With beaks, burrows and a burial ground

This Idyll that I have found

It goes on round and round and round

Greets good-day to the green green ground

This idyll that I have found

Doesn’t astonish nor does astound

The feasting vultures all abound

With beaks, burrows and a burial ground

The green green green green burial ground

Does not hinder nor does hound

My motive or my mother’s mound

Of busts, bullies and a burial ground

The green green green green burial ground

A fool pretending

I am, nothing but,
A fool pretending -
To be clever

You are also,
Nothing but,
You're also -
Not pretending.


Drowning in the north sea
Surrounded by thick mystery
Life unfolds before me and all I can understand
Are words as the book is flipped through

Figures of people swaying as they emerge out of the fog
But they never say anything
As if they only appear to remind me
That I’m not alone

Sunlight is a deeply satisfying privilege
So is this quartet of jazz musicians playing
Their greatest hit: on a doomed lifeboat
So is this cigarette that dances with it all
So is this library is that’s keeping me afloat

I wonder if this is also a dream
I might really be driving my convertible somewhere
On the gold coast of Australia

The water is freezing my legs off…

Killing Time

Am I killing time?
Or is it killing time?
If it’s killing time,
Who is it?

world's freakiest suicide notes #01 

1. Charlie.

If the only thing that’s objectively real are our problems, then they’re either the only objective reality that there is or perhaps reality is plural.

Lets talk about us, do we only objectively exist because of our problems (including desire)? In other words, could phrases like “problem-solving” or “decision-making” envelope, in them, our very essence?

I think we can all safely say that we have no clue at this fucking point. I mean, you see photos from the Hubble everyday but that only reminds you of the tata-sky rental you’ve got to pay.

That thing we call progress is like a cartoon running at a fixed point, as if in zero friction, over air or water. Its an infinite process for churning out history books. Maybe they’ll have our names in them, maybe they won’t.

I think its as if suddenly now we’re faced by the chasm of what the existentialists call freedom.

True freedom, and its even branded, sold and generally touted as “the secret” by Rhonda Byrne. If you’ve read the book or know about it but still don’t get me, then you can stop reading. Thanks for coming this far, but I’m sure none of what follows concerns you.

To those who know what I’m talking about: DUCK & COVER!


All’s well

Good is a gross understatement
Better off is slightly worse
Who is this throwing his passion at me?
Who’s that who cries in verse?

Polarities of politeness have crossed
The barriers of sound
This man is barking incessantly
None of these strays is a hound

Such are the witnesses of our harassment
Such are those sick fucking friends
Such is this sadness of our lore
But all’s well that ends

Are you Shivering Yet?

None of the victims are alive, sir
Your ego is the only survivor
Its slightly discolored or sunburnt
And lives off of the jealous undergrowths
Lush green like these forests along the spinal curves of this river
Holy river, this human life

Wandering, gathering, hunting I’ve seen it
Picking shoes with locks and locks with shoes
Crying like seagulls and laughing like hyenas
Celebrating the causes and mourning the effects
Strange creature, this effect

Self defense mechanisms hide it from predators,
Vapid and benign alike
Especially the darker skinned reasonable horses
But allow me to say no more,
This is quite a strange effect...

Talking Asshole

Did I ever tell you about the man who taught his ass to talk? His whole abdomen would move up and down you dig farting out the words. It was unlike anything I had ever heard.

This ass talk had sort of a gut frequency. It hit you right down there like you gotta go. You know when the old colon gives you the elbow and it feels sorta cold inside, and you know all you have to do is turn loose? Well this talking hit you right down there, a bubbly, thick stagnant sound, a sound you could smell.

This man worked for a carnival you dig, and to start with it was like a novelty ventriliquist act. Real funny, too, at first. He had a number he called "The Better 'Ole' that was a scream, I tell you. I forget most of it but it was clever. Like, "Oh I say, are you still down there, old thing?"

"Nah! I had to go relieve myself."

After a while the ass start talking on its own. He would go in without anything prepared and his ass would ad-lib and toss the gags back at him every time.

Then it developed sort of teeth-like little raspy in- curving hooks and start eating. He thought this was cute at first and built and act around it, but the asshole would eat its way through his pants and start talking on the street, shouting out it wanted equal rights. It would get drunk, too, and have crying jags nobody loved it and it wanted to be kissed same as any other mouth.

Finally it talked all the time day and night, you could hear him for blocks screaming at it to shut up, and beating it with his fist, and sticking candles up it, but nothing did any good and the asshole said to him: "It's you who will shut up in the end. Not me. Because we don't need you around here any more. I can talk and eat and shit."

After that he began waking up in the morning with a transparent jelly like a tadpole's tail all over his mouth. This jelly was what the scientists call un-D.T., Undifferentiated Tissue, which can grow into any kind of flesh on the human body. He would tear it off his mouth and the pieces would stick to his hands like burning gasoline jelly and grow there, grow anywhere on him a glob of it fell. So finally his mouth sealed over, and the whole head would have have amputated spontaneous- except for the eyes you dig.

That's one thing the asshole couldn't do was see. It needed the eyes. But nerve connections were blocked and infiltrated and atrophied so the brain couldn't give orders any more. It was trapped in the skull, sealed off. For a while you could see the silent, helpless suffering of the brain behind the eyes, then finally the brain must have died, because the eyes went out, and there was no more feeling in them than a crab's eyes on the end of a stalk.
- William S. Burroughs, Naked Lunch


This content comes from a hidden element on this page.

The inline option preserves bound JavaScript events and changes, and it puts the content back where it came from when it is closed.

Click me, it will be preserved!