3.31.2005

The Po-To-Weet Blues

heya. i wanted to tell u about that time when u were behind me and i was on my stomach and it felt sooooo gooood that i was out of breath...and then i moved a little and a mattress spring pressed against my chest and for a few seconds it felt like i couldn't breathe and u were saying, come, baby, come cuz i had just announced how close i was and suddenly i was unstuck in time like billy pilgrim, and i was back in belgium in my fucked up little room with the water damaged walls covered in green and brown mushrooms and i'd just said no for the final time and was now silently crying, which in turn made him cry. his fat, hot tears fell on my neck and got mixed up with mine. please dont cry, he said, which made me cry harder and he pressed his large hand on my face so he wouldnt have to see and i couldn't breathe or speak and i couldn't believe this was happening, it was like a movie or a book or a bad dream, and as i tried but failed to pull his hand off my face he started saying, come, i want u to come, over and over, and at first i didn't understand, it was so far-fetched i wondered if it was some kinda fucked-up joke, since he knew that i knew what was happening--i mean, there i was, not wet in the least and wincing in pain everytime he pushed in and for weeks i'd be covered in purple and green bruises down there and he wanted me to have an orgasm? come, come, i wanna make u come, he said, and pressed his hand down harder on my face and it was at that moment that i told myself i was going to give up on breathing, and the 40 watt bulb in my brain dimmed and the room started to recede and a looooong hallway appeared before me, at the end of which there wasn't a bright white light, but a hazy red never-never land, like the V.I.P. room of a club and as i squinted my eyes i saw my own face down there, floating in the mist and calling out to me for help...

i can't help u, i said to myself, and the sadness of my failure filled the air and soaked my face like spring rain and all i wanted was for it to be over, whatever that would mean, and when i opened my eyes instead of the fleshy orange of his palm i saw my own eyes looking back at me--it seemed i had crossed the shadowy distance in the hallway and was standing face to face with myself, staring, sad-eyed as i said goodbye to the girl i would never be again.





3.30.2005

Vlog post without the Video



this guy takes his photographs the old fashioned way, with cameras that use film.

he captures the high density, leonard cohen afterworld that is the new york city i know:



like im filming a movie with my eyes

and the movie is looking back



it's a citywide, cinemascope





it's so fucking DELICIOIUSLY crowded with people and flowers, and people who are sad flowers


home on the range...




3.29.2005

Other Meanings



lovekatie.

if i sit here, cold figurin on somethin fer awhile, sooner or later im going to get horny. that's the way it works. it has to do with the whole mind body relationship and the energy that clots up our veins if we don't let it out. like the poisoning of an overdose. in college i'd sit around banging my head against thick ass philosophy books fer hours and it would just come over me...slowly, like a train approaching from a distance. my mind would start wandering...thoughts would pop in my head, i'd start twisting around the things i read so that they said other things...with other meanings.

and i'd become super-conscious of how my jeans rubbed me between my legs...

and voices would either startle me or soothe me to sleep, depending...

depending...

finally, when i couldn't take it anymore i half-walked, half-ran to the other side of the library, where there was a bathroom that was hardly used. the floor was slanted and the stalls were painted a hideous bright yellow and the faucet dripped, loudly...

i'd listen to it after i came, as i stood there straddling the toilet and catching my breath.

then i'd become strict and tell myself off.



kidgod


blackonblackhatsarethebesthats





3.28.2005



i just wanna have some fun.






3.24.2005



The psychotic lives in the terror of breakdown (against which the various psychoses are merely defenses). But 'the clinical fear of breakdown is the fear of a breakdown which has already been experienced (primitive agony)...and there are moments when a patient needs to be told that the breakdwon, fear of which is wrecking his life, has already occurred.' Similarly, it seems, for the lover's anxiety: it is the fear of a mourning, which has already occurred, at the very origin of love, from the moment when I was first 'ravished.' Someone would have to be able to tell me: 'Don't be anxious any more--you've already lost him/her.'


