Problem Child

I have to write lyrics for 3 new songs by saturday.

Show with Brilliant Colors at the Cairo September 26th

We still dont have a permanent bassist.

AAAAHHHhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Meat Magic

Im bored of myself and I'm sick of you

I'm tired of having nothing to do.

Empty pockets

Empty head

Maybe tomorrow I'll wake up dead!

I am everything I've come to hate;

Well it's too late

Yeah, It's too late

I'm banging my head against the wall and I can't explode at all!

E-X-P-L-O-D-E

Yeah, I cant explode at all

I'm banging my head against the wall and I can't explode at all!

I hate myself

Nothin' in my head

I hate my self

'Cause I'm brain dead

I hate myself

And it's too late

Yeah it's too late

I'm too late

I'm banging my head against the wall and I can't explode at all!

E-X-P-L-O-D-E

Yeah, I cant explode at all

I'm banging my head against the wall and I can't explode at all!

No outlet

No outlet

Man I wish I could just forget

No outlet

No outlet

No outlet

Baby Teeth

When we were young, we were told we could do anything when we got older.

When we were young, we were told that we were special. Unique.

Laying in the blackish ephemeral void of half sleep, realizing it was all a hoax; I lay with my back to a man sputtering neon pink and blue electric spit while he snores. I can hear the phlegm gurgling around his throat, and in an effort to keep my own sinuses clear, I work my way across the crumb and dirt filled bed and hang my limbs over the edge. Lacking warmth, he slithers closer.

Disgusted in both of us, I open my eyes in a pathetic attempt at seeking solace. As if peace was something visual. All I see are pulsating conglomerate clumps of rainbow fuzz, undulating in the bereft light of the ceiling. I think I need to eat more carrots. Dirty rags hang from both our windows to shield our dreams from the morning sun. Anyone who has ever had makeshift curtains knows about what I like to call "night light". Although it was two in the morning, somehow a soft blue hue radiated through the sheet and crept silently over us, while the torn rag covering the paned portal at the foot of our bed disseminated the same frequency of a copper wave. They met in the middle of our comforter and hugged each other, creating a maroon complexion around my ankles. If only I could step into this illuminated gate. An ingress into... something else. Please, anything else.

Am I a failure because this society, this selfish money driven culture views me to be by definition of their standards, or have I really truly failed?

I have goals, in-obtainable ones, sure. But I have them.

It feels hopeless. To navigate around quite aimlessly, moving from temporary job to temporary job. Growing only sideways. Don't get me wrong, I don't ever want to grow up. But I fear each skyline I inherit is pushing me closer and closer to it.

This is what keeps me up at night. Trivial bullshit that does more harm than good. I let my eyes soften on the amassment of quiet secondary light and try to see only grey in my minds eye. For some reason when I remember the blankness of the asylum it helps force me into the sister-death of sleep. I close my eyes again, hearing the stagnant outer-versal buzz of some electronic device that was left on, and re-construct, for the infinite time the corner of ward 207.

Only in shades of white, do the gobs of concrete meld together. I can see the thin line where the south and eastern walls meet. So much paint has been applied to the porous material over the years, it stands there like a glossy cushion. Little spiderwebbed cracks, and chips distract me from the intended goal of completely washing out my imagination for the night.

A sweaty hand smacks at me from the left. The white walls fizz away. Then hastily billow back once my companion has stopped his salmon-esque flailing. My brain focuses again on the grey, much like its own. Just as I do every night, I meditate on never again enlivening my eyes in the morning. The prospect of this helps me to waft into another even darker, dreamless sleep.

Aaron Cometbus - Double Duce. 2.

"I called him "Little Suicide". Not just because he was short and had a deathwish, but because, in really celebrating and embracing life, you have to sort of embrace death too, or at least recognize the on-going no win battle against it. Every day living is closer to death; A little suicide."

Spying On Dentists

As they threw her in handcuffs, she snorted thinking of when they lounged on each other in the graveyard watching the fishboned leaves tickle each other.

"Do you really find comic relief in this?" Said badge number 60933

She smiled at him.

"You make me sick" He muttered as he started the car.

"Then I've done my job"

Henry & Claire (excerpts)

Pg 331

Henry had noticed her at once, from the beginning. She sat cross-legged on the sand near the ceremonial fire of juniper, her skirt hiked up far enough to expose a pair of glossy kneecaps to the light. Beyond those kneecaps would be sleek convergent thighs heading - who knows where? Straight to trouble that's for certain. Smiling, the girl asked her question.

Pg 338

One final hot clasp of hand and she was gone. Forever probably.

Henry shuffled homeward through the Utah sand, among the junipers and prickly pear. Don't let it bother you, he told himself. Girls are like busses; Miss one, another will come along in five minutes. And then despised himself for entertaining so cheap and false and vulgar a thought. Not like her you fool...

Pg 339

... Heard a great horned owl call his name. Fool... fool... fool... He thought of Claire, Miss Mellon - Honeydew! And his heart rose and swelled like an unfolding hydrangea.

Pg 364 - 365

He realized with a shock of horror that he was at liberty to go anywhere he wished. Nobody cared about where he went.

He wanted her so much. For so long. He desired her so intensely over such a length of time that the longing became a malaise, a sickness. Desire - the word itself, in it's very sound, with its dying call of suspiration, resembled the enchanted misery of his fever. A fever in the blood, fever in the mind, fever in the soul.

Pg 377

He lit his Aladdin lamp and began a letter:

Dear darling Claire,

He wrote.

If I cannot see you again, I will surely die.

Surely die? What a redundancy is death.