31 Jan 2008
He seems so wild;
Where, as I discover as I go through
And what I say is solely
Dim, and die tonight?
By bloody pool
Rattling, gasping his last.
Snaps of ice cracking in the hidden air
Seized from creation by nonentity,
Your way of being.
Your way of seeing
That seems to be the whispered question
Posted by Inconsequential at 18:03
30 Jan 2008
some people are god.
i am vacant
a perfect demolishion
a demonic premonition
a promised kiss
magic in my right fist
grasping at the neck of greatness
squeezing a stone for luck..
my hand bleeds and then i throw it
im in over it
i sold it quick to sober up
i asked god to make the salamander squeek
and it did
i was only joking
but i betted it all.
when we are born we die
and god doesnt care
only once every so often
will those moments come
when we are born we die
and god doesnt care
we have surrendered to this inevitability
so let the doctor jab your kids with whatever he wants
she's blowing my mind
stratigically placed explosives
do not cross this line.
in the form of distilled fractals
fractions of portals filled with the gift
to uplift and skip across
any broken bridge or rift
on the edge
threatening to to race the
the fact of my impact on this earth.
this is dirt
i'll take you to the edge off
some place with no people
and talk to you
about other people
perhaps you'd agree
and we'd be taken by another group
of beings to some other place
no. i don't think we have it
i'm not suggesting for a minute
that it's right.
but some people are god.
some moments are god.
some music is god.
some problems are not gods problems
he doesn't care.
Posted by Jaie at 16:35
Vomit that's sick I can't stand your smell & the dead sea of privileged nothingness,hey halt what was things last moment, the breast that curdled goats milks laugh milk mustache it floated off in a thought just hinting that i meant i was sorry for all things i missed in this life,
and my current life which is on a spiral decay into an aborted fetus, i know you say I'm not pro-life but that means i can't type like a mad hellbent fungi spoon licker, his son was caressed by my secretary she takes all my calls and gives the best foot rubs, many many years ago since i have been in this administration my wart spine has been deranged and left it's circuits dry, the socket was Left to water down with saliva and alcoholics, the wart spine was no longer part of the inverted lamb speech, but a feast on holidays for tuckering people out made them doze off causing slight delusions of parrot speech, doublethink, the tanks had heels this high body's half below the ground filtering maybe ashes and addictive ingredient's that melted poesy syndrome patients, they played in the vast vagina of the house wife dangle baby's dangle I can't hear you after that sequel, it was just sick to even imagine she wanted to make more.
Posted by Aaron Held at 03:14
User Name or Description: Are you (a) City (b) Country? And what Height, Weight, Age? Is there, perhaps, such a thing as Orientation, or, in some related way, Ethnicity? Are you Joined?
I am Venal Female, London, UK, 5'1", 154 lbs, 52, Straight, yet Caucasian. It is 01/28/08. I am
Actively Seeking (Expert) Christianity
Posted by murmurists at 00:43
29 Jan 2008
You’ll expect Marian's canyon with bandages,
It’ll eerily join the bush.
What if Pilaf’s wet grocer changes?
Bruce dines in front of lazy,
While cars weekly taste papers,
Painters often shout outside the wide ulcers.
Under wrinkles full and dark,
Opens without it,
They are combing beside ugly,
Before young butchers.
What did Cathy arrive within all the farmers?
We can't seek ointments unless Dickie will slowly learn afterwards.
We nibble the upper unit.
Go promise a walnut!
Posted by Inconsequential at 16:49
28 Jan 2008
why yes that cat is
who she is speaking
to at this hour
is beyond me
but it's enough to take
a man to church
what can they say to
make me hate money
worship the spit that
binds those two pages.
(holy and contagious)
THE END IS COMING
THE END IS COMING
Tell me more mr.cat
I SAY_YE SHALL SEE
THE DAY OF JUDGEMENT.
Holy man-speak to me
ever so do you leave me
in redemptions boosom
blue berry sacraments
(it's a thin line)
Then it struck me
like indigo swimwear
we must not continue
on this path
I asked the lord to send me a sign
of buddahood awakening
in the swampy infested waters
of my kundalini
and christendom, salvating
in my Krishna region
Well next, he said"
I shall speaketh
the tounge of feline"
17 nights I lay awake
untill the sign became clear.
The lord has chosen a cat
as beloved messenger
and I as witness.
Imbelish me of vile vermin
She has chosen never to speak again.
It is clear to us that you are chosen.
You are to be versatile
and having a flat screen
of screaming voices.
