a poem

vulnerable

My sorrow
hides carefully
bobbing and weaving amongst
the fronds of insecurity
the limbs and branches of intolerableness
The happiness stands
hiding this from sight
showing to none the secret
This angst, this ennui
it eats away slowly
digesting me from the outside

My pain
knows no bounds
I see no beauty in myself
only the kindnesses of others
I hide behind my insufferableness
odious, obnoxious, obsequious
grovelling at the feet of those who
in seeing this
find me repugnant

My vanity
is a pit
a bottomless pit to which I cast the lambs
freshly blooded kills
over, over, over again
I throw them down
ever destroying in order to create
then hating the very thing which I have made

My weakness
stands upon my shoulders
looking forward for new obstacles
once in a while
gives me a kick to the skull
I fall
over, over, over again I fall
I fall again
though I have not gotten up

My shackles
bind my legs to my ankles
I walk with ease
independent
but nevertheless captive

febuary 28 2k1

o england i do pine for thee.

of my many lives and secret sorrows of the past few months weeks years this seems to be the most straight forward and inoffensive. i can at least discuss it openly without offending people or destroying interpersonal relations.

basically, i miss england. i miss you, sweet island. i was there this summer for the first time in a few years, and my dad is returning in a few weeks... i'm nearly on the verge of tears about this. scones, clotted cream, uk garage... i miss it all. i don't know how badly i'd want to move at this point in my life - but to go to the UK, i would leave everything behind. There are two, three, maybe four or five people i would miss.... two maybe i would miss a lot... but i just wish i was back. born in canada, i feel that the UK is my true homeland. potentially bizarre subconscious reasoning behind this - my mum and dad voyaged there while i was still but a collection of fetal cells... could that be why? sigh. who knows? i miss british dancing stage. i miss curries. i miss english women (young and old) - i've never been called 'love' so many times in one day. i miss good techno music. i miss the PLUR crowd being the biggest crowd around. i miss the people, the culture, the lifestyle, the customs, the quirks. i miss it all. i love new york, i love the west coast... but england is where i truly belong.

the day i speak with an accent will be the day i learn to love myself.

you got no iiice cream
you can't afford it
you can't afford it
cause you're on the welfare
your dad's an alcoholic

here's yet another song
bizarre combo of acoustic ballad and screamcore punk. lines in italics are screamed, with spaces denoting where you should take a breath. everything else is sung, quietly and smoothly. i'm not sure what motivated me to write this, since i'm the one being screamed at...

your life is not so great
stop fu cking ly ing
slave to the people you hate
that's just bull shit
you say that all this is fate
you bring it on yourself, fucker

guitar solo

don't know where to turn
turn to your self
don't know who you burn
ev ery one else
don't know why they spurn
you're a fucking whiny bitch, that's why

guitar solo

sometimes everyone cries
they don't al ways whine
sometimes everyone lies
not path o logically
who cares, everyone dies
so fucking live when you have a chance

guitar solo

depression's only natural
so is fuc king murder
you say it makes you feel well
screw your fuc king sorrow
it's all just natural
eat my fucking shit, you pigfucker



stick it in your ass
ram it in your eye
gouge it through your ear
slice it cross your wrists
go
to
hell

cheer up, everything's gonna be okay

here's another song i wrote. no title as of yet.


i look around
city make sound
i hear the cars go
to the impound
footsteps come closer
who do i see
big fuckin copper
lookin at me

he say

fuck ya doin' kid,
out on the street
three in the mornin'
you aint a base head
you aint slingin rock
hope you ain't hookin,
suckin no cock

he walk away
what do i do
scrape of the pavement
some gum to chew
scratch on my nuts and
spit on the ground
notha man come up
makin some sound

he say

kid is ya armed
is ya holdin a gat
kid i got switch blade
i cut ya like that
gimme your money
I'll fuck up your face
shit i ain't playin,
kid learn ya place

