Old freewriting. A bit girly but I thought it was nice.

The cracks in your eyes leak when you speak, fragile, pearly white pupils that bat back and forth like planets aligning for a final judgement. You speak so soft and eloquently but are so afraid, your body a divine temple, silky and unornamented except for the burdens that are carried upon it. The turret in which you were once sheltered is gone, lost with the sparkling winds that had carried it. You might miss the cozy warm blankets and frilly pillows in that bedroom but you are different now, you are lost in your own solidarity. If you are lucky maybe you'll escape the labyrinth, take the time to sniff the flowers and maybe your spirits will soar and your brain will fill with the same restless dopamine that lives inside the blossom. I hope this will happen, I hope I can fix your leaky porcelain eyes, but I am no man of any sort of trade and I do not mean to be. I am only a wisher. I can hope for miracles but I can only craft within the limits of my own aching bone and flesh. Love weeps, existence dawns.

Baby Wars and Truth Beams (Freewriting)

The paintings are becoming more vivid again, Marley. One of the most terrible things that has haver been born just crawled under my skin and is heading straight for my cerebellum. Once it begins to tear and gnash at my nervous sistem I will be an angry motherfucker again, and I won’t even remember your name. I will swear at the stars and bind myself to hatred of all things, the microbes that controlled animosity inside my peace valves will be raped and thrown into burlap sacks into the new york river. A few days will pass and on the twelfth of October, a sun will rise with much more essence than its brothers and sisters. It will rise and grow brighter and brighter, untill all is whiter than any holocaust bleakness in any history book. The one thing you need to remember is that God loves you, even if he did try to rob a liquor store. It wasn’t his fgault, the hipster with the sad grin made him do it.

Call me old fashioned, but the smell of lilacs makes me quiver with a sort of euphoric shock. It is trendy to go along with the most immediate urges, while those who pursue greater depths and levels of necessity are burdened with the collapse of their social life, and the ridicule from those who choose not to explore themselves. It is a cry for help when society collapses in such a manner. The bonding agent that shoved us all into this same world is imploding. The nexus that will replace us will be the focal point for love, and the land will crawl with babies of all creeds. There will be a war, and the babies will starve and fall into trenches. They will fight back, nude and covered with mud, but their efforts will be callous and misguided. The young must again obey their peers.

Money revolts the anarchists into bumming homosapien flowers. The periodical discharge from the cornea may be a result of the truth burning into your retina, and searing your mind like a cow being branded. It wont be long once you have forgotten who you are, and then you will forget what you stand for. Monotony goes well with monopoly, and true dissidence will come with the plausible discourse of action and happenstance. The vixen with the solid green lips will be the one who dances with villains, and it is her that I need to talk to, and tell her that the earth is dying.

Ghost Love (Freewriting while inebriated)

the mind of man is not far gone in it’s wild conspiracies and hypothetical nonsense that they tyhrow in just to destroy your dreams and inhibitions always remember that every time you fly they gain one of uyour wingas, and your children will never live to see the future only six of your friends will follow me on my jpourney not only are you gone to me but you are really gopod at what you do like things like seetling a village in its exposure to me that is a wonderful thing to be able to do ia am regretting i do not know where the arrows are pointling to the edge of the earth or otherwise things are moving atround very shrapyl and i do not see how to get there for it is only like a miracle to say that we don not ermember what we are told everytdh as things like that get to us in the end it donesnt really matter because thats where we all seem to head anyways and the laughing becomes so hard that you forgry to look where yoi are headed and the end of the line becomes so invisible that when you are lifted into the sky almost eveuryonearound you will love to be in you omnly the very finest would ever uhderstand but the end of the line is something you need to understand with only the finesrt if tijmes journeys and expodeitions in the end of everything

