Right out of the gate, I want to say, "No."
No, I am not AGAINST THE CONCEPT of altering my brain chemistry.
I dunno how you could be, to be honest. Seems fuckin' stupid. I could understand not wanting to alter your own brain chemistry, fine. You don't wanna, that's fine. Really. But if I want to do it, and I'm not going to fuck with you, where's the problem? In fact, you can even leave.
Jul 24, 2007
Jul 20, 2007
This girl I fancy...
So there's this girl I fancy. I blame her for the poetry nobody wanted to see. Nobody saw it, but I digress.
They try to make me go to rehab, and I won't go, no, no.
I went to a show with her last night. Caroline Smith was the performer. Caroline Smith is not the girl I fancy. Caroline Smith has a myspace, and her music is pretty fucking good. I may just want to like it because this girl I fancy likes it. I'll probably never know. I'd have to read the lyrics.
Enough of this. Let's just say, there's this girl I fancy, and leave it at that. I went bowling with her tonight. I understand, I said I was going to leave it, and I am.
---
Matthew Culler had always been a mama's boy. From a very young age, he was sensitive and kind. Empathetic would be the word. A better, two-word phrase would be: Reluctantly Empathetic. To be truthful, he hated his disposition. Always knowing how the other guy feels isn't a great way to think about things.
Until the world beat it out of him, he was a crybaby. His mother told him it was "okay to cry." And it was, if you were a woman. In Nevar, reasons to cry were plentiful, even if you weren't accustomed to feeling everyone else's pain.
His mother died when he was thirteen. Crying was no longer an option. He had to make his own way.
In Nevar, young travelers were unheard of for two main reasons. Purebred human children themselves were rare. Four of every Five newborns was born with extra legs , giant heads, or the like. Muties, they called them. Mutie babies almost always kill the mother during birth.
The other reason amounted to one word with a complicated explanation: Beastmen.
Even when humans bred true, without mutie offspring killing the species over millennia, Beastmen were a constant threat. Beastmen just were. They live in the wilderness, and they hate humans. Beastmen raids were constant, and traveling between towns was dangerous.
Somehow, the young Matt survived for five years on the road. Drifting from town to town. He would hold up somewhere until the novelty of his story would wear thin on a town's patience. Then be gone before sunup. Nobody ever traveled at night, they didn't even think of it. Most Beastmen see best at night.
Matt learned to use a pistol at 14, from a man named Eddie, the self-appointed sheriff of a flyspeck town. Matt watched Eddie die less than a year after meeting him. Eddie once told Matt that anyone who wouldn't die screaming doesn't deserve to live. Eddie deserved to live, but he died screaming.
Most Beastmen aren't above eating humans. Howlers prefer human flesh to other food. Howler Beastmen look like an obscene mix of human and wild dog. Many look like humans covered in fur, with doglike heads. The breed of dog can differ, with Hyenas, Wolves, Coyotes, and Dingos being most common. Eddie was eaten alive. Alive and conscious.
When the Howlers ambushed them, Eddie handed Matt his pistols.
Eddie said, "Run."
Matt ran, and never forgave himself for it. How he survived, he didn't know for a long time.
He'd never know how he came to find himself, just six years later, the ad-hoc sheriff of a flyspeck town. Caring for a sprig of twelve-year-old boy. This was just before he realized that his "empathy" was merely undeveloped telepathy. His untrained ability to touch minds had caused him so much grief. But that's another story entirely.
They try to make me go to rehab, and I won't go, no, no.
I went to a show with her last night. Caroline Smith was the performer. Caroline Smith is not the girl I fancy. Caroline Smith has a myspace, and her music is pretty fucking good. I may just want to like it because this girl I fancy likes it. I'll probably never know. I'd have to read the lyrics.
Enough of this. Let's just say, there's this girl I fancy, and leave it at that. I went bowling with her tonight. I understand, I said I was going to leave it, and I am.
---
Matthew Culler had always been a mama's boy. From a very young age, he was sensitive and kind. Empathetic would be the word. A better, two-word phrase would be: Reluctantly Empathetic. To be truthful, he hated his disposition. Always knowing how the other guy feels isn't a great way to think about things.
Until the world beat it out of him, he was a crybaby. His mother told him it was "okay to cry." And it was, if you were a woman. In Nevar, reasons to cry were plentiful, even if you weren't accustomed to feeling everyone else's pain.
His mother died when he was thirteen. Crying was no longer an option. He had to make his own way.
In Nevar, young travelers were unheard of for two main reasons. Purebred human children themselves were rare. Four of every Five newborns was born with extra legs , giant heads, or the like. Muties, they called them. Mutie babies almost always kill the mother during birth.