--Roland Barthes, The Lover's Discourse

3.22.2005

history repeats and cyphers become complete.



it's not that i hate dubya. i don't. i don't even strongly dislike him, to tell you the truth. i think we could prolly chill. two drunk wasters who went to expensive schools where we learned how to FRONT.

i wanna skullfuck him and i bet if he met me he'd want it too.

i'd break bread wit him. tell him all the worries on my mind. ask him to explain his ass. ask him to consider peace, instead of more war (with Iran, or Seria or whoever). i'd point to latin america, and ask him if he REALLY thought all of reagan's war mongering in the region paid off...u know...for the sake of democracy.

por favor, mi hermano, i'd say, and i'd clap him on the back and wave my hand in front of his eyes, like i would to a sleepwalker who just marched out into traffic.

then id roll us a blunt and spark it off the flames upon which id thrown his history books.

wake-up, doood! i'd say to him, the same way i say it to my peeps sitting slumped over with their red wine and prescription pills in front of mindless shit on the tv.

it's time to seek the higher learnin.

u and me, compadre. the dipshit from texas and the dipshit from jersey.

yep.

we'll travel by foot across the country. we'll speak in a simple tongue. we'll lean on one another for warmth.

come with me. take my hand in the darkness.

the night is cold but hell is hot...


write for our blog, and tell us about all the shit that pisses u off.

mr president, it's time to bring the beef.

3.19.2005

hallelujah

can u hear me calling out to u...? i feel like a tone is ringing out from within me. the discordant blast of my desire...like the sound inside a shell, the empty ache sings out in spite of myself, overcoming myself...

(and women have that woman thing...)

i feel like all my cups are broken, all my bells are cracked.

im splintering open at my seed nut center.

(which is when they all leave me)

standing alone

standing alone

like the leaning tower of pisa

with my crooked smile

i front artsy like im mona lisa

a brain teaser

im a blog weaver

i'll guilt-wrap yr better intentions and bottom feed ya

i'll get u so famous yr own moms won't know how to treat ya


im strung out like a knitting circle

sex texts get interwoven

deep like the color purple.



fuckit


i know i didn't make it rhyme ferreals

but tech-nic-ly im as hard as steel.

3.18.2005





there wasn't a thought in my head--only vibes as i looked at u as u looked down to put on the condom and then looked up to look at me. i felt everything and nothing conspiring against us in this moment of before, when we briefly pull apart so we can come even closer together, like how a train sitting in the station has to first move backwards before it can go forwards again.

3.17.2005

This is a song called "New Age"...



Let’s run away to cali and live by anti and big tanky where there’s bright white concrete and the freeway humming to Alaska beneath an endless succession of flat blues skies, like a handful of old quarters with the faces worn off, and on the street are skaters in stained sweatshirts and dinky little foodstands where chubby mexican women sell tacos and corn and fried cake dough on a stick. We’ll get a place near the ocean but never go on the beach. At least not where anyone can see us…

We’ll buy metal blinds to put over the windows and a secondhand tv that we’ll keep in a closet on a cart with wheels.

Video cameras, not cable.

Vegetables, not meat.


(and lots and lots of candy)

iTunes and weed…

I’ll be yr dog and u can be mine.

It will be Independence Day, over and over, with sparklers, not flags.

We’ll be best friends and lovers and I’ll never have to pretend I’m something I’m not and neither will you.

3.14.2005



the best thing would be if the post would write itself.

3.10.2005

queer sex fer straights

that's right...that's the potion im peddlin on this here data trickle. i wanna change the way u fuck. yep. that's my ultimate goal.

now u know, faithful readers. it has been revealed.

k i don't wanna change it just rearrange it. or at least make u think about it again, if u haven't recently.

sure, when people hear the words 'queer sex' they usually think of dykes and fags but queer sex is about a lot of things that have nothing to do with whether yr actually gay or not.

queer sex is often long and messy, with lots of positions and play and laughter and smells and tastes and breaks in the middle cuz yr tired and want to talk and hang out for awhile with the sheets over yr heads like a tent.

...like yr in a secret getaway bungalo on mars, where no one knows yr name...

queer sex is about there not being a fixed to-do list.

queer sex is whenever someone comes. how doesn't matter.

it could be five minutes it could be five hours.

when bill clinton so emphatically stated, "i did not have sex with that woman," what he was really telling america was that "i did not have queer sex with that woman."

queer sex is about spending the weekend in bed together when yr not in the same city.

queer sex is too sweet fer werds. like a plate of chocolate cheesecake and chocolate ice-cream covered with powdered sugar and with fudge sauce zig-zagged across the bottom of the cold, thick plate.

queer sex is about increasing yr awareness of what's happening when u get naked, and not numbing yrself out on beer to give u the courage to take off yr pants.

queer sex is about a woman making love to a man like he's a woman.

