.. my negga still eating some
good waffles... fifteen years and homes
new and old caught in the scene.. Tired
and worried they stare at the
Brooklyn bridge; from the top floors of
a fifteen story window .. Wishing
they could have announced to
something... But wealth is disparity
among wealthy thieves that always
seem to look rich to me... Seem to carry
the death, like I fired someone burden...
And As the aroma of the wine dine..
The Craigslisy pussy on the other aided
side... They jump... body thuds first..
Glasss shatters next... The are
Aroma of death seems wet...

A calmly stand aside as the man jumps
and falls.. With the flickering of my
'stouge' I wave the man bye... His bunny
at least was sleep for the night and the
sky light shines on the semi innocent...
{Its not really Craigslist, but I trust you
know what I say...}

These non legal dead voices taunt and
haunt me... The dead ghost follows me
home... Then it taunts my name as
host.. and like a rat as I roam the
streets.. This time around a cougar
jumps... And the smell of sea and men
retain in my nostril hairs.. Her skin still
smi'thered in salt cement.. Makeup
smudged on her face... It was wet as
she fell from the cliff of a balcony to
her face... The air must've been that

Now there's two of them...
Dio......Diiooooooo........ and I laugh a
little... Spark another... flimsily go

This time around a little girl with her
mom smile... She's holding a basketball...
Her cheeks are blushed... She was

Life is funny... Just when the edge even
to me seemed the answer... A warm
smile was the thoughtful transfer..
A warm smile that day was the

I go bacxk home and the voices are
faint... They dissipate... Trickle through
the shower.. My fever leaves within
the buck buck hour.., Police noises...

My eyes closes...

I wake in the morning to another
Another.... Another....
Forever.... Non legal voices....

I'll hang you

I'll hang you..
I'll wrap you...
Like taco... I'll hang you...

I'll wrap you...
I'll rip you while wrapping you...
I'll dig my middle finger in
Your Adams apple...

I'll contract you...
I dank my dangle my jangle
Finagle, saddle up the wabbles..

My, hers and his, the valium
Millionaire treat..

I'll hang you...

Till you end up hanging on the side of a
five story building... Noose tied to your
feet and next, not fretting to forget...
Meat packing district.. LAst I heard
San Francisco, wanted bacxk their sand
and disco... The noose around you r neck
got a little sand and like a ball you disco..
Round ad round like the pain of a ball
I'M surprised you haunt slowly
thrown up, while you hang I and San
Fran feel good...

I'll hang you...

Monday, November 1, 2010


In 1723 no one took a shower
And look what happened to them.

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Wednesday, October 27, 2010

The Just Desert.

Kissed a scorpion
Got stung
Threw me off balance
When I was young,
Stranger maimed me
Then took flight,
Left me blue
In the cold dark night.
The scorpion hunted me
Through the book of faces,
A tail of regret,
A dream of redemption,
Seems I had made an impression
To be turned to in depression.
Made the one,
Post partum,
To fill a broken hearts lesion.
But I am not the one,
Just another life lesson.

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Here in the beauty of fall
I thank you all
As I lay my head to rest
I count myself blessed.
To have lived and laughed
To have loved and lusted
To have been able to trust
And in turn be trusted.
And as I see the sands of time
Poor out the broken glass,
Though I sometimes failed
I gave my best.

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Sunday, October 24, 2010

Max? Who's Max?

At work, some people call me Max.
That's right, Max.
And I do Max it out..
I just go with it.

"Alright, thanks again, Max!"

"You're the best Max"

"Max, well you see.."

"Take care Max, bye bye."

it's funny, but fucked up.

I love bleed poetry.

Heaven sent.

Toes at the edge,
grit, gripping,
playfully wiggling. . . singing.
Somehow. . .
Randomly get this feeling.
Dialing out,
to your Queenie.
Adrenialine junkie,
all fixed up,
suit n' bracket, slash tactics,
feathers and straight jackets.
Papermache my way.
Ask me to stay?
Spread felt near.
When will I see her?
To feast upon your eyes,
is heaven sent my dear.

As you can hear,
my heart,
loud and clear.

xxx xxx xxx x xx x

Justin Bieber likes bleed poetry and you should too.

