the fucking love; believe it like scripture.

blood on the pages,
a flip book for the splatterhouse.

interlock fingergrips, won't you?
palette me in emotiongrip.
a trail you left make madesweep routine whitewash.
color.
color.
color.
the same spectrum you see against the days of youth.

it goes by,
the new you,
a taste like tantrum.

coccooned,
when you are removal,
you see the remarkable in hologram formation.
you hear the unspeakable in phantomform lovelust.
lipstongue suckswim in marriage.
eyes tractor beam between attraction.
the body the face the body the face
all the love in the goddamn world

the face the body the face the body
i goddamn love you


give me problems called
drug addiction alcohol consumption propheteering.
drip me down under gutter planks moral filter.
you, the light, holding tighter now to what we want.

house picket fence dog child wedding veil west coast warmth.
you call me closer to the heart just by beating.
you breath me closer to the lung just by gasping.
you blink me closer to the eye just by staring.
you dream me closer to the mind just by dreaming.

tight body waist, my fingers don't know sleep until they're at your navel. they lick your insides for fantasy particles. your breasts the oasis of tonguetaste, i leave your chin your back your legs arched.
grip the sheets, clench the teeth.
the lips they command the lower lips,
wet, pumping blood, screaming a name my own
YOU SEEK LUST IN MY TASTEBUDS.

i watch your nipples percolate like sunrise catalysts.
your voice touches the celing scrapes the lightbulb in pink smoke tones, a kitten scream for orgasm.

veinputty a remarkable pull-in at fingerlength.
iris to iris pupil to pupil sustaining tones of broken bones
after you come once
after you come twice
my mast is in your skies
your winds blasting my sails
over and over and over and over
and fucking over
we're destroying the beds that have been made
the sheets that have been bleached
in the name of LOVE.

my fingertips know your hips;
old friends, signatures to dotted lines
moving in circles, the pelvic bones acquaintances
hours are losing count

bathed in your moans, the last thing i know is pleading
and an eruption of soulmarkers.

you are covered in me
and we are always the same again.

this might,
yes it just might
just come again.


i miss you
like i've never missed you before.
you're the most beautiful thing i've known.
from deep sea to deep thought.
from vocabulary to pen MAN ship.
eyes body lips hair legs feet mind soul fucking words.
i miss you

i know we'll love again
in the mindbodysoul.

turn it up,
and touch the panic button.
rub it wide and round, the red just calling your name,
my voice rubbing your insides.

i love you, and this NEVER ends.
from beachfront property to poverty gutterstreet.
we know the pinkyswear by heart.

.husband

a cumming in the sheets.

i had the lines lined up like plasticine.
ribbed textures of the fingerline.
morse code of the digital.
a 101010101010101 binary masturbate.
but she gone, she gone now.
set to sea, like,
bottle on the ocean, like,
words i won't read again, hoping you'll return the letter.

the you, the room.

guardmound, the wall.
staring off as polar contention seams the solarplexis.
it was a sixteen word cantor lock load sentence.

a speech pattern as minor key thought
organgram partitioned for fable ceremony.
the animals, they talk a speech saved for degraced virginials.

conversation exemplified landlock.
the island of experience,
THIS NEVER HAPPENED.

give it up; put it down.

don't say that you're waiting
for something to come and wake you up.

A TRANSCRIPT.
THEY CALL IT THE BEST HE'S EVER DONE.

listen to my last words anywhere. listen all you boards, governments syndicates nations of the worlds and you powers behind what filth deals comsumated in what lavatory do take what is not yours to sell out your sons forever. to sell aground your unborn feet forever.

i bear no sick words junk words love words forgive words from jesus. i have not come to explain our tidy up. what am i to hang over here with the workers the gooks the apes the dogs the errand boys the human animals. why don't i come over with a board and drink coca cola or make it. explain how the blood and bones and brains of a hundred million more or less gooks went down the drain in green piss so you on the board could use bodies and minds and souls that were not yours are not yours and never will be yours. you have the wrong name and the wrong number mr. loose getty lee rockefeller. don't let them see us. don't tell them what we are doing. not the cancer deal with the venetians. not the green deal, don't let that out. disaster. unavaluable disaster.

