Wednesday, January 2, 2008


It's pretty difficult for me to vomit. I remember when I was maybe 17 or 18, some friends I was in a band with and I were trying to make fucked up videos to put to our "Industrial" music. We poured gasoline into the shape of a pentagram on the ground of some out of the way cul-de-sac out near Jersey Village and set it on fire. Of course. How original. We slowed the footage down and made the flames blue, and it was high contrast like lightning. It was beautiful but the production was shit. Incidentally the music was shit too. And those friendships turned to shit. And that whole decade was shit, just like this one is starting to be. But my point is that it's hard for me to vomit. Back in those days, I drank one or two bottles of ipecac syrup to make myself throw up so we could film it, and I couldn't do it, and then we had no ipecac left, and no one else could even try. Oh yeah, and I just vomited, but the amazing thing is that I don't care.

I am getting the fuck out of this life I have been living. A prisoner and a victim of my own doing. Always of my own doing. I want to rip out the whites of my eyes, and shove them onto the tallest fucking spear and wave the flag of my bloody surrender, while blood runs from my eyes as my heart pumps harder and harder, threatening to deafen me in my blindness. .. An I hope to fuck that I don't become deaf or that my ears are somehow damaged, which could throw my balance into a fucking unrecoverable Abyss and then I wouldn't be able to hold up the flag. And the other side would not see that I meant to stop fighting, and instead they would launch air, sea and ground attacks. And when the guys in space suits would come to check out the damage, and comb the radiated wasteland I was last standing on, they wouldn't find a scrap of me left, and the flag of my eyes would far be gone in the thick black hate of the war that had killed me.