the only way to truly say what i mean is so arrange it in a way where things dont really matter as much as they used to anymore not the same as rhelly wanting to go do it but it is just so amazing that i needed to tell you that when i am over the sea and instead of on top i am at the boottom i see only how things couldve gotten better if we tried a little harder but i am not going to say it was all for nothing because that would be fraudulent inside and i d o not harbor any criminals in my heart for yuou were a witch and a scoundrel you fucking ghost wehre were you when i needed help every aspect of my life was something to do with the mafia the lords and the energy it took for me to write this paragraph is pnly the more proof that you need i want to rip you out a need air socket to throw acoros s the bends here with me uand uoir lover wojne dyay eweiiwkll wabts t9 see tyr08gu 9t t0 tye ehd wuere we caj -jpy uep-f 0t9 wabt t0 opead tue 9-9 tue [r90kj9]dsrf oahd 8h tye t9ke tya6 9t t00o f0r ke t0 kjaoe tuy9s s0jg 0hoy 0oeu 0f tye kjehj tua7 w0rutrpjehre dueicidh fhuffeh tgurhufhhrururu ryedurufuids udi

Miami (Edited Freewriting)

The animals move along their beaten path, tightly shielded from their womb. The unworthy among them still demand respect, but somehow all seem beautiful. Their hills are not gone but rebuilt, with curious angles and slopes. The color of the world is faded and dying. A smeared pastel horizon of tessellations and shapes, of pinks and oranges and yellows, and Black and white never stop arguing.The sound particles are soothingly infinite, but eventually I hear the world derail, and come to a screeching halt.

Drawing by Michelle Pugliese, inspired by this paragraph

The lamb had crawled up into the pipes and gotten sick, but had made friends with the bats and other strange creatures that lived there. They told the lamb not to be afraid, but the lamb was still terrified. Her wool had uncurled and grown dingy and bright red with fear. To this the other creatures widened their eyes and howled, they mauled the lamb to silence before the creature could cause any further harm.

Take it in stride my dear, you do not become the land of the lord overnight. It will wreck you sometimes, spare yourself the grief. Pick up an axe and start the hemming, it leaves much to be desired when you are in the zone, in that constant overturning apple orchard that rocks you like the otters do, they teeter on the brink of extinction and laugh about it, joke about it like your uncle when he tells his stories, you know, the one about the bowling pin and the hooker, that one.. The way you can’t see the sunbeams when it is sunny out, I love you for that, the way you don’t sleep when you dream, the way your lashes flush like a butterfly, sloshing mini hurricanes in the timid air, I like that.

Don’t waste all of your love in Asia Minor, it is destitute. You are better off timing it right, keeping it, or spending it on the trees next to me, growing around my ankles and lifting me into space. It takes a true hero to limit himself to the base that’s offered, to not run back and forth screaming at such a high speed he tells himself to fuck off, to let go and to let the girl get the best of things, it is a trite offense but it happens to the best, and the rest take it in pieces as well, an awful gain of power and distress, something you or I will never take, never believe in and never understand fully, it is an awful business, but that’s what it takes to be a man, to be an awkward lanky giant in a land of elves and god kings, it is awful, like a towel still dry, soaked in dry blood and warm, hot air, buzzing the dignity out of you with vampire teeth and creeping up on your soul, poised to strike and sink the teeth of rabbits and bats into its bloodstream.

The fire of the world is in Chicago, under the sewers and in the poor people’s hearts. It lights the streetlights and fuels the waves of the rich, heightens the buildings with coal and burning desires for money and greed accents the fornicating devils inside. Why don’t we crush the entire city, smush it like a fireant, try and do what God did to Sodom, that would seem fit. It is an awful thing that we have made, it will spawn more, and we have doomed ourselves, but we can love the future babies and deem our hatred to the past, they deserve it and why not, they fucked over the ample theatres of York and England, that is a whole loaf of nutty trees to go over. Now lets hold hands and sing through our throats, out our eyeballs and with the juice in our feet, it’s a time for rejoicing says the king of our breath.

