Momentage a la Squa'

[[and you want to be dressed in poetry,[[
]]but imagery doesn't fit,
and you want resizing,]]
:::but darling dear,
get a grip;;;

First night, I lost my virginity to the X.
Second night, I lost track of time and slumbered on matresses for five days straight.
Before long, I was smoking la ganja again, all day, wake and bake. two states of mind.
Then I went on a bit of an acid rampage, we're going to go see a panther.
Tripping balls from dawn 'til dusk.
Then, came the alcohol. borderline alcoholic, baby.
I scored my own room, started dating a pretty girl, witnessed love and lust in all it's shades, watched the entire film-like progression of drug-induced psychosis, saw the wrath of crack-cocaine, shed tears for two close friends, had a gun to my head...
Amongst many other great and bad experiences.
A little kitten died just recently, a small grey furred thing that was found abandoned on the side of the road. I think a lot of people are feeling guilty over this.
Douche the guinea-pig has discovered he enjoys weed a lot, he smoked a cone the other eve, he also enjoys toking on cigarettes and riding my shoulder to the bottle shop.

This isn't the place it was once. This isn't topless nights, and days of painted people, and arrogant bastards making fools of themselves for the rest of our entertainment...
Almost all of the old faces are forever gone... Replaced by new faces that are crushing hopes.

This isn't the place it used to be.
This isn't a place I want to go to anymore, this is just a place I have to go to sleep.
Damn.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mo7kL1yUUC4

^ (watch) .
May these moments be treasured forever and ever and ever.

Do not read if you wish to live.

Sometimes I get a little worked up, this I know.
It's not a problem of mine, no flaw or inperfection.
In fact, it all works out for the better, worked up for the better.
I'm going to assume things when you are dishonest with me, just so you are aware.
I'm beginning to see a different side of things, me, you, them, her, him, this, that, the other.
It's incredible that you fail to see the flowers on your side of the grass.
But anyway, the point of the matter is, you're entirely screwed up.
It's not a problem of yours, no flaw or inperfection.
Think of it as a guideline, and nothing more.
My friends tell me things that are untrue.
My friends tell me to wait for you.
My friends tell me everything you do.
My friends tell me they can't keep up with you.
I guess what I'm trying to say is, words mean nothing compared to the sunlight.
It's not as if I've stopped believeing in you... It's more that I feel you have stopped believing in me, so here I state my cause.
This is not a love song, this is not a suicide letter, this is not an essay, this is not a lecture.
This is a peice of art, written for me, by me.
Choose to see yourself amongst my words, if you will, but please don't tell me what to do anymore.
I have enough trouble listening to myself.
If these 'peices of art' go against your beliefs, expectations or political views, I do not apologize, for I never aimed to be your shining star.
I aim to be your eyes.
Now, present to ME yourself. Present to me something to go on, some word of advice, the most important thing you could ever tell me.

I combine obsession and fantasy with morbid things with sickened wings, and thus indulge in the Dark Wonderland. I combine stolen truths with philosophy and drug induced psychosis, and thus indulge in abstract art and delusions. I combine love and lust with death and depression, and thus combine the twisted fairy tales. I combine your mind with mine and thus indulge in synchronicty. I see the exit signs, but the road is blocked by shattered hope.

Do the math.

Don't breed two chihauhau's if you expect fucking Great Danes.
Don't steal my lines and hide them in your mind and think for a second they were meant for you alone.
Don't fucking ask me to improve when that is all I am constantly doing.
Don't tell me I'm arrogant whilst you wear that cocky smile and frown down upon me.
Don't accuse me of knowing nothing when you know nothing of me.
Don't expect great things from me, just accept the things I do.
And, don't you ever pretend for a second we are anything alike, when really, you're in a fucking five star hotel and I'm at a murderscene.

Why would I be at a murderscene? Why not? Why not indulge in the destruction of something beautiful? Is it not, in itself, a form of art? Isn't everything a form of art? Some things just aren't tasteful to certain individuals.