Monday, October 18, 2010


In the brisk autumn air
I stare at the pavement
Hang my head in shame
Blamed for my entertainment.
I kissed another girl
So it would seem
By the warmth
The lack thereof
Of her shoulder.
Shunned and too stunned
In the tingling leisure
To fight with my treasure
Over something I've done.
It is a pain that my girl
Gets jealous of Mary Jane.
I love her
But sometimes I like to burn
And for this I am scalded, scolded
Beholding a night pushed away
From her light,
Beholding the grey pavement
On a crisp autumn morning.

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How the taste sting memory evoked by this wine,
Strikes a note, rings a bell, reverberates down my spine,
And oh how the slice shaped cut in the corner of my mouth,
Makes me realise how often I smile to myself,
Down deep beneath the skin I’m shrouded within,
Split ripped wide open and ready to begin; wet blood pumping,
Pulsing memories like rivers like veins, like roots twisting back to him,
And oh how the spilt taste- sting red flow of this wine,
Is the taste of his mouth on my mouth, when mine,
Is it easier to smile broken from memories underskin?
Or easier to be sealed, twisted closed tighter,
Emptier but lighter?
Let me know.

Friday, October 15, 2010

Love you baby, buggy bumpers.

To mornings that unfold to every beat of your drum.
You are my rhythm, my music; my love.
Ray light trickles in,
to greet you like a soft kiss.
If words could better depict the truth for what it is...
I believe you call apon the sunshine,
the devine.
Everlasting; forever yours.

Your hubby,


Love you baby, buggy bumpers...


Oh you.

Oh you
I get drunk off your perfume
Oh you
I see your face in the shining moon
Oh you
You make my life complete
So won't you please
Make love to me.

Oh you
You are my rising sun
Warm and bright
Make me feel alright.
Oh you
You are my rest
when the day is done
You're my best freind
You know I'll never run.

I love you
Wont you make love to me
In your arms
My heart feels free
Oh you
How splendid life could be,
If you would make love to me.

This tender heart
Is on the line
Been strung out
To many times
If you walk away now
It would surely break
Just thinking about it
I begin to ache.

So wont you
Throw down your arms
Dont write me off as merely charm
I want you
Please dont say no,
If you do
I dont know where I'll go.

Oh you
This is my ode to you
My song of praise
To all you do to me.
I'm fulfilled
You've instilled this song in me
Whistling in time with your heart beating.

Oh you,
How i love you
Wont you come lay next to me
Let me fill your blood
With dopamine ecstasy
Feel the twitch in your muscles
Writhing under me
Hear your voice fade to
A soft moan

Oh you
Oh you
Oh oh.

Sunday, September 19, 2010


I can see the New York sky light.
And I know,
that everything,
is going to all right. :)

Thursday, September 16, 2010


I laugh at the devil
When he comes to collect
Everything I have
I earned with my breath
It was my hand that grasped the rose
It is my back that suffers itching arrows
It is I not him that built this life
He is but another image of the imaginary god
And flawed because he thinks
I owe him anything
I'll take my medicine
Fight him from my soul
He is powerless
I am in control
And even if I turn and run to the ledge
I remember her eyes
And compromise
To live instead,
In this life I can change the world
Much better then if I was dead.
The go train is leaving
I won't punch my ticket
Take the free ride instead.

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Coffee and Cigarettes.

Coffee and cigarettes,
Cigarettes and coffee.

My teeth look like English Toffee.

What seems fit.

For years all I craved,
was to live my life to it's fullest,
and to take my life when it seems fit.

Now, I still got a lot to learn.

And a life to live,

but it's come apparent.

My desire,
for taking my life,
is overwhelming me.
It's affecting,
to the point,
of self destruction.

The Rose Bush.

I sold my soul over a rose bush for her.
And seen the other side of his sick joke.
And now that I have truly found my love,
The Devils come to collect.