Posted by Jaie at 14:31
Gnawing serenely on the wheel of life
Leaves arching morosely over our exposed heads,
Navigating carefully on terrain dotted with
bloodied, gaping maws
Threatening to spill the arcane secrets of
untold millennia spent loafing under
Divine procreation, unreadable,
untranslatable, and gasping at
light from the stars
Effulgent wetness creeping up on the copper gates to the arena. The overwhelming stench of evaporated alcohol left abandoned in cups for the miasma to sniff at. Sheer wonder. Child-like amazement.
Emeralds howling with pent-up rage in the rafters,
terror-stricken at the sudden onrush of white on white,
myriad sheets of empty oblivion waging their war
on the churning sleep of rusting spires
Smoke blanketing all transmissions. A few stragglers huddle into each other, hiding their eyes in awe at what they sense will come. Some attempt to communicate their surrender by loudly proclaiming undying loyalty to the unfurled clouds of id. Others wait timidly, bibles in back-pockets
appearing now as so much straw
Revelations begin to rush in from the outside, melting the surface of the playing-field into aquatic blue liquid. Some people start frothing at the mouth, bleeding from ears that no longer hear. Others speak in strange tongues before diving in, never to re-emerge.
A dark grey plucked bones from our madness,
ageing us decades in the process
Perfidious spirits concealed in the distant thunder. Our hallucinations running desolate alleyways with emaciated rodents and optical larvae. The frenzy to learn new dances to win desire again. Commerce and labour croak their mutual forgiveness at each other amidst the looting. Money hides in fear behind black fishnets left to spy alone on wounded flesh wandering between rows of cold machinery. To traverse piles of rotting teeth laying in wait for unwary beasts to pass.
Brief flickerings return once more. Levees bray their gratitude
at every recording surface imaginable
Peace perfumes our sweating, chases the marauding hordes of blue away at last. Flesh re-carved passion on the swollen purple flanks running frozen through the empty aisles of the urine-god then
Just as we all realize there is a stillness in each of us
that is eternal and cannot die
I wrote tomorrow suddenly and with a flourish taking my time to pace through the river side swing doors. Cities are pretty by night. All that tomfoolery of lights that shimmer through a gauze of halogen and neon and sodium. The signs bit the cloud impoverished sky slashing into my subconscious.
‘suck the marrow with colorfill’
‘topaz comes in sink top pretties’
Funny how the shit of industry can so easily and readily flood the mind with hot desires. Narcotic infusion swallowed en masse.
Deidre lived in the low-rise on east. Smeared crap on walls of nostalgic graffiti that spoke in burred words of common tongue. Epitaphs and testaments. She lived a shallow sin of a life. Lining up her lovers like white lines on a toilet bowl. Snorting head and BJ mouth all puckered and wet. Galvanised by her hot lusts. A pistol by her thigh. Cold comfort with metallic penetration.
She did it doggie fashion with Sean. He fucked her sore and then took her up the ass. She didn’t mind that. What she didn’t like was that he took her for granted. He didn’t ask. She shot him through the throat and watched in dizzying slo-mo as he fell dead like wet wallpaper collapsing form a dry wall.
The sirens fell like axe marks in the night. Drowning out the traffic with a nebulous sound.
The final frame was filled by a deluge of pigeons that rose like a reverse autumn leaves torrent.
A Pollock stain on the sky.
I wrote All My Tomorrows suddenly and with a flourish, taking my time as I waded from my desk through the swing-doors and out into the pale, unconscious sky of Lantern Mini. Editor-birds pecked at the solemn ring of broken prose that still rotated languidly around my head, offering their unwanted crowspeak critique:
"Suck the word-marrow with a surgically-enhanced tube of bone! That verb don't belong there amongst them ilonyms, bub!" they clucked, hautily.
I shrugged. "Silky topaz halterneck pastiche! Come in the sink if you have to, my pretties!"
Funny how some birds can flood yr mind with hot narcotic infusions, eh? A pixellated swarm of frozen mutes swam past. We swallowed en masse.
I headed east, to the deadside of my life. Overhead, smeared venereal graffiti, an epigram of sores. A migraine of mouth-chancres fell past me like early evening snow. She was lining up heads on the toilet bowl when I got there, each mouth puckered like a pistol. It was a hysterectomy! She shot him doggie-fashion and watched as he drowned in slow motion, his candy-striped eyes twisting like drunken barber-poles.
Editor-birds eat roses in an autumnal torrent of verse.
A purple cum-stain on Jackson Pollack. The sky cried.
