shock me like an electric eel

Unfinished Thesis

In quiet abandon
I felt easy
I felt happy
when I felt young
being undecayed
without mores;
I had wasted it all

Soggy transmission,
unequivocally pointless,
(from happy eyes
a search
for expiation)
incompetently wasteful
pathetically incomprehensible
stupidly moronic
needlessly stagnant
necessarily unmoved
hopelessly vicious
circularly circularly
circularly cir

(Asleep once more,
Gone mush,
undreaming tomorrows,
suffocating
from yesterday's
throw up
and an imagined
embrace)

ahem...[live][zsg]

An Unexpected Call

Beyond skin,
Again again,

I tease with
you tease back,

you know what
I know what

Needs and wants,
Needs and wants

pecking my lips
again and again,

again,
out of the sheets,

lights off,
(for me)

It’s good to see you,
again.

this one glistens [live]

Please Don't Harden

Search the new,
so far nothing is.

Young fateful
becoming,

Young to adore,
I love you.

Look back you
look now.

nothing,
become.

Do you me
more,

I'll look for you tomorrow
today.

Rice [Politics, Gastronomy]

Rice, Rice Cooker

I only caught
my rice cooker's
song near the end;
it was hard to hear
with Thurston Moore
playing loudly in
my ear; the last I'd
heard of rice on
song was in China,
where I'm sure my
rice cooker was made:

She hums, so I saw
when I saw that she
sings: I had her as
more of a percussionist,
the high clanks
in shades of
rips in space,
metallic bangs,
booms, foreboding
a crescent clatter
slowly clacking
first, then clocking
increased tempo,
climbing, clamoring
martial metallic,
steady, industrious,
drumming.

But she hums, and
there's bass in the
boiling rice, beating,
bubbling, evaporating,
pulsating and breathing
on steam to hum
through a valve on
the lid, steam
on to hum.

And a clack,
most expected,
sets the light
from cook to
warm, and the
hum slowly
digresses,
at the clack,
soon to be turned off,
soon to be chowed down.

Recursive

Sometimes I stop and look
at the lint in my pocket.

First, I notice it. It's not
every time that I do. I

let it unravel at my
fingers' surrender:

historiographical twine,
threads and symbols

of what I kept, what
I held dear; I write

what I protect, what
I hide, what I write

survived all sorts of dirt
and multiple washings,

needless companions and
misunderstood burdens, cigarettes,

lighters, keys, hands: a
constant mangling from

sweaty, greasy, timid
hands.

But how did that
get there?

Art as a cruel hoax (Economics)

Marla Olmstead

Play,
Not a game,
Not Art Art

High Low
High High
Not Art

Ha!
Not Art

Low, little darling,
Shapes, No
Low, Later on

Doll, no Zane
Doll, no
Art, no
Later on.

In A minor [another live concoction on zsg]

Sometimes
I talk alone,

Sometimes, I,
let it grow,

Sometimes
I think about
all the smiles

that took me to,
to think,

to think,
sometimes,

I could
wait it out

and see,
so it goes, that

It could be wonderful
to be here.

Fanfare (the tumblr is taking over)

On Utility [Economics]

I find myself tonight curiously sipping beer from a wineglass. I am also smoking marijuana from a pipe made out of tagua, when my mother calls to my cell-phone. Drunk, high and slightly peeved, I try to continue writing about economic utility.

It is what will satisfy me right now, to persevere in the expression of my thought, which I thought so witty and relevant that it would satisfy to try and explain it in writing because I might end up with something interesting, a thought that might encourage more.

The beer is so damn refreshing, but it’s not without its flaws. It came from Mexico, so it cost a bit more. In any case, I could have noticed it, I could have not whenever I bought it. I probably did, but since I buy beer so seldomly, I didn’t really mind, regardless of the social norm.

It’s good beer: Negra Modelo (for those in the know), it makes me feel drunk and leaves a good aftertaste in my mouth.

I tell myself this is only a first draft: It’s always a first fucking draft if you’re lonely like me.

You see? That’s what I like, little digressions like that. I guess it might be due to the pot I just smoked, because, clearly I don’t want to digress but stick to the point: utility.

It does not please me at all that I know that most likely this pot does not have the best of origins, but at least it’s locally grown; my purchase of it mostly, at least, goes to help a taxicab driver and most likely, his own fucking vices…I also see it as a very riskless proposition for me, a service he’s providing me with for which he has to save every time he buys weed for me, since I pay him in advance (because I’m an idiot banker).

I know I hope someone will read what I’m writing and undestand what I’m saying: somehow this prospect of an utterly unconfirmable phenomenon brings me a satisfaction I crave for. In many ways, it is the motor of the perpetuity of my satisfaction, I mean, its lack thereof. Might I be a good economic model?

It’s easier not to care. I’ve lit up a cigarette, which I fucking hate. I’ve also lit up some incense so the haze has a little more zest.

I smoke weed pretty much every day. It’s why I thought the cab driver would save.

Atrévete-te-te

Un Lenguaje Familiar

Debo haber escrito alguna vez/
En español como tanto lo hago en inglés;/
En español, nunca me supe escritor./
No sé. Pienso tal vez, o alguna vez pensé,/
Que se trataba de filosofía tal vez,/
Digo, pues bien podría haber sido/
Una maldita cuestión de brío//

Frío/
En el calor de la confusión/
La multiplicidad de las pirámides/
En el aire/
Como marshmallows,/
Air puffed,/
Como iguanas cuando se enojan,/
Llenas de gas/
aparentando iguanidad/
En el aire//

A pesar de la imagen,/
Me veo reflejado en la televisión,/
pues/
alaluz/
como sol/
me reflejó.

via zsg

(like finger-fucking with your pinky)

Anyway, so it goes: Clippity-clop. Walk, hop, clack, plop. I'm dirty as fuck: I haven't moved in months and I think it's enough, enough to get bed sores or for some sort of venereal disease...no, none of that, I was barely just born, I don't think, unless momma, but no...I think I'm cool when I'm three because way before schools I was reading and swimming and apparently doing what my father imagined squares to be. I was a virgin/ For such a long time; in some sense I still am, in some sense I never was...in the way that matters I and a whore like me, blazing hot. But I was a virgin, for all intents and purposes, when I saw a wreathed queen that loved me, I thought. I'm such a fucking idiot, but at least I loved: my god did I dream of your golden sunshine for long ! My nymphs, like my bitches and my hos, I will want to paint together with everything I own. I was a baby, you saw? I was pretty golden back in the day. In my pond, I was odd: I can't think I was anything but indifferent to everyone but my own. But I loved, I certainly loved...tenacious since then, I've always loved for too long for my own good. I've had no love, not once, not ever, no one I'd ever consider dying for, no one I'd fuck too, anyway...love as most may see it is certainly uncertainly the most abnegating sort of affection, one which is both endogenously and exogenously decaying in the hopeful attempt at the creation of symbiosis: this symbiosis must confront endogenous and exogenous psychological pressures in order to live as such a symbiosis: Although now I'd prefer not to think about this, but if I had to comment, I'd say these matters could also be quite temporarily and spacially dependent, unless one is to wither forlorn in memories of times and locations of sugary concoctions (flashes of maybe perception plus angst inevitable to our fruitless lifeblood confections in this daze of emotion we call fuck confusion