Wednesday, September 8, 2010


I smell blood here.
I smell the chopped trees
The caged nature.
The roar of the city a far cry from the desolate howl of the loon.
You'll see no heron nested in these trees.
We have delivered death
And destruction.
The walls we have built to call home have devoured us,
Empowered us to strive past survival to luxury
Waste in the haste of life
We're to young to appreciate until we're to old to care.
Dead aristocrats buried here
Given a gift of land that should never have been received
We brought the European disease of private land ownership overseas, hacked out 100 acres with good intentions and a sense of need,
Breeded till we depleted the soil far as the eye can see.
From sticks and stones
to concrete and steel
Our flowers are shorn for maximum appeal, all so splendid it can hardly be real,
All so real it can't last.
If this tomb tells you anything, it is the future moves fast,
And the end we seek will come at long last.
Uninvited as the truth.

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Monday, September 6, 2010

La vie

La vie c'est tres incredable
Ne pas du sortie mais la fin,
Possez poussez avec fort ideologie,
Mais la fin c'est certaiment.

Lustig ich kann nicht in fransouzich denken,
Mein kopf kann nicht die worte finden
Traurich ich hat nicht besser studiert mich, Weil die opprutuitie hat ich.

Even in German my mind is struggled
To find the joy and pain and wonder
So I say tu che mon petit mouffette.
I love you, je t'aime, ich liebe dich, na kerang la pai mang po gawki duk.

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Monday, August 16, 2010


Love me
And I will love you,
Faithful and true.
Try to own me and I will object
As objects are aught to do.

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Saturday, August 14, 2010


Wish I could drop my worries in a porcilean bowl,
But I'm a working man now
I'll use the plastic shit hole.
Lesson of the day
Don't by shwarma from a truck.

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Living poets

We come to the garden of the dead
Peter lacing his prose of the news so laden with human dread, quirky quatrains of this world which, alas, is mad.
Topaz will tell a story, rhythmed in beat with her aching heart, a old hippy that never gave up, but thinks she may start.
Karen will make melody of the burden, as her husband sits quietly.
Jean takes her time pondering the leaves of society.
Katie will recount the nature, naturally in tune, recounting happier times as the echo of a loon across still waters.
Aron will home a tome written with resolution, clawed with the slapping steel drum, the joy of the ink press exciting his mind and fingertips to sublime inquisition.
John will say a dirty couplet, given the time a thousand limericks, lighthearted, quite jovial, a nod to Service and several anonymous bar room bards.
Serge will cant a witty wondering, a whimsy so whimsical with wit you might laugh till you shit.
Anne Page will pipe in in her sweet note a merry warble of a bird that has seen the world from it's highs to lows and breath tears and laughter into her prose.
Anne Butler will yell at someone to speak up, then quietly contemplate footprints mysteriously washed into the sea.
I, your humble narrator, will relate a poem that relates to me, not in vanity, but in honesty, as it is the only world I can truly see.
And Suad sit in the corner in awe. Listening appreciatively.
We come to the garden alive and will never leave as long as you recant this scene.

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great men or even men a little out of the common, that is to say capable of giving some new word, must from their very nature be criminals—more or less, of course. Otherwise it's hard for them to get out of the common rut; and to remain in the common rut is what they can't submit to, from their very nature again, and to my mind they ought not, indeed, to submit to it. You see that there is nothing particularly new in all that.

-Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoyevsky

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Friday, July 23, 2010

Foreign blue

Yadda yadda
Foreign tounge
Never know
When your praise is sung
Or your condemned.
Yip yap, yip yap,
A slap in the face you never feel
A numb emptiness
Making your body tired
Trying to make ends meet
Adapting words to what you know.
Yapedia yopoodia
A whole new encyclopedia
Stressed to limitlessness
In a constant lonely state
Smoke another another cigarette
Stare at your shoes
Back in the foreigner blues.

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Wednesday, July 14, 2010


Learnt twice about the burning

Burnt twice without the learning;

Insanity calls me now

by name

Sunday, July 4, 2010

Home away from home.

Setting sun neon glow
Heather blooms in ditches
Air beneath my drifting smoke
A tourist to my hometown.

I miss your open plain
Simplicity free from a world
Of incantricinsy
A world of infants in infancy
Best to not know better
An innocence encompassed by said pleasures of not knowing different,
Knowing the difference isn't so much netter.

The difference between a hand knit and store bought sweater.

The trees are green on both sides of the fence.

