Tuesday, January 30, 2007

sing a song of

It’s like having a dream you can’t remember. It’s like killing a man in the dead of winter with the afternoon sun shining and a gentle breeze at your back. It’s like going to work everyday because you can’t remember how to do anything else, you died years ago and your body just forgot to tell you. To be fair, everyone else is just as dead. You can’t kill a corpse, just flog it into submission. Wake up, Isaac. Your story hasn’t begun yet. Quit dreaming about places that don’t exist and people that don’t love you. Quit talking to yourself, it will make you seem crazy.

I’m trying to remember something I never knew. I’m trying to live a life that isn’t mine. Slowly, slowly it’s all draining away. I never had a handle on it, but if only and. WHY!?!

I’ve lost my youth staring into the Ether waiting for Life to happen. Empty, no point of escape or whatever (is left). Where do we go from here? Staring still, with such sad, empty eyes. No pain here, just that dull empty throb of boredom. Suburban, because that means something. And no one notices. And no one can tell. Of course he’s happy. Of course he likes his job. Of course he likes us. Of course. Of course. I stopped explaining. No one knew what I was rambling on about anyway.








No.

***

Caution: I am not microwave safe.

Sometimes you get lucky: sometimes you repeat something stupid enough times it starts to sound really smart. Who’s going to disagree with me? Who’s going to waste the time to care?

Nothing is an effort. It’s all a routine. Do this, do that, do the other. Shuffle to work. Shuffle to play. Drink because it’s there. Sleep because the bed is warm. Drift off because the current lost its focus, or its will to live. Who can say? None of us were paying attention either.

There are these moments where I wish I had the will power to actually go out there and engage the world/scream something anything from the mountain tops be it love or rage or the best recipe for cookies/disaster available this side of wherever. But I’m not a poet and I am too afraid to be a drifter. Just another guy smart enough to know he’s miserable, indifferent enough to stay that way. I can’t even meditate. Om mani padme huh? I understand far too well. One problem among many. So it goes (another one dies forgotten).

(insert pretty picture of a horsey - dead and in the process of being beaten)

Thursday, January 4, 2007

Lyrics to upcoming debut ep: "I lost my promise ring in math class"

I play bass in an avant noise rock conspiracy oft called Spurious Immolation. These are some of my songs or whatever…

Dionysian splendor. We forget much more than we remember. A record collection, I guess. And plenty of booze. I’ll race myself to the bottom of this bottle if you’ll race me to the bottom of the next. One line is much the same as any other. Sleeping isn’t the problem. Work isn’t either. No matter what I say. But I still don’t like you; please don’t talk to me. I’m going to hit on that blonde over there. Be my wingman. Another morning/what just happened last night?

Supposed nihilistic poetry. Stomp out the light. Don’t breathe in the fumes. If Dark Side of the Moon is playing. Fragment (consider revising). Keep correcting me in my carelessness so that I might exalt in my madness. Smile. Doubt. One can never be sure. Unless I’m dreaming or lying. And even then I might not know. Just another something or other to do while listening to music.

Purposefully inaccessible. It started out as a joke or an attempt to gain credibility I didn’t deserve by trying to be something I was not, I mean, I can’t say what I am with any certainty but I don’t think I am one of those self-righteous bastards. Look at me, please, as a middle child I must insist you give me more attention than everybody else even if I don’t deserve it / come watch Dumb and Dumber with me or I wish I had me one of those tuxedoes and just go, man, just go…

Just another drunken gate crasher. Even Peter forgot how to crow. Love is a wailing and desperate lie / crashing upon the rocks breaking into too many shards to count. To fall asleep (perchance to dream / dream of you / dream of you and me together): count backwards from three billion. The pull of emptiness can’t hold you back from … well, everyone’s got something to hold on to even when it’s just a stray clump of grass on the edge of a cliff with no root system to speak of. Hopefully the greatest lie ever told has at least some truth to it. Because if love is bullshit, what’s left?