crab men. tape worms. intestinal parasites. like burroughs, that proud american name.
proud of what, exactly. would you all like to see exactly what burroughs has to be proud of.
the mayan caper, the centipede hype, the short time racket, the heavy metal gimmick, alright mr. burroughs, who bears my name and my words bury it all the way for all to see in times square, in pickadillee.

play it all play it all play it all back.
pay it all, pay it all, pay it all back.

no, no, no.
premature, premature, premature.

are these the words of all powerful boards and syndicates of the earth?
i say all these words are not premature.
these words are all too late.

and i'm sorry to be up for the sunrise, romeo.
for you are the east, and juliet is the sun.
a drink-another-night-away setback.
speak the mind doldrum.
leave you behind rhetoric.

you don't know, but you say you do.

the volume so high, why are whitewalls even bearing down.

there's more to this than just breathing.
corpsesteady, a longing in intergrip.
stasis like aftermath. comatose like trauma.

thank God she even knew where to find him,
it was starting to sound like a party favor.
the pinata birth; concussion deafening, heart in hand.

i might be everything you need
and you might be the same to me.

tell me and i'll believe it.
can i tell you you've been
the light at the end of tunnels?
the voice at the ends of comadreams?

&
lovely green eyes:

i don't care who i am
i want to tear your ribcage down
eat out your internals

so!!

a countdown to the end of reentry, and that's when today ends. slipping through the upper echelons of nineties, and counting backwards. wrap down around the ribs around the collar bones fall back and drown. skin darkens around the knuckle locks. eyes seal around the retroblade. sweat peels off. you warned me about your electric orgasm but i just wanted more, and the door was wide open. she stared me in the eyes and i fucked you.

"is this important to you?" the lover asked, wondering if what her mouth was swallowing was creating a lasting impression.

"is this important to you?" the liar asked, wondering if, in the long run, the vessel would remember its flight.

"is this important to you?" the lesion asked, wondering if, when the blood was done flowing, the scars could match his constellation.

he came in her collarbone,
untied her, and left.

the antennas wanted to hear it all,
record the face she made when she felated.
hold the esophagus dear,
x-ray a phallus, cock-hard and dick-sure.
and does she let out a liquid sigh when she's completed.

i gave in to her,
let that face
let that voice
let that memory
let that goddamn body
eat me a-fucking-live.

the best of what i'm waiting for.

The High just crave simplicity. to sit in the sun, to listen to an
album, to laugh, to synchronize with company. even just to fly.

new circa survive album for streaming on their myspace. (link)

my weakness is my hairy back. I can't even sit in my own backyard on a
weekend without a shirt without listening for the laugh track of
witnesses. like some god-satellite will scorn me for living on with this
infection. i lost 25-30 pounds in florida, and even still, when i took my shirt off at the beach, the first thing my best friend could say is, "Steve's got a hairy back!"

I go commando more often than not.

I never knew I loved the blues until I saw black snake moan.

once again, nicole scared me straight. the best.

drugs vs. insecurities.

Sean:
orange monkeys flying around in pink tutus while flying over purple elephants with business suits talkin bout bacon politics.

Steve:
teeth for miles, and only stepping on the molars. blondes love it when you touch the thorax. starving the evil empire but slaughtering the poor.

vertebrae by vertebrae.

you
can tell by the way i talk about it. i have no idea what i'm doing.

but i'm still doing it.
like i said, "on and on and on and on."

you
can tell by the way i used to talk about it. i had no idea what i was doing.

and i can see that from now on, the world will always be made of this. the way the angles of her face make their ways into the shapes i see in sunspots. eyes wide, dream-ready. the mind hungry and charitable. strong fingers, delicate hands. unspeakable, unspeakable. unnameable. and great shoes.

got caught kicking the canvas down.
i had plans but they never seemed to work out.
wide-eyed and on the lookout, got caught tearing the whole thing down.
i was halfway done;
but then you know this painted scene could never leave me.
oh please believe me...
&
when we are awake we sing "never... ever".
this is where you must make up your mind.
should beauty be design this time?
this time you decide cause we go with whatever.
we take our time.

it's like you said:
the never stopping.
i gave you archways,
and they're yours to keep.




i hope you always knew.