Apprehensive my apprectiation is superficial observing only what the
heart is longing to see, devoid of the layered reality.

A peice of peace declared that is unjustified but found in the
resounding need to find.

Polite without policy, free with fear and gossip on a adders tounge,
rungs of ladders leading nowhere, confusion, obstacles, the game of
every one every day.

Purpose proposed but no know, speculation, ejaculation, consternation,
posturizing and dying.

Slipping from the unforseen to the being and was; drawn endlessly
never free of the ciclical sythe; a humanity in the eye of forever and

This time ours recieved and given until.

Home sweet dreams.

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Wednesday, June 30, 2010


Soul slips
Slow decay
Drifting away
A time to work without play
Strangle grip.
A tired resolve
Riddle unsolved
Whether it is nobler to stay.
Broken and soft spoken
In a foreign place
Never fitting
Unfit and failing fast.
These dead trees
Coped into corners
Nailed and glued.
Driving endlessly on edge
Divided constantly
Between fists of glory
And a waining heart
A lack luster pump
A hunch hitting hurdles
Girdled, grilled and drifting.

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Tuesday, June 29, 2010

Strokes for different folks.

Quick little reference,
Pour through soul tapping strokes.
stadium sounds, of hand claps or chatter.
Matter of mostest, of most.
The form of it's function.
Down, doe, down.
Duck down.
Be well and lively,
Colour's smear like rudy red lipstick.
Small talk, at a bar..
Or the lingering smell of the last cigarette in the powder room.
Are we constantly recycling precious moments?

Friday, June 4, 2010

Sorting through the blank faces
Trying to find the page
That will tell me
Everything is going to be okay.
Stray dog
Strewing my drooping face
Across the city
Thoughtlessly lost
In desolute thoughts
Stopping for street preachers
Praising the goddess divine.
My feet are sore and my spirit broken
Tired of no
Tired of being.
Run and hide, no,
I must keep keeping on
For the lady who loves me,
I must be strong.

Sunday, May 30, 2010

Effervescent White Lights.

We must not allow the clock and the calendar to blind us to the fact that each moment of life is a miracle and mystery. - H.G.Wells ( 1866-1946 )

There is always some madness in love. But there is also always some reason in madness. - Friedrich Nietzsche ( 1844-1900 )

It does not matter how slowly you go so long as you do not stop. - Confucius (551 BC-479 BC)

If you want peace, stop fighting. If you want peace of mind, stop fighting with your thoughts. - Peter McWilliams ( 1991 )

Nothing is permanent in this wicked world - not even our troubles. - Charlie Chaplin ( 1889-1977)

Tragedy is when I cut my finger. Comedy is when you walk into an open sewer and die. - Mel Brooks ( 1926- )

Rag rag

Sitting in the corner
Knowing I can't scorn her
The fault is all my fault
Consequences and resulst.

Take it with a grain of salt
Eyes turn colbalt
Waiting for the river flow
To see which way the wind blows.

Give it time, save a dime
Lemonade from the limes
Try not to take it the wrong way
I didn't know what to say.

Truth a great releaser
Honesty will be my death
Smoke another cigarette
Choke until my final breath.

I know I can't change your mind
Waiting for the summer time
Standing at the gates of fall
Please know I love you all.

All the cards I never send
All the follies start to blend
Built up like a hurricane
Waiting for the red rain.

Every plead I try to make
I do it for our sake
And all the leaves I have to rake
Are labeled with my mistakes.

I'm young and there is time to learn
All the leaves you gotta burn
Yearning for simplicity
Not enveloped in negativity.

I pent you up and I relent
Sometimes I think your heaven sent
For loving such a fool as me
Like I'm a lost philosophy.

I'm sorry dear
I'm sorry friend
But this is where the rhyme ends.

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Saturday, May 29, 2010

Hello Neighbour.

I see you,
for you see through me.
Your precious heart,
has sadly gone.

There's no more stories,
just dead eyes.

Repetitive non the less,
It's so hard to get something off your chest.
Much more to forgive, then to forget.

So bubbly, flash, scene queen, babble.
You've lost the real you,
we have too.

Well now,
so positioned,
by the poison you've drank.

When you accept your first award,
On the back of your mind,
Who will you thank?