he mess me up
he make me bleed
that dirty fucker
he hopped up on speed
take all my money
got nothin ta say
nowhere ta go and
no way ta pay

pass out in gutter
woke up by stick
who is be do dis
is some fat ass prick

he say

kid ya wan' buy some
i hook ya up quick
kid ya wan' fry some
ya suck on this dick
i sell ya budda
crystal or crack
youd sell ya motha
for a hitta that smack

we go in back alley
i unzip he pants
out come the cock
an' i grab with my hands
stick in my mouth
do the deep throat
when this fuck spooges
i hope i don't choke

back out in the street
still got no dice
but in my pocket
a fat ounce a ice
then down the street
comes a thug and his pals
checkin out asses
on some ugly ass gals

say hey yo my brothas
wassup in the hood
wan' score some meth, boys
this shit is real good
these fatass bitches
they gather around
this fuckin whiteboy
they plannin ta pound

he say

hey skinny fucker
ya shit outta luck
we outta money
is all in our truck
but is no problem
we just take ya dope
stuff betta be phat
little bitch betta hope

shit outta money
shit outta luck
shit's with those bastards
in their damn truck
on down the street
i hear come a squad car
thought I'd wave them
take me away from here far

then the fuckers hit me.

the analogy i used a while back about writing just "ejaculating forth in great sticky gusts" wasn't far from the truth.

here we go with another sexual analogy. i'm only using it because it's the most fitting thing i can find, not to shock or offend you.

that last post was an example of the "great sticky gusts."

and what i feel right now is like my brain just got a hell of a hummer... a sort of unburdened, floaty-aroundy feeling. if you don't instantly relate you never will.

anyway, that was just a little insight i had.

prewarning: this is a shitty post, hard to understand, written in the heat of the moment. cope.

i can't put my finger on it. or i couldn't till just now.

something fucked me up between right now and, say, last november or something. i didn't notice it at the time, but now it's clear. i have just had it made clear through a sudden melodramatic realization. ready? and it's a change for the positive. is there any other kind? (no)

we hear those stupid clichés; we're all special, we're all unique, each one of us is different and equally valid. last november, i remember thinking, hey i'm special, i'm different, i'm unique. so are these other people, let's call them erica and ian and karen (these names have not been changed cuz i don't feel like protecting their identities). thing is; these people were the only people i really knew a lot, really talked to in depth, really tried to understand (for various reasons. all of which are clear now to those people). they all seemed unique, but i looked down upon the masses whom, from my brief encounters, i had decided to hate fully and utterly. the proles, the stupid ones, the ones who didn't matter.

now, i look at my friends. i think they're all unique and special etc. etc. thing is, now there's more of them. what's been plaguing me of late (that's not the whole story, but i'm not getting into the rest of it) is the impending discovery that my "uniqueness" is not in and of itself unique; that all these stupid clichés exist for a reason - they're true. we are all unique, godammit, every single one of us. if you think otherwise, try this little experiment - pick a random person and talk to them. really, really talk to them, try to comprehend them wholly as a person, not as a member of a subculture or as a chicky or as a pig or as whatever but as a separate individual. either you'll find that they are quote unquote special, or you're lying to yourself.

true, there seem to be exceptions. there are the thugs and the playas that you hate, or the punks and the skaters that you hate or whatever subculture it is that you hate; but they are no less unique in being that which you hate. let's take the example of your average wigger thug boy. his own circumstances and logic are unique; he's simply given up any real outward expression of himself in favour of someone else's way of expression, vis a vis wack mode. (which, incidentally, was unique at one point.) his motivations in doing so, if you can draw him out sufficiently, are truly significant - he is not just a prole to be looked down upon.

faith re-restored in human race.
go now in faith to love and serve the lord. (however you may comprehend him/her/it/whatever)
peace love unity and respect.

ich habe angst

i'm feeling kind of depressed, but i'm having trouble thinking of something to write... and when i have to think it's a sign that nothing's gonna happen that's any good really.

