I Wish That All Humans Could Feel The Love And Loyalty Of A Dog, The Noblest And Purest Of God's Creatures.

And the Heavens taught me that anything can happen, as long as you stay for the whole show...

Lunatic Poetry was the order of the past few nights:

4/⁰3/²0²2:

"Sometimes I just can't..."

Charcoal dawn, purple sunset

Beautiful and distracting, dizzying...

When I should sleep I know not

All I can think of is where you are...

My compass is broken,

the magnetism tuned to foreign poles...

So I'll wander about until you whisper...

Then I'll be whole...

...I hope...

A stream of silver clouds now, above, carrying a question: Is this your game, or is it mine?

Answer: I won't know until you kiss me that one last time...

Another: Which of us owns the other, I wonder...

You reply: the memory of your smile... and I begin swimming again... or drowning... not sure which...

Autonomic reflex embroiled in a battle with the hunger of a starving heart...

I live this battle every second,

To the point that it defines me...

My heroin...

I scream, long and silent:

Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you....

Then, in supplication: please fuck me just one more time...

... for old time's sake...

Please...

...

It's crude, but then, again, love is brutal and rapacious...as is my appetite for every atom of you...

[Note: I don't know what it all means. I was held captive by the crashing words and could do little else but grip the pen with a shaking hand and tears in my eyes. I swear I wasn't inebriated in that time of writing, but I can't swear that I was sane. Still, it stirs something in me to know it issued forth from some part of me, a part I thought maybe dead, but at least dormant for the past five or six years. It felt good to pour out verse. And I knew I had to share it...

Thank you for indulging me by reading this.

Closing note: I think I may have been possessed by the ghost of Charles Bukowski, now that I think of it...]

... unless they're plans for global conquest and tyranny...

I would hang out with each of these people...

a collection of tweets, part 29

(the series)

The letter 'S' is essential to life. Without it, you no longer EXIST; you've only found the EXIT...

I heard/read it again: grunge...

I'm perplexed by that most meager of words that has been usurped by a crowd of folks that has little to no actual experience in getting grungy. Let's set the record straight: Grunge means you've been exposed to the dust of third world, real dirt. Not glitter, not metaphor, not a slight dusting of soil. Real dirt, real grungy shite, genuine grime. Grunge is the stuff of daily, ugly, exhausting toil and hardship. Life for the grungy is a battle, a war waged in solitude, against a world bent on breaking its targets. So if you don designer clothes; if you drop piles of money in a trendy coffee bauhaus; if you overuse the words 'literally' or 'legitimately' (let's just forget that you have no concept of usage and acceptable vernacular, if you do...); and if you've never gone to bed hungry, cold and dirty, and clinging to slim hope that tomorrow will be better than all your yesterdays, well then you have no idea what grunge is. True grunge, and the music and atmosphere it spawned, is a soulful thing, brought to life by people whose only refuge in the world was hard-bitten poetry transmuted into lyrical rollercoasters, grinding guitars and bone-jarring percussion. Kurt, Eddie, Chris... they were the Purveyors of Grunge. They bled and breathed against the grain, exhaling oxygen for the world to inhale, and in doing so, taught most of us to fucking care about those who usually went unnoticed, were spent up by an otherwise uncaring world. They were celestial in their grasp of God, humans, and struggle, and their starshine was earned and never contrived... unlike those who try to usurp the word 'grunge' to peddle their shite, their plastic baubles, their angled politics.

Note: if you managed to wade through this monologue but have not even an inkling of meaning in this prose, then I submit the notion that you need to step back and reassess just what the fuck you aim to achieve by casting about the term 'grunge'...

Hi! Have you ever tried not being a shitlord to independent artists? I hear that it's a fun hobby. Love you, bye

I'm an independent artist, ass-hat. I don't know what prompted your aggression, but you're dismissed now. And you can piss off in the process. If I offended you or anyone else, that's your weight to carry. I speak frankly and pointedly, so if a critique or commentary on mediocre or amateurish, overplayed work/styles is the issue for you, the artist should buck up and work to improve their art. Truth hurts, but it is also a tool to shake up someone that can do better and compel them to improve and develop true independence and not some copy-cat, everybody's-doing-it work. Take that or leave it, I don't care a tinker's damn.

And again, you're dismissed. Go away.

Hmmmm...

My entire existence, for the past 20+ years or so, has been built upon this same premise...

This whole blog is just a conversation I am having with myself

This is such a thing...

But then egos take over and the stories turn to shit...

reblog if you’ve read fanfictions that are more professional, better written than some actual novels. I’m trying to see something