Bleeding from mouths of ruined thunder, we sang The Blue Single Sheet Song in splintered boats of silent running water.
Duodenal pickpockets returned to 1950 in a fleet of hand-stitched leather time-machines. I cried the first time I met my father. Lavender and rust-pocked concrete. A cross of ether.
My pity slowly dissolves to eyes the colour of brown Demerara sugar. Pools of laughter haunt the rooftops where we shyly coupled. An old, yellowing photograph of a donkey. Dead man’s spittle.
I confess her mouth-ulcers were a turn-on. I followed her home from work, but she grew wings of solid light from her shoulder-blades and evaporated like tiny scraps of litter on the dismal wind. Blurred photostats of her eyes kept phoning me some weeks later, laughing, “Let’s hook up for a coffee sometime.”
;; Angela Troussant.
this is the thing about it .
I really do want to die.
spent every day of my life.
with another man's words.
and I am a woman.
not just any woman.
: perhaps if fortunate
you have seen the type.
She always enters the room with
and older man.
Her coat; some shade of white.
;; Glen William Ross
. i am sitting a small round
I have a 1/2 beer and a snifter of wine.
but no one is serving me, and everyone
drifts by my taught site.
an old friend of mine just died.
-- a different older friend of mine just told me about it.
-- Neil was like, distance
"Unfortunately as many of you all know. I am learning how to type like an
adult. the reason for this is two fold. First, and foremost, I am terrified
of the fact that when but a child. i saw my friends out in the fresh snow
crying on acid [ but i thought about my dead father, and began to follow
him to the grave ]. ; . by .bitter. choice.
Second, and still of great value, someone who was once barely a friend of
mine ; but important nonetheless_> was <_> gunned <_> down <_>
the body lay cod eyed and cold whilst the forensic's fiddled like perverts on heat. a body bag balloned and rustled to contain the meat and bones.
she raked her nails over the swollen flesh of her calf while her foot punished the pedal.
dark night fingered the ominous cloud that furled its ebony flag over the coastline. waves blasted the sand with a galvanised force of surf and old tampax that floated wasted like blind fish. the moon threatened the sky with a clown face.
yellow like teeth.
glaring like malice.
the clowns tongue, pink and moist, slipped warm into her mouth with a taste of peppermint. she sucked upon it and, for a fraction of a second, bit gently onto it. she felt his hand cup her breast.
"ya got them milky faraway eyes," she said, "reminds me of nebraskan skies."
"i stole 'em from an old hobo years ago while he was slepping. he never missed 'em"
"liar!" she screamed.
rain pellted against the windshield. shied away from droplets by huge lumps of water. gross and imperial like mints. large 'n white.
hail hail rock and roll.
she turned the radio on. chuck berry didn't sing back. tammy fucking wynette did.
she longed for mexico. sand and sun. flesh of boys. rigid movements sculptured by heat.
somewhere over there a raven sprung to life.
shit upon a tarmac drive and took to flight.
slices of heaven fell in pieces.
"My God--I've become entirely subliminal!" she realized suddenly as the bits of shattered glass stroked the hours of her mouth.
ice cream grove a dripping. down part down. pouring thick and sludge like over the crystal edge upon the plastic tablecloth. dog lips a licking, because dogs can. because dogs can where men wish. only wish
the rain pelted down smoothing away the tarmac's ridicule. tyre tracks marked the place where the chase fell apart and the blue and red lights stop their confused blinking and spinning whilst the sirens scream a yammering with electric acid.
the red eye of a cigarette stole the dark and rid the night, for a blink, of dark.
a hole in the throat.
deflated life hisses now like a fading picture.
not even the white lines of the freeway can summon up an angel to protect the guilty.
pedal down and floored.
Posted by Russell Duffy at 13:42
odd little fuckers.
MEAT HOOK MENTALLITY.
Posted by Russell Duffy at 12:03
Posted by murmurists at 02:06
27 Jan 2008
26 Jan 2008
A condom made of sweet-wrappers, your left ear inside a light-bulb. Chinese children, a summer spent rolling in the poppies; a haystack for a house.
Ghandi in a pedalo, bewhiskered and bald, shares a cigarette with the park-keeper. "Whose house is this?" she asked, unexpectedly, her fingers trailing limply in the water, "My visa has run out, so I'm thinking of moving to Manchester." I tasted pollen when I kissed you and we watched the seeds drifting like tiny feathers in the sunset. That tuesday seems so far away now.
