And thus the potential reign of silent tweaks.  untold messages passed between lords.  I signed up for middle position because money and adulthood but now we're being chased by the unavoidable conflict.  Im beaten and worn.  she is distressed.  he is surprised and no doubt angry.  she oblivious.  he whiny.  im exhausted.  the end of the year may spell doom for the next.  I cant believe this is still running.  I never had the ramblings to write about imagination.  brainfart thought bubbles have been my only solution.  creativity is easy to lose when there wasnt much to begin with.  it didnt take as long as it used to though for my dizziness and lost perception of gravity to kick in though, so maybe its like riding a bike.  I never could ride without hands...  goodnight cold crickets

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When I was a young boy, I took a knife to the tip of my penis and cut downward. It peeled in perfect symmetry, curling on the ends infinitely. The two halves vibrated and turned into butterfly-wings. Perfect in form, exactly how I was supposed to be. But it was sealed back up. And she grabbed my face and spit in it. And I was told to never do it again.

Around the fire

Ex-cop playing ukulele by firelight (still smokes the evidence.)
Hunchback librarian sneaking kittens in her purse (one dies of heatstroke.)
Indian man learning English, says Fuck! Nice to meet you! Fuck! How are you!
Two friends, occasional lovers, find their way back to each other again, holding hand under the picnic table.
A piano man killing his car battery with his electric keyboard. He'll play you a song if you give him a jump.

grudges against burnt lettuce

So its gone out like a candle. More of a camp fire that was raging full of dry pine needles for a brief minute before having the bucket poured. Then the smoke, the all encompassing mist dominating the otherwise dark calm. We had enough of the smoke during the blaze, we dont want or need it after the festivities are over. Sinking in to our clothes, so our nostrils are constantly on alert, always being assaulted by a long tiring fire. I've never seen this magnitude of hostility before. We can all understand the perspective, agree to disagree and let be but it could never be enough for them, for you, now could it? You had no secrets, any of you yet you regurgitate the same jetsam and flotsam every day. trophallaxis amongst your newly tightened security blanket. your network of parasites that feed on the happy, the blissfully unaware, the content ignorance. Maybe the world can only be a better place if we deliberately choose to ignore it once it penetrates our lives. ever think of that? its not stupidity its perfectly sane! We had to stay positive to justify the fight in the first place. its kind of a catch 22. Either we fight and get ridiculed, or we stay on the sidelines and watch it burn anyway. So now we're burned, we're all burned. Scarred memories. Its just astounding to me though that you people would purposely guide the dagger in, supervising the cutting, until the only thing left is the pieces you enjoy whining about. I know you wont care about my difficult mouse click. I know Im not worth the effort of confrontation. That would have mattered to me if I felt differently though. Now that theres absolutely zero chance of civility, whether YOU realized it or not, Im through with you. I wont bother pondering the whatifs and maybes with our friendships. I know where my loyalties lie, and its about time I choose black or white. i've been too gray most of my life. oh and by the way, maybe she just is better than you. I wouldnt REALLY know given how my last convo went, but considering the monstrosity you and your cronies have become, it isnt difficult to imagine her being completely right. I know no one comes here anymore, and maybe thats for the best, given the confessions and total lack of anonymity. American settlers used to hike mountains and carve their names into the rock, just to prove their place in time. We never could know those people, but its nice to imagine.

I really need to stop reading.

When I was in 6th grade i was bullied by a guy called Zeb. I used to fantasize about killing him. About curb stomping his jaw like a heavy boot through a pomegranate. Granted, that kind of thinking I beleive justified. Even today though, i find I wonder what it would be like to cause a traffic accident. What it would be like just so bury my fist into a passer-bys stomach as we pass on the sidewalk. What it would feel like to kill someone. ANd please dont take this as a worry sign, a call for help, because Ive had these fantasies, these cruel scenarios all my life. I've never needed to question the yay or nay of calling them to fruition because Im not crazy, Im not disturbed. Honestly I dont really know what to call it.
The oddest thing, i think, is that i've never even thrown a punch in anger. I've never been in any violent confrontation. Ever. So when I have dreams of hitting someone, they dont react, they dont budge because my throw has no basis for power. They sometimes dont even notice im trying to harm them until I've already turned their face into a pudding with my fists.