.cartographist.

her
robots and mannequins.

a craning.

and then, just frames.
if we're quiet and shut the door,
they won't know.

so quiet, we'll scream in nerve endings.
quiet like window panes.

leaving fingerprints on the skin loving your ribcage.
leaving mouthprints on where your throat meets your vessel.
teethmarks.

so if it's dark and if we don't tell a soul,
they won't figure us out.
bring me in with you;
guide me at arm's length.
when we meet at the eyes again,
that's when it starts.
a soft and expectant sonata,
this will be our masterpiece.
breathe me in with all of you.

quiet like archways.

i want to see the shapes our clothes make on your floor.
dunes, i think.
mountain ranges, i think.
camouflage.

elbows and knees dividing the friction into angles. a craning neck and a smoothed out back. reaching out for you and me and everything and more. so much. handfuls, and nails. play the passion in my ears. don't stop.



and then, just frames.

every fucking word.

he says:
All to be the ones, the original, the
conscience laden conqueror,
forecast new wave edition, the
prenumb stable grounded individuals
pass us by

The ones we're trying to hold on
The ones we're trying to come through
disorder

The ones we're trying to hold on
The ones we're trying to move through
temporary disorder

Factory born and level minded pardon
Them for the inability...pass us by...to
Prevent the downfall... the prenumb
Stable grounded individuals pass us by.
-

i say:
beyond the point of pretense and silent sensibilities. the way winds the way rains the way climates come your way, the way mouths move and pass breath. the way mouths move and pass words. seeing everything in cordial invitations. the barely breathe. the soaking wet. the want you here the want you here. oh, undeniably.

wear your prettiest dress.

pre-devastate.

my mind has been caught up in south beach and in new jersey.
i don't apologize.
i want to get lost.


but i'm getting tired of this reaching across miles.

soon.

i've been taking notes on life, though, as it goes by. there are some things i've been getting a little curious and excited about. i have receipts everywhere with emotions and interests on the backs of them. i should start carrying around my moleskine, if i'm going to be this observant again. sometimes, i just do the coast-along. it gets me in trouble with myself down the line. if i have that book on me, i won't be able to forget it. stay motivated, stay moving. at least, stay thinking. even if it's concerning anime, flash animated series, and cartoons, at least it's generating electricity. at least it's shaping more folds.




Trinity Blood is a new anime that's going to be coming through to Cartoon Network soon. It has that Castlevania look. The whole Victorian era with firearms thing. Beautiful and majestic if done correctly. Otherwise, it's hokey and full of excuses. With anime, it can go either way regardless of time period and theme. So with both of those in place, we'll see how we can actually do. Of course, this must be the relapse of the Victorian era, because the storyline will take place in the future, amidst a war between Vampire and Human. The artwork is really what intrigued me, not so much the story. It might either fall into place, or fall apart. Wait for it.




Ninjai is something I've forgotten about for over a year. At least. It's a flash animated series about a small ninja boy with mad skills. That's really the best way to put it. His origins are still a mystery. I think I left off somewhere around chapter five, and they actually have a dozen to check out. They take a while to load, but the artwork and interactions are real nice. The voice acting could use a little work at times, but fuck it, that's definitely not what you come to anime for.




Karate is a band that I can thank Nothing Feels Good about. The book is going through the history of emo and the scene. It's not something I need. I think I have most of it down. But small little loopholes and band name-drops are the kind of thing that are obnoxious on the surface, but really, we're all taking a lot of notes. This band is definitely what I imagine when I think of emo. I bought "Every Sister" from iTunes and was digging it big time. I'm previewing all the tracks on that album right now and they all have that same slow vibe to it. It's so low maintenance and sad. I love it.




Fearless will, apparently, be Jet Li's final martial arts epic and I feel horrible about that. From the Once Upon a Time In China series to Hero everything he's done has been at the very least solid. The whole thing is sort've getting the "hype" rumor, which is good. Either way, Li will be representing Huo Yuan Jia, a real person who is one of the most famous martial artists in Chinese history. Regardless, this should be a sick martial arts movie to say the very least, and if Jet Li decides to make it his last, I'm sure he won't go out without some sort of bang. Cross your fingers, bang or not, this is only rumor.