I myself like all the secrets and puzzles hidden amongst the work of Salvador Dali. To study a picture and continually find more things every few minutes and try and work out why the fuck they were put there...
I myself like all the truth and relativity in the words of Maynard Jaymes Keenan, and all the surpressed pervesion in myself that I find amongst the work of Todd Smith.
I myself like the captivating, neverending masterpeice with so many hidden clues and pictures in the works of things such as, Alice in Wonderland, The Da Vinci Code and The Divine Comedy.
I myself like the story structure and 'possibilities' of such things as The Butterfly Effect, The Jacket, Memento and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.

When I grow up, I'm going to marry a rockstar. A rockstar with outrageous hair, violent mood swings, a drug addiction and perfectly cliche, supposodly symbolic tattoos.
Why? Because I never wanted anything else.
I'm sick of gentlemen, and lunatics, and punk rockers with an IQ of 0. And let's not forget the crackhead gangsters and the hypocritical artists.
As DIVINE as they all sound, really, they just can't be perfect, and I adore perfect.

I want nicotine and heroin, pure cocaine and LSD, Bourbon and cola with a sprinkling of Salvia and Divine Moments of Truth.

There's a perfect figure in the belly of my mind...

I've gone and made drugs my priority and it doesn't even hurt because I've figured out I'm useless and everything else but fucking up my body and mind.
So.
Now that I know what I am, I'll try and let go of all the things I want to be.
Because dreams are for faggots.
Giving up is the way to happiness.

I painted a white rabbit in our room, just under the blood-red lyrics.
I've done so much and grown so much but... as well as all that is, I'll just put my dreams on hold for everyone who thinks I'm taking up too much space.

And don't call me pathetic, at least I've come to terms with what I am, and am not just trying to prevent deforrestation in a desert.

This was not the intention of this piece, just to be aware, and it's not my intention to have it read by anyone other than me. If you choose to read it, then you have chosen to read every piece of bullshit I spew up, so don't then tell me I can do better, be better, when you have no fucking clue what I'm capable of.
If you choose to know me and stay around for the good things I produce, don't try to destroy me when I flip out, fairweather friend.

This post is to clarify the STRESS you put me under, the DRAMA OVERLOAD of the shit that goes on in my home, the continuous PRESSURE I get to be better, look better, feel better, do better.

I write to release stress. Some people listen to music, some cut themselves, some paint, some abuse drugs, some break peoples faces, some break glass windows, some kill themsleves.
Some like to mix it up a bit.

My writing is not for you.
You don't like it, then simply fuck off.

Anyways, this was not directed at anyone in particular, if anyone is still reading, I'm just having some trouble dealing with my mind right now. :/
It's time to call it quits on this 'peice of art'.

Keep in touch. <3

Look back once, and never again.

Was just thinking about the glass house.
Haha, back in the good old days. I miss that shit sometimes.
I haven't been to the glasshouse in over half a year, I wonder if people still hang there.
But then, I'm not really in the city these days.
Shit.
The past couple of fucking years have been... Odd.
I never thought I'd see myself here.

Links, connections, consequences.

I once had a dream of visiting the past. It was not a memory, but a possible past event.
It was interesting that I could recall the date of waking life when a dream character questioned where in the future I came from.
My exact thought pattern was, when asked, 'Oh, I know this, I remember looking at the computer screen last night at it was the fifteenth of September so, depending on what time it is now, it's probably the sixteenth', and so I told him that.
The dream character reminded me strongly of a man I'd been seeing at a younger age, a doctor of sorts, who had a great positive influence upon my life. In fact, he had changed me completely. I had a problem, one I refuse to discuss, but his method of fixing this problem was to visit the past and work forward.
I'd like to study further into this, because it's certainly significant. I rarely remember dreams, but all the linking pieces are intriguing.

There are many puzzles about. For instance, at Charlie's, we had a white rabbit. It was sitting upon a bench, and out of nowhere, it fell down, without any reason for it to do so, and was shattered.
White rabbits represent good luck.
I guessed there was some meaning to this, and delved deeper. It turns out, this night was the night when a certain girl had her heart broken when her partner slept with another girl. The other girl had been going through some significant trauma, and this male had taken it upon himself to help her, and it somehow turned into sex. Also, another girl had spent the eve waiting for her boyfriend to get there, and he never showed up because he'd recieved a call from his ex-girlfriend who as it turns out, was pregnant.
There's probably more, but I can't remember the day/night all that clearly and no one else seems as interested in this as I am, and so it's a little hard getting their memories of that day.
But, I'm assuming that metaphorically, a good luck charm broke for everyone who was connected to that house on that night.

