Stereolab_Audiac's Xanga

Friday, October 10, 2008

Fri, 10 Oct 2008 01:14:07 GMT

Here's to the try! -
To spilling your guts gracefully and propping them up prettily!

In time.

I would like to have more toasts.
Join me in having them.

To remembering to remember why we drink to forget!

Wednesday, October 08, 2008

Wed, 08 Oct 2008 08:44:58 GMT

Joyce succeeds eternal flux with cunning usage of paralytic devices. I attempt an insert to it. Not complete tonight. I instead read sex poetry and have another sleepless night, not because of the sex or poetry or Joyce or me. It's synthetic.

Wednesday, October 01, 2008

Wed, 01 Oct 2008 03:31:51 GMT

I unpacked and belonged only to be fucked off silently. Unpacking was last night, and the following item is the long forgotten visions of virginal yellow parks staked by scarring pornography marts.

I’m sexlessly goofing.

Cuddling with bugs.

Taking the place of the dilated grime of a thousand comings every night of the week, my first over privileged guest was welcomed by my clean room in the black dust of our recently arriving night of fall. I’ve wanted terribly to kill him. He’s curry-colored. I first saw him when hejumped all over the spotted khaki carpet like the stinted tentacle of an ash snake. Legs like piano keys on my hair padded carpet.

I froze in my before bed nakedness when he presented himself. He or she, no way I would I be able to pin sex on it, came from underneath my bed. This would not have happened if my bed was on the ground. The bed stands two feet off the ground because of my most conspicuously begrudging compliance to my disingenuous, ferocity prone daddy. Beds on the ground look more like the throwback jacket cover of It Don’t Bother Me by the stuck Bert Jansch - not black.

I stooped unto him in fearing penitence as he’d crawl nowhere in curly penetrations. Oh no! My face widened. Maybe I slept with him last night. This makes me want to kill him. But has life as small as he was, so I shouldn’t press down on him with something and crush his skin. I stray from impurity. But the closest thing I had that served as a etiher a stretcher to freedom or maybe a plastic guillotine was a mini-plus Dillon's card.

Crouched, I submitted by trying to let him board the card by picking under him. He slithered away each time. Thank god that when tried to ascend the bed frame in escape, he was too heavy to stick, and bounced on the carpet. He was then too far to reach, running under the bed and crawling into darkness. I went prone and lamped under the bed to catch him. There he was trying to climb the wall again on the far side. I would not sleep with him. He bounced on the carpet and started inching toward my light, so I found a roll of black duck tape I had been using earlier to stick up maps of New York. I hurled it down, chambering the creep in a duck tape coliseum in which he twirled, and I left it there proudly. Afraid that he should crawl out and up the fram of my bed to sleep with me, I looked around the room for a more secure haven to put over the guest. Finding nothing, I checked on him. I paused as I was lifting up the circle of tape. He was dead. I drug the edge of the heavy roll over his two inch body pressing his piano legs and wondering if I was being too negatively inclined, thus inclined to depression, thus inclined to insanity.

Curious lack of mutilation on my part. The first moments of death began to signify a kind of play concerning survival. A holy tentacle stirred! And he ran. Eventually he wormed to the the edge of the room under my bed and went under the spotted khaki carpet. He was becoming a permanent guest. So I fell asleep.

During the night I dreamt up a violent failure to save my roommate’s and ex-girlfriend’s lives. We were all running from street to street in a grey city likely inspired by a shaky imagining of Dublin. I lost them. Walking alone, I passed by a man on the corner with a slimy thin mustache who had a missing top row of teeth, exposing gums that drooled over a belly of grease. Then I found them murdered. The man smiled. I felt it all hard in my heart. Asleep and wrapped in a blue flame sweater, I couldn't breathe. The only way to resurrect them was to kill myself. I worked this out under my dream play. But that would make my family sad, so I couldn't kilI myself and enliven them. I then burned out of the city to a field of white beds full of students. An instructor of mine walked about the rows and I floated on to a bed as he consoled me. I woke up paralyzed by salt.

Tuesday, September 02, 2008

Tue, 02 Sep 2008 06:46:22 GMT

Groping?!

Saturday, August 30, 2008

Sat, 30 Aug 2008 13:01:13 GMT

That wasn't about anyone anyone knows. Come on.

If fickle is a trend, I should board peacefully.

Saturday, August 16, 2008

Sat, 16 Aug 2008 09:41:16 GMT

Stop! Before you touch my lips with your invention.
Crawl down the stairs as I gaze puzzled by the rustle.
Hands up and face the front in the case that you're staring at my head.
I won't look back and forth to the back and the left.

I smell you on my finger for the first time before I knew you tore
Me a knew one for the best is never yet always to come before it's over.

Wednesday, July 23, 2008

Wed, 23 Jul 2008 06:38:46 GMT

I humor new friends and stay up real late.

But it's the same as it ever was and the same 'cause it's always been.

I took an island of a picture and watched others shoot out speeding wheeled windows.

Morning lights from sea planes to plains shadow who this one once was and now's been in sea change.

Green lines and green rivers cool stings to shivers when he saw pain and found it's killer.

I'll make it concise and clear that I'll scarcely scant this screen here.
I'll stumble to friends, sleep on one shoulder in honor.

P.S.
See? It's still high school wonder! (Rotate screen 180 degrees clockwise. Or work on it with your head.)

Sunday, July 30, 2006

Sun, 30 Jul 2006 00:59:37 GMT

Match Point is a brilliant film.

Saturday, July 22, 2006

Sat, 22 Jul 2006 00:41:31 GMT

Awh but I was so much older then, I'm younger than that now.

I'm back from the South.

Thursday, July 13, 2006

Thu, 13 Jul 2006 15:17:47 GMT

New Orleans is the maddest city. I'll tell you some stories later. Even after the fact.

I think I'll live there some day. The French Quarter dances even after its legs were broken. But it is very sad what happened in the 9th Ward. The life still resonates through the damp streets. They'll be back.