-

days ago...
somewhere, horrible is happening. someone is saying, "but i can try..." and "but why!" right fucking now, someone's trying to not have an enormous piece of their life disappear. somewhere, they're taking what's left and taking inventory. this guy, no matter what he has, it's adding up to nothing tonight.

this morning
i'm surrounded by this city, but i'm just not here. like staring at the Vatican through the eyes of a demigod.

what is it you needed to show me of the steadied hand? moderate my angles. demonstrate the way the country looks on unlined paper; all splatter-sketched, a new way to see through your eyes. leave me with rustic examples.

i want to feel
your bite and your scratch.

in silent post-vocal hours, i'm playing the unremarkable role of the ambient. the music leaves minor-key stab wounds, soft lights needling in like excavations.

i could just be a terrible aggressor.

five, ten, ocean, twenty.

Someone asks "So, what's ur deal?"
"I'm taking over america," I say. "One word at a time."

I see someone mouth the words, "fuck everyone." I'm not sure the context he's referencing. Somewhere surrounded by silence I think we'd agree on a lot of things. Then again, maybe not.

Where I'm at, I think Matthew Fox is the DJ. And he loves retro lounge music.

Here, no one likes me, except the one person I'm here to see. A goal set 6 years ago. I'm for real.

Here, no one likes me, but they like the people they speak to even less.

I wonder what the cutoff is. The age limit, the price limit, the size limit on t-shirts. And at what point humping your friend is better than minding your own business, and waiting patiently. I'm for real.

"He knows nothing, and I know too much."

Here, in miami, no one looks like me. I could be Slovakian. They don't know how I do in my town. My country.

I laugh at conversations happening in different timelines. In different lifelines.

Second looks are worth what it takes to make that first look.

Imagine Nextel Walkie Talkies. Now imagine them in other languages.

What if I never make it home?
That's a fear I can't bring myself to face.

It Dies Today - My Promise
Poison the Well - A Wish

hammerghasted.

i told you this already. "you're making a huge mistake."
i saw you already. there just aren't any surprises.
welcome to the periphery.

i just want to think that i missed out; is that okay with you?

nothing is happening here.
i just saw you already.
and if it makes you feel any better,
probably not, i've already left, sign at the bottom,
they'll never see it coming.

listen to me. look at her.

aloha.
it means hello and goodbye.

june carter, ladies and gentlemen. she's real. i think i've harvested her spirit. where i've been digging, i think i've uprooted something realistic in the way the eyes can trap a way of life.

i've found june carter and on the eve of a killing she's made decades tap like unsynaptic bookends. count the words of separation on a leper's fingers. she's calling home to check the wooden houses and shaking the corners free from the cobwebs of clockwork.

june carter left a stockcar driver to be in love. she left the ring at home when she locked the door, a spiral to pawn or packrat. she left until the day she came back to stay back. she left a house to make a home.

she left a house to make a home.

baby
baby
baby
baby
baby.

june carter, her and i, we live in love that lasts.



i will illuminate
slowly the orbs that grow
to warm you.

i'm trying to find the right way to say
more than
but less than.

a tidy inparticular.

i didn't see anybody the whole ride home. the whole 3,000 miles of it, just about 7 exits. not one car, no taillights. it wasn't until i stopped at the bank that i jumped out to make a deposit of the tin cans i'd turned into robots that i left the door open to blast the techno out into open spaces. when i get back in i settle back into the reclinable but unreclined cockpit to unwind and readjust (but still not recline) and a man with brass knuckles and no degree knocks on my window. he tells me to drive, right after he calls me a mother fucker. unlocking the doors, i let him in on the other side, and i ask him why he didn't just take the car and fly solo. "i can't. i'm illiterate, he says." his knuckles mouth the words five times, and they all look like the c3p0 version of his dali-self. i dropped him off at the blood bath as three cars drove into dead churches in reverse.



my lover's antiquated. nigga, she don't even exist.

the fear of having something to say.

i don't even want to get into this right now. i want to delete my delete key so i can't fix any mistakes that i make. i see the way these kids live their lives and fill them with nothing but the inner layer. there is no peripheral, no outside, no future. and that's just how their lives will carry on. they'll figure something out, and move on. they'll leave the (r)evolution for the next generation.

smell the leaves, tell me they won't hit nice.

tonight, it's not what she was wearing, it's what she wasn't wearing.
don't tell me these things. why do you tell me these things.

i feel my tongue rest on the top of my mouth. the roof of my mouth. salivate the rumor, salivate the memory. one drop at a time, salivate the muscle housings. penetrate and taste secrets. taste teeth. taste blood walls.

i thought about beautiful who shouldn't be a pretty girl to me.
then
i thought about a new beautiful who i never expected to think about.
then
i thought about beautiful who i just saw.

a cello plays deeply.


dawn is here

magic hour.

as the sky was lighting up, to crashing.
love it.