I don't know, it may be nothing, but it's certainly interesting nonetheless.

I'm a puzzle solver, an observer and highly interested in human psychology. This, I know.

I'll continue being fascinated by the smallest of things, because I have a lot of spare time on my hands these days, and once you've studied several small but somehow significant events, you notice that they begin to link up and form a greater picture. A puzzle. Links, connections, consequences.

Ah, butterfly effect.

House Dialogue

'Shelvit buddy!'

'Fucking asshole important'

'Sweet!'

'Aw nu bru!'

'Are you hallucinating aliens?'

'I am going to fucking hungry!'

'I want some fucking goon'

'Going on cigarette mission'

'Shit son'

'Fuckin a'

'Awwwww shiiiiiiiiiit'

'You shall not pass!'

'Doof party in the bush'

'Douche'

'Flap your wings'

'Fuckin' dickheaaaaad'

'Crack wut?'

'Hey maaaan'

'Can I've a cone/smoke?'

'Oh, for fucksake!'

'wut cunt/ wut buddy'

'I'll smash you'

'Bro'

'Gotta catch 'em all!'

'Sleeping pills'

'Delicious bread/cigarette/girl'

'Gandalf style or Smeagle style?'

'Triangles and circles'

Pretty much all I hear at home. >.<

Do you like guns?

I had a gun to my head this gone Friday morn/eve.
T'was an event to behold, I very nearly shat brix, a delicate trail of rust-coloured rectangles so close to be coming apparent.
You may ask, 'why?'. I wouldn't doubt that you are even a little bit curious to know how this story goes. Well, it happened at aprox. 3:15am, or more so, this is where our story begins.
It had come to my attention that a few shady looking strangers had entered the premises of my home, purchasing a 50bag from our dealer, before claiming that the ganja be a'taken involuntarily. Or so to say, stolen ganja.
It was well-known that the accused 'theif' was in fact, not a theif at all and that this was some serious buuullllshit. No point-ze-finger games f' me.
However, despite our efforts to converse with the High Scorers of the blame game, we were given a simple warning to be headed. 'We shall return at 4o'clock sharp with our associates, armed and dangerous'.
I retreated to the living room once the commotion had died down, laying my old self down beside Sir Dicey and discussing prior events, and watching a damn good film, which, as it would turn out, was rudely interrupted by a shouting gentleman. 'Nine mm Glock!'
'wut buddy?' I say, arising to my feet. 'Dis gun shit, in my home? wut the fuck, bruzz', I say, taking the whole event very seriously. 'Let us be off to deal with these fuckin' dickheaaaads, my good sir', I announce to Sir Dicey.
And as if by magic, at the tick of a clock, it was I, standing amidst a battlefield of sorts, expecting all manner of internal organs to fly at me and collide with my face. They did not, however, but my eyes did indeed take in the gun/machete/metal bat weilding lunatics that surrounded me and my comrads.
A brave young female stands before the gun and RAAAAAAAAGES at the weilder, and just as the ol' chap notices me old self, t3h gun turns it's attention to me, indeed, for a brief 10 seconds, and I stare at it for just a little ol' while, before turning my back upon it.
'oh dear me, dat waz some silly tingz to do, Fertz', I mentally lecture myself. 'why has turned back on weaponzzz?'. But alive I stand, for no speeding bullet met my back, and feeling not dead, I continued inside the house, having nothing better to do but stand around hyperventilating.
Balaclava'd men pushed past me, uttering apologies and such, a particular sir delivering a certain message: Apologies, m'lady, retreat to the back of this there buildin', and ye shall be safe from harm.
'Gah', I exhale. 'Scurvy bidden rats'. I see da assailants enter my room by means of force, breaking down the door with one of dem dere metal batzorz. 'Awshi-!', me shouts, 'Dem Emily and Sir Jaymes be a'sleeping in dat room, cuz!'.
But unchanged the situation be, as brave young female who shall be honoured from this day forward is thrown against ze bed. 'Oh noes, awaking to gun in face is not my cup of tea', Emily would think, as she burries said face into Sir Jaymes.
'Empty dem dere pockets', gun-dude demands, and almost has his way but a courageous fool attempts to disarm him. Courageous fool earns a gun smack in da face, but owellz, for he completed his mission to distract the cursed gun-dude. The men exit the building, leaving our bustop shattered, a mess of shattered glass.
Dem dere brave young female who be named Krys calls the ol' pigs, calm and collected amidst dis chaotic scenez. Ten internetz to you, delicious little girl, you is braver thenz even me!
Owellz, owellz, so I was pussy and bailed wit the others at mention of cops a'coming, for they is far more scarier than any gun/machete/metal bat weilding lunatic dat dere smashed up my home wit their spite!
It occured to me, howevz, in the following morn, that gun was in fact... Pussy Replica. Apparently, gun replica is da shiiiiiiiiiiiiiit, but I disagree entirely.
I am in the belief that no faces were broken and that as traumatic as this epic movie-like night may have been, we shall all recover.
Sir Dicey asks 'Would you have knowledge of what is very homosexual about last night?'.
'What would that be?', me asks, wondering.
'That we did not in fact indulge in sexual intercourse'.
It's recently come to my attention that Sir Dicey is an utter douche.
cuz d4t wuz OBVIOUSLEE ze worstest ting dat happened on dat dr34dfulz eve.