...and vice-versa...times 2.

queer sex is not about marriage.

queer sex are the thoughts that just pop into yr head, uninvited and unbidden.

...on the train, in the deli, when yr eating yr mashed potaotoes at the dinner table or listening to the best of steely dan, in which the songs are pretty good, but each one sounds just like the one before, over and over, track after track, time after time, year after year...

queer sex keeps u up at night with yr spiderman panties tied in a knot.

queer sex is about reading the last page first and starting from there.

queer sex is about the fact that u are only given one life to live.

3.08.2005

Fake Death is Real on TV



i was walking on 55th street last week behind Bad Boy World Headquarters, trying to suppress my boner at the thought of having my own skyscraper for BRANDTRUEBOY, there at the center of the world, surrounded by neon lit marquees and storefront delis with ancient wooden barrels in the window that used to be filled with smoked meat but are now just empty decorations, as these days, the meat is "smoked" in a vat of chemicals and shipped in from northern jersey in a refrigerated truck covered with third-rate graffiti, and tourists wrapped around the entrance to the david letterman show, shivering in their champion sweatshirts and looking like farm-grown idiots--but not as idiotic as they would look a few hours later, clapping and waving and smiling for the cameras like this was the most fun they'd ever had...which it prolly was...which is why they are idiots.

"there's more to life than this", i whispered to them as i passed.

the wind was blowing from all directions, like it was tryin hard to tell me something...

to leave? to run home...?

to embrace the future with eyes wide shut?

(but i had my iPod on and i couldn't hear the phrase through the halcyon haze)

trash and plastic bags flew up in little twisters from the gutter...making me sentimental and spacy and lookin for my camera like the stoner dude in american beauty.

and that's when i saw him:

right in front of me--farnsworth bentley. that umbrella toting, fag-acting, fashionista "assistant" of puffy's who's been a source of endless fascination for me, as he's one of those people who are famous for being famous, which, as some of you well know, is my ultimate goal in life.

damn, i said to myself, i guess his fifteen minutes is already up, cuz he was dressed in boring chinos and a boring jacket and a boring scarf--totally out of character with his usual haut couture get-ups. he didn't have his trademark umbrella or hat and he needed a haircut too.

as i watched a small piece of white paper shot out of his hands--a receipt or something.

he lunged after it in the air, missed it, and then ran forward trying to catch it, but it kept eluding his grasp.

the wind stopped, he fell to his knees but then a new gust sent the little square further down the sidewalk.

he prolly needs it for an expense report, i thought. i considered snapping a picture of him with the camera on my phone, but decided against it.

instead i turned up biggie smalls on my iPod and bopped on over to 7th ave, remixing a few lines of Goethe over the beat as i stuffed my hands deep inside the pockets of my no name parka:

I'm not like the others

who will try all their life to grasp the magic receipt

which they can see but never touch.




sin twitties

3.03.2005



Now my helmet's on, you can't tell me I'm not in space
With the National Guard United States Enterprise
Diplomat of swing with aliens at my feet
Comin' down the rampart through beam on the street
Obsolete computes, compounds and dead sounds
As I locate intricately independent
Economic rhymer got savoury store food
In Capsule D my program is ability
For a reaction and response to a no-one
Identification Code: Unidentified
I got cosmophonic, pressed a button, changed my face
You recognised, so what? I turned invisible
Made myself clear, reappeared to you visual
Disappear again, zapped like a android
Face the fact, I fly on planets every day
My nucleus friend, prepare, I return again
My 7XL is not yet invented

Earth People, New York and California
Earth People, I was born on Jupiter

Earth People, New York and California
Earth People, I was born on Jupiter...




UltraB

Anonymous

3.02.2005

Andy Warhol Was My Daddy.

Someone once told me that when u love someone or something it's cuz u really want to BE that person or that thing...




I love plastic idols.