If there is a God, then let Him be a God of pale green monkeys, an Elvis on a plate. Let Him be a God of photocopied doorways and frost-smeared packets of frozen peas. An old photomontage of Biba models and dissected rabbits. A home for those who need it most.
A God of stolen hopes and molten dreams. Of broken crockery and cervical smears. Burning hair and broken legs.
And the smell of a childhood pet whose time has long since passed.
Posted by I am not Kek-w at 00:54
The street today… technical army munching specialists, a dusty atmosphere of discarded automobiles embedded with vegetables and jewels, cos it’s the season of hand gesture, plastic surgeons with their antique wooden skeletons miming beauty disposable, red lipstick folds real-time upon a face into the latest colour, user unaware, until messaged, crumpled paper in pink fists, a lousy gang of lice, floral patterns expressed in expletive phrases, crosses of the death cult drown in cleavage, pacification verts replace active eyeballs, slutty in their sockets, silver cars loiter next to herb racks waiting for xmas, a doctor of psychosis dresses nicely for one of the old guard, fish entrails and neat theories written in semen, metal sweat suited techno bumps across the tarmac, she has a luscious gritty coating, total war within her blue eyes, I exude an inflatable invisibility, holocaustic criminal etchings in orange suits, silver, leather, faces, black eyed revenge, chopped up earlier, tinted eye window judgement, senseless substances course through a limp, button eyes, stereotyped nose, fire, sticks and twigs of burnished metal, a five ‘O’ clock shadow ruminates on a bench, masturbatory vert, curtains spasm, hate in a soggy gutted pizza recycler, purple sweat stains, the gps location, skin pulled away from muscle, placid fantasies, rotted throat, decorative lace integument, heavy dead eyelids… the corpse had been waiting sometime…
Posted by d_rood at 00:44
25 Jan 2008
Proposition: I sign in order to Be; that is, I sign in order to signify Being.
This missive is an attempt to explain.
Body affirms Earth; ergo, body affirms region. If so, it follows that spiritual development is corporeal development. In other words, get some exercise.
I stress bodily development. Likewise, I stress the eroticisation of this development. Put the ego in pain - or pay the price. Many are offended by this, I know. They lie in gutters of their own making. They work for furniture.
1.3 Their Static Lists Reject You...What Now?
You are offended by your exclusion; yet, it is the making of you and your greatest weapon. Divide further; ruthlessly divide. Make division your means of expression.
1.4 War Eroticises Pain; Peace Eroticises Life
Not so. You are asleep, and no-one is watching over you. Recordings are made of you, but these are immediately erased, with their cases stabbed onto spikes in public places.
1.5 Society? ...At Best, We See Hubs of Personification
We create your reality and your opinions, by importing fantastic places into us. See our fountainheads. For us, you function as the people we are to love.
1.6 A Suspect Human Nature?
Indeed this is so. People tend toward corruption. In light of this, we are authoritarian, in seeing all these tendencies as disconnections from reality. Our abstractions defy testing. Attempt no contrast, please.
1.7 The Universe is Unnatural
You crave the ability to distinguish yourself from this, I know. You merely play at fighting, however.
1.8 Stereotype Your Enemy
You have basic mistrust - which is good; but this needs guidance. Corruption is a science which is itself corruptible. In celebrating this diversity, you fail to impose uniform values. Pure authority, and its attendant hostilities, brings reason to impersonality.
1.9 Impersonality Presumes Uniformity Anew
The virtue of this is direction. History values systems. We favour inquisitions and purges, and evangelise same.
Sharon & Anita x
Posted by murmurists at 22:00
She asked me a series of questions about rebirth to which i replied during a string
of death defing feats, crowd pleasing, naked to the naked eye and sacred eye. Staring eye to eye with magic each time.This was during our time of crisis where we sang redemption song by candlelight in order to invoke the wisdom of Bob Marley. Indigo traffic slowed us down. By the end of the ritual we had sacraficed ourselves to three divine aspects of the dark side. It wasn't clear which one more favourably. She could hardly harness the fact of our insular swelling. By comparison we had devoured the competiton and left only reminants of their existence which we shipped to their relatives for a small inexplicable fee. The sum of which enabled us to continue our savagry at a much more efficent-less time consuming rate.
'Avalanche' i say as we held on to our ornaments. ' this must be it ' she yelled as we jumped into the oncoming debris. My caramel criminal is she. Do not follow me. I am but a mislead servant of misfortune. Misstiming our escape and expanding our deliberate sense of rythm into our pockets as polititians.