Note to self.

I'm not as bad as I could be, but I'm not as good as I should be.

We are the youth.

Make it up to you in the year 2012.

A taste of fiction.

Pretty, purple blankets of flowers litter the ground.Ubiquitous, the carpet of color stretches on for miles. It's difficult to see too far into the distance, brilliant sunlight blinding, streaks of sun, like strands of hair, filling up the majority of my vision with intesnity. A smashing, vibrant flood of colour flows out from the pretty little yellow wildflowers that blossom here in the bossom of the ancient earth. The ground itself is dry, red, dusty, appearance like sandpaper but texture like flour. Lacking moisture, it hasn't felt the rain in days, maybe even weeks, yet the flowers still bloom, as if defying all laws of weather conditions. A tall, elegant tree springs from the centre of my surroundings, perfect green leaves making a beautiful shade, shadow casted across the ground, it's bark a deep mahogany, soft and pretty to the touch. The sky is a pale, powder blue, middle of the day, fluffy clouds bouncing in the air, forming shapes which morph as they speed by.
It's peaceful here, and I am completely alone, other than the occasional song a cheery and lovely coloured bird offers as it flies overhead, or flutters about in the branches of a nearby, aching and dancing tree. I can hear my own voice joining the songs of the feathered ones, though it is fractured and ugly beside the somewhat perfect chirps and chattering. A particular blue and black bird, a small and delicate one, catches my attention as it hops across the dirt, through the wonderful flowers, headed straight towards where I am placed. Or more, considering I do not know exactly where I am located, it's form gets larger in my hazy and blurred vision. I attempt to imitate its call, but my voice is so cracked and it doesn't fit well at all, ruining the scene of nature simply by being there in this human form.
The flowers are sweet, attracting all manner of flying insects, yellow and black striped bees perching on the petals of the red poppies, getting their fix of the opiate. Their buzzing is subtle, a gentle humming to the calm and distant midday. An evil looking barbed wire fence stretches around this nowhere, a closure for Gaia, damaged and lessened by adventurous kangaroos. None of these furred creatures are present now, but holes and dirt baths give them away as well as the ruined fence. They've burrowed beneath it's spikes, marring them and managing to escape completely unharmed, a special skill they've developed from having to break into mother Earth's different realms. A shimmering black crow hops by, letting out a caw, it's jet black feathers radiating with heat and shine, my eyes attracted to it's gleam as if I, too, were a bird. A bower bird collecting pretties for it's nest. The crow raises his yellow eyes to lock with mine for a brief moment, a moment somehow like a warning, before he calls manically to me again. He takes to the sky, having better things to do then waste his time with the pathetic human being that had intruded upon his day.
The dirt is hot, and so is the air, dust circling around my body in a spiral fashion. I rest in the shade the trees offer, yet my fragile body is still penetrated by the scorching heat, and I let out a sigh of exasperation. There is not a hint of civilization or human life for miles and miles. I am alone, here, with only the birds for company, and they don't seem to want mine. I'm an unwanted stranger to this land.
I rise to my aching feet, thorns burried deep within the bare flesh. I pull at them, removing what I can, but it is difficult to do so when the prickles are of minute size and my vision is blurred. I would have to leave them to come out on their own accord. The most important thing was to sort out my crumbling body and my dry mouth. Perhaps I am dehydrated. I feel weak, my body heavy and yearning to be back across the ground where I'd found it. I fight with my exhaustion, fighting to stay upright, and after a few moments, I take a few steps forward upon my now slowly but surely bleeding feet, through the hot, dry sand. I don't know which way I should be heading, there seems no direct route, no paths or tracks, everywhere looks to lead to nowhere. I walk straight forward though, for if I remain here, in this temperature, I could surely die.
'Where the hell am I?', I murmer, and the utterance of words makes me realize just how dry my throat is. It hurts to swallow, hurts to move my jaw in anyway. My tongue is heavy and swollen, uncomfortable in the pit of my mouth. 'Water', I murmur again, seeking that liquid. There must be some form of water around, or else, how would all the animals survive out here? It was dry season. Very dry season. I realized that I was not at all adjusted to the earth I was born of, not at all at home in nature, without instincts or knowledge of the wild. I was a human being, and I'd left nature behind, damaged her, and now she was taking her devious revenge upon my pathetic human body.
There's a bizarre structure in my vision now, in my hazy vision. Not too far ahead, perhaps if the Gods would smile upon me for one moment, I could make it. It appears to be a house, or more, a shed. Small and worn down, splintering wood, cracked like the earth I currently stood upon. A pale, faded grey in colour, unhealthy wood that could crumble at any given second. As I approach it, I wonder how safe it is to touch the door, to place my hand upon it's decaying surface. It's hanging from the hinges, the lock laying amongst the earth, rusted and useless. Nobody has been here for some time, I know, and the whole thing could fall on me if I were to enter, but it's the best plan I have. The only plan I have.
I reach for the old handle, pulling as gently as I can at it. It creaks violently, and the smell of oil and rotting wood fills my nostrils. A peice of the aging door falls apart in my blistered hands, jaggard wood chips locking themselves into my fingertips and drawing dark droplets of blood as I yank them out swiftly. I suck at my fingers, tasting dirt and bitter blood as I crawl into the worn down, dangerous building. It's cooler in here then it was outside, but the smell is awful, like something has crawled in here to die and it's flesh has been melting away for many weeks. As I lean faintly against the fragile walls of the tomb, I wonder, perhaps it is a good place to die. As good as any other. There are a few old, browning bottles laying about, many of them appearing to be filled with oil, the smell strong and horrible, adding to my rapidly increasing migraine. I pick up can, after bottle, after cup searching for a drinkable liquid. 'Water', I manage to moan desperatly again, hoping something would hear me and assist me in my search for survival. I know I am still utterly alone, but my hope has not yet completely dissipated.