The other reason amounted to one word with a complicated explanation: Beastmen.
Even when humans bred true, without mutie offspring killing the species over millennia, Beastmen were a constant threat. Beastmen just were. They live in the wilderness, and they hate humans. Beastmen raids were constant, and traveling between towns was dangerous.
Somehow, the young Matt survived for five years on the road. Drifting from town to town. He would hold up somewhere until the novelty of his story would wear thin on a town's patience. Then be gone before sunup. Nobody ever traveled at night, they didn't even think of it. Most Beastmen see best at night.
Matt learned to use a pistol at 14, from a man named Eddie, the self-appointed sheriff of a flyspeck town. Matt watched Eddie die less than a year after meeting him. Eddie once told Matt that anyone who wouldn't die screaming doesn't deserve to live. Eddie deserved to live, but he died screaming.
Most Beastmen aren't above eating humans. Howlers prefer human flesh to other food. Howler Beastmen look like an obscene mix of human and wild dog. Many look like humans covered in fur, with doglike heads. The breed of dog can differ, with Hyenas, Wolves, Coyotes, and Dingos being most common. Eddie was eaten alive. Alive and conscious.
When the Howlers ambushed them, Eddie handed Matt his pistols.
Eddie said, "Run."
Matt ran, and never forgave himself for it. How he survived, he didn't know for a long time.
He'd never know how he came to find himself, just six years later, the ad-hoc sheriff of a flyspeck town. Caring for a sprig of twelve-year-old boy. This was just before he realized that his "empathy" was merely undeveloped telepathy. His untrained ability to touch minds had caused him so much grief. But that's another story entirely.
Jul 13, 2007
Jun 17, 2007
More Poetic Drivel
When your lips reach skyward
Stretching to touch each brow
My whole brain twitches
Like snakes of trains starting to Krakow
When the smile actually connects
Your whole visage flares
Like a fire of hair and skin
With the rendered fat, they'll make wares
Soap and candles
From my blubbery calorie stores
And all because you smiled
My Gypsy ash, from Auschwitz pours
Stretching to touch each brow
My whole brain twitches
Like snakes of trains starting to Krakow
When the smile actually connects
Your whole visage flares
Like a fire of hair and skin
With the rendered fat, they'll make wares
Soap and candles
From my blubbery calorie stores
And all because you smiled
My Gypsy ash, from Auschwitz pours
Jun 12, 2007
A Deca-Dense of Dittering Drivel
1.
The Memory of your scent,
Is a stolen gem,
Glittering, though rent
As it was not given.
The slightest touch,
Also stolen
Takes me to an undiscovered glen,
Where the blossoms I never wanted lie
Save to be picked for someone,
Before I die.
And the apple trees
Litter the ground
With the gifts
I would wish away
Just to know you've been found,
And saw me through the fray.
2.
The girl inside my head
I try to judge her and flee
She lies asleep in bed
I’m stuck, smoking, unfed
Wishing I had the proficiency
With lyrics or words to articulate
Or the will to slam that gate
Any semblance of stability or dignity,
Has been washed away, gone forever.
With a simple, innocent glance or gesture
All oaths, I am willing to sever
Of course, I never asked,
For all my hopes to be dashed
For this illogical infatuation,
With the things she’s said
I didn’t want,
Never asked for,
And can’t be rid of,
This girl inside my head.
3.
‘Tis scary, true
To be adored in full view
The mad and smitten
See only their desire
All else is a midden
Which am I then?
To be charred by this fire
A flame of thought, and a pen
Won’t close this abyssal fissure
Both sides must ignite
To make this cursed inferno a treasure
Oh, you wicked, ignorant sprite
Thief of my dreams and demeanor
Return them, and abandon your magical candor
Or while our candles are still lit
Touch the sparks
Form a blaze against the dismal pit
If only for several silent seconds
The gleam of our union,
With the void, reckons.
4.
If a look could sell anthrax
To a paranoid cokehead
It would take your eyes
To get his nostrils fed.
They’ve always claimed,
“Eyes are windows to the soul.”
But they’re fucking morons
Spewing the same old droll
There’s a soul back there
But it hides behind the radiance
Of a forty megaton blast
Where corpses of human ash perform a motionless dance
Windows aren’t blinding
Or impossible to ignore
Though you liquefy my mortal coil
(Vaporizing my blood in the soil)
Don’t avert your eyes, I must implore
5.
If my brain had a liver,
That worked much the same,
Maybe that sponge could deliver
What willpower can only feign.
This fictional organ ought,
If I imagine it right,
Filter you from thought,
And return my sight.
I’m blind, you see,
Thought my eyes still function,
There’s nothing there but you, for me.
6.