so, i think i'll write a song. i call it ode to my bong

my bong pipe, my bong pipe
where would i be without you
my bong pipe, my bong pipe
and the cool smoke you provide

what would i dooo
if i could not see you
there would be a hole
deep in my soul
if i can't pack that bowl
i have no hope
without your dope
you make me whooooole

my bong pipe, my bong pipe
where would i be without you
my bong pipe, my bong pipe
and the cool smoke you provide


you make me complete
with your fumes oh so sweet
one hit and i'm flying in spaaace
i love you my bong pipe
i can't live without you
if you went away
my life would be gay
my hooka will save the day

my bong pipe, my bong pipe
where would i be without you
my bong pipe, my bong pipe
and the cool smoke you provide

sometimes there are days
i just cannot cope
i will forget who my friends are
and they will forget why they like me
but when i feel sad
and verging on bad
i pack you with herb
and you take me away

my bong pipe, my bong pipe
where would i be without you
my bong pipe, my bong pipe
and the cool smoke you provide

some people like reefs
and others smoke blunts
some folks like a dugout
a one-hit, a nice little toy
a guy that i met,
he had a nice pipe,
but still you're the only one for me
you cool the smoke
make it easier to toke
i get high with less pain and more gain and spreading the love

my bong pipe, my bong pipe
where would i be without you
my bong pipe, my bong pipe
and the cool smoke you provide

they say it's a sin
they say it will mess up my head
fuck you all
you can go to hell
my head is messed up already
sweet, sweet panama red
bring me to your special place
i can relax
concerns float away
my problems with people forgotten

my bong pipe, my bong pipe
where would i be without you
my bong pipe, my bong pipe
and the cool smoke you provide

one day i met a man.
he said that weed was lame
he handed me a yellow pill
said pop it in your mouth
i said to him i know what this is
i'm not popping percodan
i'll get addicted as all hell
and there is no way out
my sweet beautiful cheeba is right
it's less addictive than booze
and doesn't kill you like cigs

my bong pipe, my bong pipe
where would i be without you
my bong pipe, my bong pipe
and the cool smoke you provide

quit giving me static you dirty old pig
you say you know what's good for me
i'm not addicted, my grades are good
i'll end up way better than you
you sit on your ass
in your small world
blindly obeying and desecrating the true, natural law
you drink your coffee and clog your arteries
i will live longer than you

my bong pipe, my bong pipe
where would i be without you
my bong pipe, my bong pipe
and the cool smoke you provide

fill this hole, suck this soul
i'm the thing that i can't control

hooray for gothic music. fuck all those parent groups saying that Marilyn will make me want to kill everyone i know, i have an entirely new perspective on this.

violence is a natural urge. repression thereof will result in depression and a lack of focus in life. sure, crazy little fuckers may be more willing to shoot up schools because of KMFDM, fuckem. for me, it provides a focal point and catalyst for the acceptance of the violence that is inherent in myself as an animal. i abandoned goth tunes for a time, going for happy ska etc. but i realize now a fundamental truth - ignorance is bliss, therefore bliss is ignorance. in complete happiness, i lost all desire to create, to write or to have any kind of real purpose in my life. music is not unimportant, on the contrary it is a powerful force to change one's emotions. ska makes me happy, it makes me want to get down and skank. i'll still listen to it, it's cool, but i'm going back to goth. by depressing me and bringing my repressed violence back to the front, it gives me a kind of life force to apply to my ventures, i again have purpose.

melodrama.

that sounded kind of church-of-satan-ish, didn't it? i don't care. the ideas that satan and god represent in christian mythology are equally pure. i don't care which side my energy comes from, so long as i have it.

money is the root of all evil.
a concept's reality is determined by its founding forces.
money is a fiction, therefore evil is a fiction.
a concept cannot exist without an antithesis.
evil is the antithesis of good, therefore good is also a fiction.
good and evil are fictional concepts.
do what thou wilt and that shall be the whole of the law.