Self -preservation.

"How are you feeling today?"

"Interesting".

"Interesting, how?"

"Well, the way my mind is working at this moment is... getting me very intrigued. When this happens, I get too distracted by myself to pay much attention to the outside world".

"Living in your own world, huh?"

"Yes, I'm sure things aren't at all how I think they are".

"They are to you though".

"Yes".

"So, what have you been doing with yourself?"

"Mmm... Nothing, and everything".

"I'm sorry, but could you be a little more exact with your answers?"

"Well, aren't you meant to be figuring me out?"

"Yes, I am, but you're meant to be helping me".

"And how do I do that?"

"By making my job as easy as possible. Tell me as much as you can, it helps me to gather the information I need, and helps you get things of your chest".

"Well, I guess. But... It's just..."

"What is it?"

"I'm not sure I can trust you".

"Believe me, I don't trust you either. You are a sociopathic criminal with a blood-thirst and an LSD corrupted mind..."

"Hah. And you're some perfect, well paid, goodie fucking two-shoes analysing me and thinking you can fix me by giving me a fucking diagnonsense".

"Yes. That could very well be the case. We don't even have to be friends, because I don't like you a whole lot, and I know you are staring at my neck with thoughts of tearing my throat out".

"How did you know that, then?"

"Because I understand psychology. I have been seeing you for several months now, I should have a basic understanding".

"I suppose".