I have forgiven myself,
and for that I have forgiven you.

*ing married and loving it!

Friday, May 21, 2010

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Thursday, May 13, 2010


I must confess

That I'm distressed

To be so blessed

Yet in duress.

All I want is a humble nest

Where I can rest

My aching breast

Without the pest

Of passing tests.

Loathing myself in your caress

Knowing I'm to stressed

To give you my best,

Knowing the opportunity I've missed

And the mess I must digest.

In my own body I feel a guest,

Uncomfortable uncleanliness,

Understandable awkwardness,

As I try to understand the cause

Of this uneasiness.

Bantering the babble

Within my head

Sorting through rubble

Finding no dead

A burst bubble

And my eyes are red.

Unnerving to feel so undeserving.

Served notice,

Severed ties and I can't lie

I'm hurting.

My words blurting like blood squirting

Fresh hot from my soul to the page.

Enraged slightly

Imprisoned politely

To a cage of my own design

And right now i'm not feeling fine

Knowing not where to draw a line

Between civility and believability

A rotten rhythm in me

As I beat myself,

Torture myself unwillingly.


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Saturday, May 8, 2010

truth be bold.

When we write,

we stay tight.

On the 27" iMac again.

guess where I am?

Keep on the read, with bleed.

tinks' smitton.

House coat, taking the time really enjoy the house coat; tu me manques.

Wrestling through laundry for a spare of: tinks'

distracted; tinks' I'll save the note to settle. Reading the letter. If we were yarn and needle; we'd knit a fine sweater.

love you,

rosie baby.

Thursday, May 6, 2010


Monk is the heart and the soul

of what we do.. of MonkmanMedia...


truly, the heart of many..


that's way to much on to frown..

Why does this happen?

Especially when we need it most?

How inconsiderate is negativity

to always want to flaw the inspired?

Maybe its the amounts of hours of work

the strain, the collected internal brain stress

that oozes to the screen, breaking and swallowing up

the computers insides...

You'll make up the work in no time..

And like you said bro..

Better...wayyy freakiinnggg betteerrr...

Wednesday, May 5, 2010

Monk call me

May have a hookup
To save you some woe,
Load it to my computer,
A bandaid.
Macs are his specialty
Let me know, what's shot,
I'll figure out if we can at least save the filing cabinet.


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Back up your Mac.

One long a painful life lesson to be learned.

Always back up your Mac, I mean... if you don't to retrieve the data.

It costs 2,100 bucks to send it out and have them crack it open to restore your lost data.

That's the price of a whole new unit.

So, as I type out to you all, while sitting in a Mac authorized repair shop... on a sweet new iMac 27"

Let this be own, if a Mac harddrive craps out the second you put your Disk in to back it up...

Your fucked.

On the bright side, I get to buy a brand new machine. Fucking Hell.

Check out Bleed Poetry.

Be advised I will be re-releasing Eli Thomson's new ebook. Once I rebuild it on a fresh computer, the original one was lost in the harddrive, in which tells me to make an even stronger version for viewer impact.

Monday, May 3, 2010


So if I trip

my mind will rip

and my father'll spit

white like the last to the

outlasted hymn,

Where we're all in

the brim trimmed

my head rug burn spin,

my eyes falling

and cave in, I cave

my sense fully

out from throgs neck,

as my neckband


Dunking on a relapsed over head,

over the bright bed,

my hands turn to beat my mouth

Folks turn pink cheeky

bear me, my bare

head facing master tit


My brains relapsed


Free we spree out with

new antics..

Etiquette - 'Frenekace'..

When my place is big,

threaten it..

preterits, pre-'predecicing'

where it is; pre-meditated

Who you is?!?


I see e'm standing...

Eyes peering out the window

on the over heap of the train;

Watching the buildings pass

by and by...

And I ask them what to look

forward to?

Graveled dreams on the

the corner of the room...



Givingly I stride tonight..

When the lights flair on tight.

I hold my head high..

feeling the wind

blowing through...

Continuing on my back peels

the birds dig deep racked my back,

and the flesh seems fleshed appeal..

Where did my hanging carbon made,

justify my taker, I take..

The water I drank too dry..