Nerves use pain
To tell my monkey brain
When something will break
Like a baby given a good shake
But when my monkey brain
Wants to talk back
Oh, it sounds much the same,
But the only outlet is a sack.
A crate of undelivered mail
That grows unabated,
Like a tumor in a pail
7.
I want to stick a pole
In your pretty head
It would have to be hollow
For me to get properly fed.
I’d suck your brilliance
And claim it was my own
Then I’d have more than the pittance
Making my words a meaningless foam
8.
Somewhere deep down,
In the marrow,
There’s a tiny crown.
Worn by a fucking peasant
Who pushes a barrow
Dirty and awkward
He avoids his fellows
Who pump relentlessly,
The bellows.
That cough crimson Cheerios
They flow like liquid smoke
Carrying Oh-Too payloads
If they clot, we choke
All the while his fellows
Pump the bellows
Nobody in their town
Ever notices the tiny crown
Because it resides on the head
Of a fucking peasant,
Who might as well be dead.
9.
You’d never know
You’re breathing
Until acrid smoke
Hits your lungs, teething
Like a fucking monster
Got into your pants
Every picnic basket,
Swarms with deadly ants.
The great delusion
Of my generation
Is the same as the last,
A tragedy that defies imagination
Culled by the same,
Malignant forces
All the while believing
There are any real choices.
10.
This ignorant society
Is like a cropped tree
That grows, futile
On the billionth mile
Of median strip
Between bustles of boulevards
Those concrete shards
Where monkey men go,
Frantically, to and fro
But, between the lanes
Mostly when it rains
Roots strive for more
Unless blighted to the core.
In our concrete cage
Necessary roots bend and break
Though it fills me with rage
I cant even comprehend
What, exactly, is at stake.
This message I have sent
To the hairless monkey men
Breeding like rats in a pen:
“On your deaths, you are bent.”
The Memory of your scent,
Is a stolen gem,
Glittering, though rent
As it was not given.
The slightest touch,
Also stolen
Takes me to an undiscovered glen,
Where the blossoms I never wanted lie
Save to be picked for someone,
Before I die.
And the apple trees
Litter the ground
With the gifts
I would wish away
Just to know you've been found,
And saw me through the fray.
2.
The girl inside my head
I try to judge her and flee
She lies asleep in bed
I’m stuck, smoking, unfed
Wishing I had the proficiency
With lyrics or words to articulate
Or the will to slam that gate
Any semblance of stability or dignity,
Has been washed away, gone forever.
With a simple, innocent glance or gesture
All oaths, I am willing to sever
Of course, I never asked,
For all my hopes to be dashed
For this illogical infatuation,
With the things she’s said
I didn’t want,
Never asked for,
And can’t be rid of,
This girl inside my head.
3.
‘Tis scary, true
To be adored in full view
The mad and smitten
See only their desire
All else is a midden
Which am I then?
To be charred by this fire
A flame of thought, and a pen
Won’t close this abyssal fissure
Both sides must ignite
To make this cursed inferno a treasure
Oh, you wicked, ignorant sprite
Thief of my dreams and demeanor
Return them, and abandon your magical candor
Or while our candles are still lit
Touch the sparks
Form a blaze against the dismal pit
If only for several silent seconds
The gleam of our union,
With the void, reckons.
4.
If a look could sell anthrax
To a paranoid cokehead
It would take your eyes
To get his nostrils fed.
They’ve always claimed,
“Eyes are windows to the soul.”
But they’re fucking morons
Spewing the same old droll
There’s a soul back there
But it hides behind the radiance
Of a forty megaton blast
Where corpses of human ash perform a motionless dance
Windows aren’t blinding
Or impossible to ignore
Though you liquefy my mortal coil
(Vaporizing my blood in the soil)
Don’t avert your eyes, I must implore
5.
If my brain had a liver,
That worked much the same,
Maybe that sponge could deliver
What willpower can only feign.
This fictional organ ought,
If I imagine it right,
Filter you from thought,
And return my sight.
I’m blind, you see,
Thought my eyes still function,
There’s nothing there but you, for me.
6.
Nerves use pain
To tell my monkey brain
When something will break
Like a baby given a good shake
But when my monkey brain
Wants to talk back
Oh, it sounds much the same,
But the only outlet is a sack.
A crate of undelivered mail
That grows unabated,
Like a tumor in a pail
7.
I want to stick a pole
In your pretty head
It would have to be hollow
For me to get properly fed.
I’d suck your brilliance
And claim it was my own
Then I’d have more than the pittance
Making my words a meaningless foam
8.
Somewhere deep down,
In the marrow,
There’s a tiny crown.