Anyway these what-if scenarios arent limited to the sadistic. I'll often wonder what life would be like if I suddenly went blind, by sickness or by accident or by my own will. I wonder what it would feel like to have a knife at my throat or a gun muzzled into my gut. What would it be like if my friends or family were taken from me, leaving me broken? I have a baseball bat and a super bright led flashlight at my bedside just in case of home invasion. I've almost bought knives online, concealable ones just to have on my person as I'm walking the street. Purely for defense. With my imaginary ninja fighting skills. As if the adrenaline will release the jason bourne in me or something.

It reminds me of fight club a little bit. The parts where Jack or John or Edward come to realize the world went soft. The ways of contestual violence was shunned in lieu of pacifism. So everything is dull. All negative reactions and feelings are forbidden. We spend our entire existence trying to be at least satisfied. How can we fully appreciate the good feelings with the poor standards we set for happiness? Until we feel pain and anguish, can we really truely grow as individuals?

This would explain my yearning for wanting to be homeless. For wanting to be grungy and dirty and genuinely gross for a time. So when I pick myself back up, even if its only back to our present status' it will make every day after a triumph.
And i promise, my imaginary journey for self fulfillment will not include any actions upon any second parties. So stop trying to worry. Typing this is the closest thing to lashing out I think I'm capable of, and even this has been pent up for way too long.

Why men and women can't hold each other.

Her bells ring like an angel’s orchestra. A song for a dead time, not too far off from now. It’s Persephone’s funeral procession. Albino concubine boys carry her snowy coffin, stoic deadpan astronauts, lost in meaningless philosophical thought. They open their mouths and begin to speak the pagan tradition to return our goddess to the earth again. These red roses singing amongst slippery snow, collapsing like sound in a vacuum that no one can reach. Can’t hear a thing. After they finish the dissertation, they begin to lower her body into a hole, thundering drums dance over the hillside, back into Pluto’s arms. The arms of force. The secret history of man, written by acid spitting mother goddesses, retold by the samurai brotherhood, back and forth, over and over again until we forget who was right and who was wrong, until we forget why this whole silly war was started in the first place. Why lord Janus, the alchemical androgen, was separated into two beings. Black and White. A rod of power and hips to bear the weight of a heavy, heavy world. The oldest mystic. Jack Smith’s muse. He ran out of time, we all ran out of time. Silver light assaults the senses. The earth trembles as judgment day arrives. Pluto emerges from the earth, his lower half embedded in ice. His body composed of ten thousand suicide victims, his eyes glow of burning heretics. Old Satanael, the hero of man. Unwritten savior, underdog to the carpenter of lies. He holds out his hands and speaks:

“Your path to Dis has been chosen and you may not turn back. It is a path without madness. And yet, it is also a path without opportunity or meaning, and you will still be subjected to the same tragedies that had plagued you before, forever and ever. It is the path of the mundane, a cruel fate for someone like you. Farewell cowardly boy. Die old and senile, regretful and confused.”

The fabric of existence begins to cave in and I realize that I am wrong. As Pluto sinks back into the earth, I notice blood on my hands. Persephone lies at my feet, her neck twisted and bruised, blood spilling out of her lips. Her cheeks flustered, a lusty smile on her face.

Arcade over the edge of Leviathan

I shot her in the face and watched her fall into the sea bellow. Drowning nonchalantly, pieces of her porcelain remains scattered amongst clown fish. The tearful eyed bee keeper hands me a hankerchief and tells me that the sun is going to fall down. Standing in the shoes of my old antagonist, things begin to make sense. I weep forawhile, but I remember that she isn’t dead. They never really die, she’ll insert her coins and come back three times more powerful to strike me down and kill me.

Stage 1: Forest Wrath Zone,

Stage 2: Weed in the Parkinglot at 4:00 AM

Stage 3: Swan’s Blood Promise,

Stage 4: Futurist’s Bicycle Erotica,

Stage 5: Puppetman Orgy Castle,

Stage 6: Arcade over the edge of Leviathan,

Stage 7: Kamen Rider-All Villains Strike Back,

Stage 8: A giant battleship “Mother Harlot 99” is approaching fast!

The weakspot is the head, exposed Cotton Candy brain full of filth. She let’s go and blows away, destroys the final boss, blows me away. I fall ravaged, ruined and dead as salome’s doornail. I look up, expecting to see the broken face of the porceline girl I killed, but instead I see the shoes of my old antagonist. The Birdwoman returns to finish the job years later, ready to take my soul away again. She places the gun I used to shoot her down and insists that we play Russian Roulette. The winner get’s to climb from the wreckage and the loser must stay in the paper city that holds us lost misfits, forever.

I decline her offer.