My knees will seep concrete..

No one, get's left behind..

::Work Slow::

Can I create work..
Can I create fire choosing my 'right'
Can you pass me a shot of lead..
Will the work make me break bread..

Figured you'll also take on my..

Will I also, figure my. instances.
Amongst the words filled like the
bottom hairs of a flys stomach. I still turn
to the night to feed my calm. * it. Cause the
reaction of that night that *ed and yelled tight,
was the same night that left my thumb
smelling right.. With a rubber
on my thumb I count fat or flow.
Let's get together and eat slow.

Wednesday, April 7, 2010

Meat Manniquin

Confident strides forward
Aimed towards an end
Nothing breaking through,
Yesterdays washed away
Only to muddy itself
Underfoot and out of mind,
Seeking no ones acceptence
Expecting nothing
Excepting offers,
In the flash bulbs echo,
Arched forward towards the glare
Masking indesicion,
Such precise grace
Hiding all derision
Instinctivly evasive
Taking another step.

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Sunday, April 4, 2010


floating through,

high lengths,

lights? these streets,




drowning in this static...

sure is something,

so much pain,

so little time.



bring me up.

there are so many little things a miss in this little world of disease.

don't get me wrong, please.

it striking, profoundly.

anything can happen.

i don't what tomorrow will bring,

hopefully life,

in this incurable and somewhat,

painful dream of treatment.

and so, ibleed.

on the inside out.

a girl passed by,

once, twice, three times it be.

along side her,

an Ed Hardy plastic bit,

( how and why do we breed people like this into our society,

and what is their real functionality, come on.. really? )

chewing for a stare,

sorry doll,

just because I don't respond,

doesn't mean your not there.

you huff, ( ha, save it. )

( stare for a glare... frozen now? )

I see.. the real you,

on the inside out.

Just plain ugly.

Make up, and blonde...

( you called it. )

oh, and a boyfriend with a rapist wit,

and bad coke habit.


a functioning human being spawns,

an intellectual conversation,

after body language starts.

And it's not like I'm say there was sparks..

your just a digestive muse.

you.. grunt?


Butt sounds verbally?

Good for you.

And I feel sorry for you,

and for that..

I wish you're blessed upon,

with the birth of thousand retards.

Monday, March 29, 2010

from the bottom.

of my heart,
thank you.
You keep me going.
Just for those kids that call in,
through escapism of the mundane.
To hear the stir of echos in the background,
violent and muffled,
to listen to the joy and enthusiasm this connection brings to this child.
knowledge! Drive!
I must keep going,
to keep strong,
to be that pulse,
keeping that boy alive.

Once again brother,
thank you for keeping strong,
to keep that child alive and full of imagination,
and it's beautiful wonders.

You are an angel.

Sunday, March 7, 2010

mentally, i'm visually pleased.

spark a career,

in a autistic daze.

coined phrase,

a play on innocence.

stetching it out,

on many levels,

just like that day.

i didn't want to say,

but knew it to be true.

i didn't want to hurt you,

but it was the only way,

i could truly give you everything.

and in the now,

too see past the glitches,

the stitches,


and bath bleaches.

leaving a thick stain on my soul.

through silent screams,

an unexplained muse of pain,

towering over buildings,

cut the dead air down,


fading away,

only to return,

to truly see,

the circle is almost complete.

and what a pretty little picture it is.

In the year of revised 80's theme and pseudo pastel colours, and yet still repressed from the 90's (2004 yep), I helped a best friend at the time with a demo reel. While conducting the catch phrase tidbits, I strung out on paper the next 6 years of my life. Scary but true, I still have the images burnt into the back of my brain.

I didn't think about the precursor until two minutes ago when I realized that my life was completely in lined. From my work line up, to health problems, to social interactions, all the way into my current situation and work status.

Funny to think about really, I went into my storage area to search for the illustration, but with no luck, it was no where to be found.

( Believe it, if I find it I will post it, and if you know me, it makes perfect sense all too well. )

So, tangle me in telephone wires.

Because deep down inside,

I know that this is only the beginning.

And you know it too.

( it's a funny to think about, but it's only when death knocks on your door, that you truly start to live... so, bring it. )

current mood... happy as fuck.