Worn by a fucking peasant
Who pushes a barrow
Dirty and awkward
He avoids his fellows
Who pump relentlessly,
The bellows.
That cough crimson Cheerios
They flow like liquid smoke
Carrying Oh-Too payloads
If they clot, we choke
All the while his fellows
Pump the bellows
Nobody in their town
Ever notices the tiny crown
Because it resides on the head
Of a fucking peasant,
Who might as well be dead.
9.
You’d never know
You’re breathing
Until acrid smoke
Hits your lungs, teething
Like a fucking monster
Got into your pants
Every picnic basket,
Swarms with deadly ants.
The great delusion
Of my generation
Is the same as the last,
A tragedy that defies imagination
Culled by the same,
Malignant forces
All the while believing
There are any real choices.
10.
This ignorant society
Is like a cropped tree
That grows, futile
On the billionth mile
Of median strip
Between bustles of boulevards
Those concrete shards
Where monkey men go,
Frantically, to and fro
But, between the lanes
Mostly when it rains
Roots strive for more
Unless blighted to the core.
In our concrete cage
Necessary roots bend and break
Though it fills me with rage
I cant even comprehend
What, exactly, is at stake.
This message I have sent
To the hairless monkey men
Breeding like rats in a pen:
“On your deaths, you are bent.”
Oh Holy Living FUCK!
My fucking archives are gone!
OH FUCKING NOES!!
Wow that sucks. That really sucks.
OH FUCKING NOES!!
Wow that sucks. That really sucks.
I'm back, MOTHERFUCKERS!
I'm going to post a ton of shit in the next few days.
I have three days off of work, which is, how should I put it? Oh. Fucking sweet.
I'm a writer again. Hopefully, I will never again be "not a writer."
Also, not that it matters, but I've been drankin' again.
If I do it for long enough, theoretically, I *have* to get good at it. Writing, not drinking. I'm already an accomplished drinker.
I've been writing poetry lately. I hate almost all poetry. An example of one exception would be "The Emperor of Ice Cream," by Wallace Stevens. Fuck, I'll just paste it.
Call the roller of big cigars,
The muscular one, and bid him whip
In kitchen cups concupiscent curds.
Let the wenches dawdle in such dress
As they are used to wear, and let the boys
Bring flowers in last month's newspapers.
Let be finale of seem.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.
Take from the dresser of deal,
Lacking the three glass knobs, that sheet
On which she embroidered fantails once
And spread it so as to cover her face.
If her horny feet protrude, they come
To show how cold she is, and dumb.
Let the lamp affix its beam.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.
That is a beautiful use of language. My poetry is not. It sucks. I write stories, and am only bothering to learn this obtuse way for telling stories (writing) to get my stories across more effectively. Poetry for me, I guess, is sort of like stretching my writing muscle. It's not very large yet, but it's voracious. What I'm saying could best be expressed in the words of a timeless song, "This dick don't hit the bottom, but I fuck the sides up." (Bloodhound Gang, Hefty Fine.
Regardless of how shitty my poetry is, I'm going to post some of it, cuz it's been written, and what the fuck else am I going to do with it? I certainly didn't write it because I enjoy reading it.
I have three days off of work, which is, how should I put it? Oh. Fucking sweet.
I'm a writer again. Hopefully, I will never again be "not a writer."
Also, not that it matters, but I've been drankin' again.
If I do it for long enough, theoretically, I *have* to get good at it. Writing, not drinking. I'm already an accomplished drinker.
I've been writing poetry lately. I hate almost all poetry. An example of one exception would be "The Emperor of Ice Cream," by Wallace Stevens. Fuck, I'll just paste it.
Call the roller of big cigars,
The muscular one, and bid him whip
In kitchen cups concupiscent curds.
Let the wenches dawdle in such dress
As they are used to wear, and let the boys
Bring flowers in last month's newspapers.
Let be finale of seem.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.
Take from the dresser of deal,
Lacking the three glass knobs, that sheet
On which she embroidered fantails once
And spread it so as to cover her face.
If her horny feet protrude, they come
To show how cold she is, and dumb.
Let the lamp affix its beam.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.
That is a beautiful use of language. My poetry is not. It sucks. I write stories, and am only bothering to learn this obtuse way for telling stories (writing) to get my stories across more effectively. Poetry for me, I guess, is sort of like stretching my writing muscle. It's not very large yet, but it's voracious. What I'm saying could best be expressed in the words of a timeless song, "This dick don't hit the bottom, but I fuck the sides up." (Bloodhound Gang, Hefty Fine.
Regardless of how shitty my poetry is, I'm going to post some of it, cuz it's been written, and what the fuck else am I going to do with it? I certainly didn't write it because I enjoy reading it.
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