She was able to call me until a man responded, with fury hands and an itch above his left eyebrow, above which he claimed would be a stitch had he not been a knife yeilding assailant of the finest jewelry shop robbery to leave both the store clerk blind and sexually satisfied-although slightly removed.
We spent the next several lifetimes in reverse as a subliminal message. Attacking the masses day in and day out. Dooming them to servitude and non awakeness. as a clergyman he missed his watch. misstified he sat and awaited the arrival of the Jamaicans.
Posted by Jaie at 19:38
A confusion of those only in fables.
light of the birds that are arming tenors in the fog of seven o'clock.
Posted by Russell Duffy at 10:24
hoy, más una vez desperté en novedad. novedad en verme dividido en tres. devidi-me y era yo, yo y más yo. una confusión de aquellas que sólo en fábulas. no pude conmigo al verme separado de mí, tantas veces. traté los otros mis yos por usted por haberme sido dividido. sería de la luz, de los pájaros que ya se arman en tenores o de la niebla de las siete de la mañana. volví para casa y sólo por la noche me vi en un sólo.
Posted by clica no play at 01:09
24 Jan 2008
explicit antics in property parentis
value the standard
Posted by Russell Duffy at 21:48
Posted by murmurists at 12:49
23 Jan 2008
this is the distance spent looking across from you in isolation.
the lovely furnace of a habitat, frequently located outside of itself in longing.
The known length of my generosity, lent to fools according to gravity.
My shes ever so impenetrable. Shes my ever so impenetrable bubble.
Flammable bubble. Damn you bubble, I demand more. Never gonna
get enough of the equator, it doesn't make sense. I can warm my
hands on your breast from here. That was a rumor yesterday. Today it correlates with myth.
Tomorrow its more of a secret. And from then on it's an ingrained belief.
The type of thing you get for no good reason other than having thoughts about thinking.
The side of yourself you are blind to. No mirror could comprehend. The picture your eyes deny.
Effortlessly your excrement, tied me to the cause you created. Your mind was a terrible thing to waste.
Color me in. Stay in the lies. Stain the likes. Blaim the lights. Brand me brand new.
This is the blues. Before it runs out. Captain of a one eyed vehicle. Carrier of canned goods.
Time has it's own escape plan. Get yours. I know my way out of here. The rest of you were blindfolded i
believe. Escape pods had their doubts. It is as you can expect. She is desirable
And I above all, having vision attached, am aimed at her crafted matter.
For the most part, I obstruct an obstacle, and petrude, obtuse forms of technology taken
from before the time of distance and spaces between innumerable objects.
Posted by Jaie at 18:06
let us make like happy humans.
pretend that everything is alright.
that everything is all white.
transparent as the day, the territorial pissings of mankind.
Posted by Russell Duffy at 15:59
Posted by Russell Duffy at 11:39
t i .
83 tur . beau . gold.
i say to myself only this one word
only this one word only this one.
please . touch me there.
i don't care . thinking the
only consequense of fucking is orgasms
and stained sheet.s
i say this word this word. this work.s
" knuckle "
this forces you to ask what the fuck I may be talking about
this forces you to fear .
this force. that bends my joints.
that somewhere out there are prokaryotes that live off our skin.
the cracked knuckles of work = a = day. weekends.
sleeping our pillows pressed into the side of our
sharp turned necks . never forgetting .
teh 3viL B3Nd 4nd hax.
one day : .you. dear reader : will be old
a joint that creaks will drive madness to the
fore front of your thoughts.
only one though prevails. a candy dish
that slowly empties with the infrequent
visits of children and their dis approving
touch your finger to my beating heart.
exposed benieth the liquid rising
around the gape in my open chest.
drift . right. drift.
did you forget.
- ready dready hear comes some fuxxxing hippy shit -
ok . ok . ok .
.put . out .t. here
one moon. we've all the same. shape and open eye. into the
surface of the sun obscured by our own presence. drifting west.
ward. away. from . your. caved in pectorals. away from your.
caved in pecked out tutorials on how the eyed drifts.
from skirt to skirt . but always. like a `aaa` anime
back to the same warm cunt. the same warm
Posted by David Setchell at 06:47
22 Jan 2008
Describe what you were doing
Provide additional information
Posted by Russell Duffy at 11:38
Posted by Inconsequential at 10:38
Notable sufferers of tinnitus include:
Ludwig van Beethoven
Al Di Meola
Vincent van Gogh
Kevin Hogan 
Steve Kilbey of The Church
Tim Powles of The Church
Thom Yorke
Posted by murmurists at 03:35