The Trip. Part II. The Show.

Words to describe the opening band of the show at Nancy Raygun, Feb. 24th:

- the sound check of a cancer patient.
- a down syndrome bowel movement.
- blink182 melanoma.
- the soundtrack of a cyborg holocaust.
- cyanide unicorns fucking.
- uganda, the country.

Plus... Plus there's a midget here.
No joke. NO JOKE.
Line of the set: "niggaz on my momz side, niggaz on my dadz zide." GREAT.

An imagined completely false conversation:
"What does she look like?"
"Well ya know Sarah Silverman? Imagine her... Decapitated from the neck up."

A guy has SOMETHING with bat wings tattooed across his throat.

see a pretty girl, turn the eyes away.
See a pretty girl, turn the eyes away.

close your eyes long enough so it seals.

A six pack of Red Stripes could really be all it takes to stir just a bit... just a little bit of unemotional written dumpage. For whatever reason, the numb face, the nicholas cage narration, the light on my face, the unfamiliar room, it all stirs something on the inside that calls for release. An unknown desire to get every single word down on paper, on a screen. The eyes closing when they want to, the one liners that make me say "nice."

Which me really counts?

There's the beginning with the Quentin Tarantino movies, The Get Up Kids, Alexisonfire, Beloved, and Hopesfall that has absolutely no connection with Her. The part of me that was me that never got melded with her. The part of me that believed in a singluarity and a strength that would attract absolutely no one. The part of me that could die today free from a wish or a letdown or a night out at a restaurant. The me without the knowledge of horror movies.

Or is it the me that tells them about new music? The shows, the reviews, the photos, the new tracks from bands? The me the thinks that without me, it's just myspace.com and bulletins, and li_scene, and word of mouth. The me that thinks I have something to do with the unity and the turnaround of a long island scene. The me that never belives the hype. The me that still, really, thinks that only a baker's dozen people watch the site.

Or is it me that drives around with Her. That shows Her new songs. That laid with Her. That rented movies for Her that I thought would really make her smile as she made us dinner. The me that took Her to movies. The me that saw Kill Bill 2 with her, when she held my hand for the first time. The me that trusted her because she was too innocent, and too pure to become what she became. The me that saw Her for Her '04, not Her '06. The Her '06 that fucks a guy in a house without love. The Her that will be something in me, but will find brand new things in life. The Her with her own path. The Her that doesn't need the me. Any of the me.

The Her that I may or not message once this bottle is empty. Fuck.

Is it the me that thinks the world of X, that can't be without X, and that doesn't want to be without X. I see X and I know X can't be without Y. I get embarassed when I think about X, and it's because I never believe in me or what I will be. Words, and nervousness. Is it the me that looks at her the way I never should, is it me that wants to bring her everywhere. Is it me that can't make the distinction?

Is it me that never was?

Some messages I sent tonight:
"Yo man. Let me tell you something about Red Stripe. It's twice as enlightening as God and three times as stylish as Jamaica. Hope your weekend is awesome.'

"AND I NEVER HESITATE TO PUT A NIGGA ON HIS BACK!"

"Hope everything is perfect. Live it like you wrote it. Xo."

"Everything. Nothing. I smoked too much and felt you in the same state of consciousness. Live, feel, and be. Nothing will make me happier. Even if we never speak again. Please don't respond."

The Her that's too busy.

Breathe. Sigh. Lungs appreciate.

Asking Rahul a question about firearms. Then seeing Ethan Hawke.

Not believing that Mike didn't like Adaptation.

From now it's Richmond on a Thursday, and Boston on a Saturday.

A new life in Florida, North Carolina, and Richmond. Possibly Boston. Taking over cities a month or two at a time. Finding their hearts and beating with them. In sync, in time.

1/4 a bottle left. 3 oz. Then I pee it out. Ill keep the alcohol, and let it navigate and further filter out the life inside.

"Everything that comes from the Earth eventually returns." - Nicholas Cage reading a script.

"All I've done in my life is be pretty. All I've done is be born."