"I also know you're feeling a little ashamed, like you've already said too much because I know too much. You forget that silence is an answer as well. Fear, guilt, anxiety, nervousness... To name a few things you're probably feeling right now".

"Uh huh. Keep going, you seem to be doing well, Mr. fucking fantastic".

"You're getting angry now because you don't want me in your head. You know I'm reading you like a book it makes you fearful that you can't hide a thing".

"I always thought my mind was a safe place".

"Well it is, generally. It's a safe place to hide from everything bar yourself".

"Yes. So here we are. Do you even want to be here?"

"No, but I have to be. You fucked up. I think you should put down the gun".

"Why? You're right, I'm a fuck up. Why not just... End my life?"

"Because that would be stupid. You'd be letting them all win".

"Right. You're right".

"I know I am. So put it down".

"Fine. But only because I know you secretly want me to kill myself".

"You're goling to stay alive out of spite? Tough guy".

"Don't anger me. Or I will do it, and that means you die too, buddy".

"Fine, fine. I'll leave you alone for now. I'll be back with your medication".

"Fuck you".

"I love you too".

Monsters.

I was hanging upside down from the overpass

Waiting to discover something about the world

I couldn't get with the program

And I couldn't listen to them

It was like trying to think in reverse

And I don't want to slide into apathy

And I don't want to die in captivity

But these monsters follow me around

Hunting me down, trying to wipe me out

Wipe me out

Wipe me out

Wipe me out

I was hiding away under water

Waiting for distance and buying some time

Trying to be two hundred thousand years younger

So I could excuse myself from humankind

'Cause I don't want to be a container

Or a bastard with a ten page disclaimer

But these monsters spin me around

Get me down, just try and shut me out

Shut me out

Shut me out

Shut me out

Hold it in your head

Hold it in your head

Hold it in your head

Believe and make believe and make believe

I was hiding away under water

Waiting for distance, waiting for time

And I don't want to slide into apathy

And I don't want to live in captivity

"Poor rats", we human rodents chuckle.

You all reflect eachother so much, and lack in personality.
It's like you're yelling at a mirror whilst masturbating.
Your aim is either to look all tough by being a cunt to anyone, or to get laid via the internetz.
Excuse me, but this is a little pathetic.
It's so damn hard being perfect in such a parasitic world!

The girl who cried Wolf.

There's a boy with eyes like ice. Sorrow-filled and yearning, he has a broken heart. He writes down his feelings and wishes for a second you could feel his pain, just so he wouldn't have to go it alone. He hates to see you cry, because it shows you're just as weak as him and he will hate you for it, because he hates himself. He can take a punch, and throw one, and he has no fear of fists. He's got a goonbag and a cigarette and messy curls on his head. He's so angry, and sad and sometimes you can open up to him because he's not afraid of emotions.

There's a demon with electric blue hair, tall and lanky, with spikes on his face. He's full of knowledge and insanity, he's so very intense. He likes to carry his victims in his arms, he likes to recite from books and find meaning in every image, every number, every letter of every word. He's so very fucked up and only the strongest of men can deal with him. The weak get mad and hurt him, the strong stand by his side. He's standing tall with a bag full of mushrooms and feeding his face with them. He believes he is the devil incarnated. He believes you can take anything, that he can't hurt you because he has so much faith in you.

There's a gentleman with eyes so bright. He has no flaws visible to the human eye, skin warm and smooth and covered in ink. He understands music and mathematics and even literature, and he can use his tongue. He treats you like a lady, whilst pouring red wine down your throat and discussing misscarriages and licking his lips. He's smoking a cigarette as he urinates on a dead celebrity's grave, silly females worshiping him because they know his body was made of stars and angel feathers.

There's a girl with a rat's tail crossing the street to meet the boy, the demon and the gentleman. There are hearts on her cheeks and intrigue in her eyes. She's wearing heels and a pinstripe vest, a scarf attached to her pants that sit evenly upon her prominent hip bones. She's in tears if joy as teh day goes perfectly to plan, embracing the boy, the demon and the gentleman and almost refusin to let go. She's blowing smoke in your face as she discusses music, pschology, drugs and Wonderland. She's got a pretty elf girl in her hand, a pretty elf girl she calls her girlfriend. By the end of the night, she's holding a gentlemans hand whilst he carries her heart to bed. What a wonderful way to end a perfect day.