Friday, February 26, 2010

On the other side

On the otherside of fractured spectum
The lights shine bright
And we dissect the meaning
Still weaning on our fore fathers
Coal pipe,
Hyped up on ecology
All seeming to green to me
To be safe for society
Is to change it's course
Not paint it's folly
Girls of the world still girdled in stereotype
The world revolves
But our revolutions are alibis
For our crimes against a sweet mother,
Who only ever had our best intrests in mind.
And you will find me in the bottom of a plastic bottle
Littered with urges I choose not to contain
As we all sit on shore
Waiting for bigger waves
We generally prefer to misbehave,
Because after this,
All is pretty graves.

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Thursday, February 25, 2010

plumber's butt; baby butter.

plumber's butt, baby butter.

art at heart, in this ark.. it's dark.

you will never know.

art at heart, in this ark.. it's dark.

you will never know.

art at heart, in this ark.. it's dark.

you will never know.

this fungal, viral, and bacterium corpus cocktail.

it's going to kill me.

Sunday, February 21, 2010

Read this article, understand it.

The Chinese Are in My Laptop!
Huffington Post[Saturday, February 20, 2010 13:34]
Rory Fitzgerald
Irish journalist

Yesterday I posted a piece about Tibet, criticizing China and saying the West should stand up for Tibetans. Within an hour of the piece going online, my normally reliable laptop began to play up: programs seized, and weird error massages kept coming up. Microsoft Word went crazy. My computer then stopped functioning completely for the first time in the three years I've had it. A friend, an IT security consultant, said this could have been a due to hacking or cyber attacks.

Now, in my case, I'm sure it's just a coincidence. I'd actually be quite flattered if the Chinese authorities took such an interest in my scribblings. But cyber-attacks emanating from China are a very real phenomenon for journalists, especially in the run up sensitive events like the yesterday's meeting between President Obama and the Dalai Lama. In fact, it is now almost routine for China to launch cyber attacks on journalists and news agencies: They have recently attacked the computer systems of Reuters, Dow Jones and Agence Presse. They focus these attacks just before major news events involving China. In the wake of cyber-attacks on Google, Hillary Clinton recently condemned cyber-attacks saying that they contravene the human right to free speech. Well, if the Chinese can cyber attack Google, they can surely get in to my beat-up old laptop if they want.

We almost take cyber-snooping for granted these days, but we shouldn't. Let's imagine if the same thing happened with 1980s technology: I write a piece criticizing China on my electronic typewriter (while listening to Wham.) I then post it to the United States where it is published. I come home the next day to find a Chinese man rooting around in my filing cabinet.

If that happened in your own home, you might be tempted to take the 12 bore to the intruder. We should be equally belligerent about the modern version of this sort of intrusion. Nor should we cooperate with a regime that behaves in this way: the Chinese are forever spying on Western individuals, corporations and governments. Well done to Google for pulling out of China. Full credit also to the Huffington Post for featuring my piece on their front page. They are not cowed by Chinese cyber threats.

Before posting the piece yesterday, I said to my wife, "Hey, you know how we've always dreamed of going to Tibet? I'm just about to post a piece about it. If I do, we'll probably never be allowed in."

"Small price to pay," she said.

Why care about Tibet? If you watch this video you will see one very good reason why: (CLICK HERE to watch)

In September 2006, 75 young Tibetans tried to flee across the border to Nepal. They were attempting to cross the high mountain passes near Everest. Only 43 made it to Nepal. Of the others, some were shot in the back by Chinese soldiers and many were captured. Some are now missing, presumed dead. The group included children and Buddhist nuns. As the bullets rained down, they could not even run, because they were waist deep in snow. The first to be shot dead was a 17 year old Buddhist nun named Kelsang Namtso. Western mountaineers at China's Everest base camp videoed the shootings: Chinese snipers calmly aimed across the cavernous Himalayan valley and shot dead these defenseless civilians, fleeing for a better life. Such incidents happen all the time. This one was only unusual because it was videoed by Westerners: one of the Western climbers can be heard saying incredulously: "they are shooting them, like dogs."