It is akin to bringing forth the light you birth in your hands, the grief that bellows inside your stomach, grumbling and bumbling like an insane man in a whorehouse ready to squirm and faint. Too much, they would say, an awkward display of talent without the class and portrayal of lust and love. How we must feel the grease on our knees and rejoice when we do so, it is frantic living in days like these. How would someone so fat be able to clap a mountain between his hands, or even touch it for that matter? He cannot move, he can only look puzzled at the flies and pixies dancing on his drunken belly, throwing a kegger inside his bellybutton and poledancing on his pubic hair. Extraordinary depth, tightening the invisible noose swelling around your neck, burning into your raw milky skin. Lice covering your liver and nibbling at your skull, digging manholes to your cerebellum, hoping to find work in a better land. Maybe the economy is better, or maybe the crime won’t be so bad. But they sigh and they know it is, yet still they nibble, toil, and wake up in the morning. How could one not see the neglect in their eyes, they have not given themselves a chance to partake in the seasoning of the dogs, or to chew through the rat meat without the horror of being caught, or captured by the one who owns it. There are better things to do, and so we stay in delusion, constant motion, living in denial and prancing up and down hallways in constant delirium.

It’s a pie to the face or a punch to the stomach, it will bring happiness to those who don’t have it and gleam in the sunshine. Whenever it is near people will celebrate, throw up their arms and hug and kiss and follow eachother to the mountains singing and dancing and raking lawns for hours and hours until the notes in t heir brains are dead and dull, and they can do no more. It is a feeling very void and awkward, like a lanky giant pruning an apple tree or going to the ghetto to raise a calf. It brings little reward other than the actual money and dogs, but when there is nothing left to breathe there is nothing left to care for. It is a free world again, and we will have our wishes. The prayers will stay unanswered, but the hollow shells of horse carcasses and goat liquor will stick to the dingy desert surface for eternity.

Light (Freewriting)

Tie the rays of light in a bow and let it sit, it will be a moment before it regains consciousness. When it does, be careful. You will have angered the beast that steers it’s direction, and it will try to eat you and pick its teeth with your shoulder bone. Thrown in the ring like an ox carrying babies, or a little tube top earring that your mom used to wear to church, it feels sensational, that classy mature look all the young daughters seem to want these days. I haven’t the slightest idea why, it seems that to them beauty is as inconceivable an option as epilepsy or herding cattle to a library. It takes a sharp forked tongue to see through these things and when you do, if you do, it should be faint and shallow, with hardly the air to breathe or move even after. It likes it when its raining, cold hard and dry blood tears staining the sidewalk color schemes of whatever mood they’re in. Somehow in the dark it always seems purple, purple like infinity purple like the parades and your eyes and the movie I saw last night, horrible what a waste of time, it was like driving off a cliff, that’s a movie too but not as bad, it took me a bit to rethink everything I thought while I saw it and when I did I was glad, it seemed more fulfilling to watch someone die than to actually die or kill, schadenfreude has sick limits, if any.

Bring the light to the postal worker, he will watch you cry and tear your tears to shreds, recycle them and watch himself cry his own, feed them to his dog and then light his house on fire. He loves you, he always bringsy ou gifts, you never say a word to him. Why does he do it, when you give him no respect? He must be lonely, living in a castle of gifts handing them out to people and getting no love in return. An awful way to live, but selflessness is not for the meek. Bring me my slippers, I have a day job, live to live, bring home the bread and baste it in chicken fuel, in the mouth of the belly of the beast at hand. It tries to seem scared but it is not, it only tries to comfort your uneasiness by relating to you. There is nothing we can do to understand it, but once we do the options will be incredible, like typing on a windshield, or roped naked to a hanging lasso noosed by the throat seeing stars behind bars, every breath closer to the last, every word a little bit of dignity, shreds, petals to pieces.

Gallop in gallows, in paper fields of essays and ratty photos of old mice, holes chewed in by babies and old stoners, the resin on the bottom of human evolution chain. Frozen in cubes and diced, that’s what grandmother always used to say, marry the Mona Lisa and she will marry you as well. It never made much sense, but her eyes did, following everything so curiously following everyone everywhere all at once, ubiquitous like some sort of Godly effigy. Maybe Mona was a pantheist, maybe there was no need to follow, she was just bored, its hard to say with eyes like that, so berating and critical. It makes you uneasy, makes the sweat stick to your back, sting your eyes and make you sick, stabbing into your stomach poison tipped needles.. Japan would understand, but not Amerika.