Poetry. is kool.

i have to confess -

EVERY SECOND, of every day, and especially of every night, i am waiting. i am waiting for this thing i believe, but i have never known for real. i have felt the total absence of it in your breath as it passes, the vacuum it leaves. i have seen it in others, i have seen others see it. they have moved through it like snakes in a fire, like bearings through oil, like her fingers as she smears you, so she can wear you to school. slowly, with their eyes closed, and with total purpose carved into every line of their faces, every atom of their auras. everything they are. i wait by my open window, and hold my breath at every sound, every voice. my heart pounds, my ears ring. my breath catches. i do it so often i can see in the dark. i hide like a pervert, raping every passer with my eyes. this whole city like a dirty tv screen. and sometimes i explore, i climb in, i go to look. to investigate. my ears pulling my eyes back into slits, so keen and ready for the moment. the moment when you pass through some invisible membrane, clear, but you can feel it. your skin tightens and relaxes, and suddenly you sweat and your eyes are wide, as your arm shoots out to grab at anything that will keep you balanced, as your knees weaken and your voice fails, like the first time you ever came, shocked that so much of you just came out of you, relieved to be free of the poison of your load that leaves you drained and exhalted all at once. and the air is dancing across your face, and you can feel every particle of each element of air, as it kisses you and twists away, looking over its shoulder at you like all of your best loves. like summer romance, like a prelude to murder. yeah, they dance through it. some people seem to live their whole lives in it. never waking up in the afternoon, and having to lie extremely still as you try to reconcile and remember who and where you are, and wishing you could squeeze back into the dream you just fell out of, whatever it was. the moment is when your ears pick up the faint boom boom boom like a heartbeat, that explodes when you pass, waves of bass slamming right through you, bringing news of the outside world to the most remote areas of your internal geography. and you know, for the first time in your whole entire life that this is what life is meant to be, the missing ingredient of your every breath so far, where you're proud and naked and shining like fireflies in an ice cave. and the air smells sweet but not too sweet, because the greatest things in this universe exist only in the faintest of traces. and gravity takes its hands from off your shoulders, and you breathe in more than you ever knew you could, and hold it in case you suddenly wake up. you see the moment every day. in an ad. or a movie, in a song. artists and actors holding it up like a flag on the peak of a mountain. showing you the shiny plastic phantom dildo that fucks you without ever really being there, like the economy, or a holy inquisition. like the metaphor of a metaphor. i caught a trace of a moment once in a while. girls in cars. the beginning of a road trip. a million dollars. but it never lasts, never stays. moments are evaporative, alcohol on hot stones. snowballs in hell. sperm in the sauna. not very nice after all. this is why you never want to find a second hand moment. living vicariously is a sad compromise to the hunt of your own fresh moment, even if you never actually find one. dream your own dreams. don't settle for licking up some ad execs old ones.



cats don't have a moment. they are sour and sleepy. they have no need for greatness, just the blood of small animals, the cries of mice. they ignore moments, because cats are evil, and human moments irrelevant. dogs, however, know. they don't have moments of their own, but they see them everywhere, and strain at the leash, to drag you closer to see.




i just bought a brand new apple G5, with a flat panel monitor, and a bunch of other nifty shit.
i slowly unwrapped it, sitting in total silence, the tearing of plastic and my curses as i tried to unlock the boxes the only sound.
i did it because i wanted to see if it really would make me feel better.
i did it to see if all that shiny aluminium and white plastic could induce in me some kind of relevatory and numinous experience.
my afternnon life as the side of a bus.
as the life giving energy of an ad for a machine.
i plugged it all together...slowly and evenly...like it was holy.
and when i turned it on, i waited with baited breath for the door to blow right off its hinges in a shower of splinters, and the whole world to suddenly come shuddering into my room and ears and eyes, choking me and pinning me down with all of its force and majesty and complicated molecules and gases.
making me its bitch, taking me without a trace of tenderness or love. making me want more.
making me need it.
beg for it.
maybe i expected too much, i don't know.
i hoped it would fill me with inspiration, and i would break the seal off my writers block, and the colours and forms and shapes would flow faster and faster into a an orgiastic melange of all that i am. i hoped it would eat the scab, right in front of me.
and i would sweat and breathe harder and bite my lip til it bleeds, frantically typing and clicking and scrolling the canvas bigger and bigger suddenly standing and throwing the keyboard through the air with both hands and swinging it punching random keys as art manifested itself despite me, using me like i was its willing one night stand, giving my flesh and my fluids for the greater good of art and liberty and pure expression and magnificence.
knowing i would never amount to anything, giving up my bones so the art could feed.
peeling me back and exposing me.
reading my diary.
because true honesty has to hurt.
it has to it has.
but as beautiful as it looks, its corporate logo luminescing just like the bible says it did in eden,
i wasn't transported miraculously into the private club where rich consumers go to die.
still on the outer fenceline, looking at pare nirvana from across the highway.
from across the mini-put and the shopping mall.
from the dumpster behind avis and 7-11.
from the abandoned hatchback on the edge of the spiritual ghetto.
too far away to even smell.
cut the juice.


This is knifey, from 'the internet'.