When these Tibetans were attacked they had already been walking for seventeen days. They had gone without food or sleep. A few years ago, I trekked to Nepal's Everest base camp: even with our modern gear and the help of porters, the conditions at 18,000 feet were harsh beyond belief. There is hardly even any oxygen. Why did these impoverished and ill-equipped people risk their lives crossing the Himalayas, one of the most forbidding environments on earth? Because of a Chinese oppression that the world no longer cares about. Here is a list of those said to be still missing since the September 2006 attack. They are presumed imprisoned or dead:

· Tenwang, age 7
· Lhakpa Tsering, age 8
· Dhondup Lhamo, age 9
· Dechen Dolma, age 10
· Wangchen, age 11
· Tsedon, age 12
· Sonam Wangdue, age 12
· Ming Shomo, age 13
· Lodoe Nyima, age 15
· Jamyang Tsetan, age 16
· Karma Tsetan, age 16
· Lodoe Namkha, age 16
· Karma, age 19
· Samten, age 19
· Sonam Palzom, age 20
· Dhondup Palden, age 21
· Kusang, age 22
· Lobsang Paljor, age 35

Every day that we trade with China, we make it wealthier and more powerful. Yet in Tienneman Square and elsewhere we have seen how China treats it own people, and the people of Tibet. China is also using its growing power to prop up dictators in Africa, such as Robert Mugabe.

Why do we continue to trade with China? For the sake of our "economic interests." Just for the life of Tenwang, age 7, I'd happily live a life of poverty. But if the West did invoke principled sanctions against China, we wouldn't all suddenly collapse in to poverty. We might have a slightly modified standard of living. It might even be good if the West again manufactured its own things. Why not reopen our factories and give ordinary working people jobs again?

The idea that trade and engagement with China will make it become democratic is as dead as 17-year-old Kelsang Namtso, the Buddhist nun killed on that mountain pass. Ordinary Chinese people are wonderful, and are the inheritors of an amazing civilization, but their government is increasingly tyrannical; and it's trying to go global. The West must now choose between money and the principles that made it great. We are sacrificing the lives and liberty of innocent people for an addiction to consumer goods that don't make us any happier.

If we choose money now, you'd better teach your children the Mandarin for "yes sir".

Me, I just want to know the Mandarin for "get the hell out of my laptop."
America, Canada, Europe, could all do better for themselves if they refused the gift basket of chinese economy and labor. The goverment of China has for too long been allowed to thwart the conventions of good society. if we tolerate it today, tomorrow we will have no excuse for what becomes of  civilization.

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Tuesday, February 9, 2010


Seems like all I ever do
Is sit and wait for you.
Perhaps it could be
You're waiting for me
And I on my hands
Sitting patiently.

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Saturday, January 30, 2010

Nipped and Tucked

Needle laden dead face
Don't look surprised
All your flesh rotten meat
Full of toxins that can't degrade
You'll never fade you beauty queen.
A pile of shit no matter how well plastered, basterdized reality.
Shooting up knocked dead,
Blazing lights of your side show
Making Porno suitors pleasure
A pleasure to get away from
A treasure to your exes.

Laid out, ripped open
Bare rotten flesh
Bloody scars and black eyes
Your so fine it will pay for itself
As you splay yourself for another dime,
The infection seeps in and you creep into new dimensions everytime
A manic manniquen melting the mold
A mental patient with enough money
To destroy yourself with skilled hands
Hiding in the coccoon for the wounds to heal.

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Tuesday, January 19, 2010

Wide awake

Can't sleep
Morning wood will get me
No more sexy dreams
Waking up screaming
As the bandages over load
And I feel my dick will explode
In the unsexual way
Frozen in terror and pain
The pulsing vein
Numb head and blood stained
It's 4am and I'm going insane
Afraid to sleep
Afraid of my brain
Freddy Kreugar knifing my knife
Impossible to sleep through.

That's where I'm at, FML.

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Monday, January 18, 2010


To be 26
And far from Jewish
To have my fagoygel versnitted
The pain and the blood
The nap I've woke up from
The pain in my loins
As it boings between my legs
All this too much information
A useless cut up piece of flesh for now
Fearing an erection or urination
How long before my kidneys
Or testicles

Where I'm at, now you know.

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