Mitch

[b]"Banging Your Heart (The Child)"[/b] In Casper, Wyoming. Kid, he?s three years old. Wears glasses. Momma loves him. Momma and daddy aren?t staying together. Daddy and momma are getting divorced. Kid, few years later. He remembers going to daddy?s one more time. He?s sitting on the couch, watching Lawnmower Man. The TV?s light goes on his face, makes kid look like a pale ghost. Kid, more years later. Momma?s married a new daddy that loves me really. New daddy?s better. Old daddy still calls sometimes. ?Hello,? says kid. ?Hello,? says daddy. Real daddy. Kid, better be careful. He might be a monster, you don?t know. Monsters eat you. ?How?s school,? asks daddy. ?Getting good grades?? ?Yeah.? ?Don?t you wanna get your blood tested? To see if you?re my son?? ?Maybe,? says kid. Kid, you?re stupid. You don?t know. Your new daddy?s better. You?re lucky you never got your blood tested. Lucky you had a good momma. Kid remembers having a dream. It was a dream that daddy came in and strangled me. Kid remembers daddy came in when kid woke up, and kid screamed and was scared. Daddy said he had never came in. Kid could?ve sworn it was real. How thin the line is between reality and fiction. Sometimes. Kid remembers friend?s brother telling him the devil was gonna get him. The thing with horns, it?ll stab you. Kid would lie in bed, scared. Would cry and cry. About the aliens?the kid could feel the aliens coming. And the devil. The devil was gonna get him. No. Kid would kick and scream. Kid, closer to now. He knows now. Real daddy only wanted to show that you weren?t his real son, so he didn?t have to pay child support. And it?s getting closer. He lives in Utah now. Ryan Pugh is one of kid?s friend. Phillip too. Phillip had a brain tumor. And Andrew. Andrew McDonald. Old McDonald had a farm, ei ei o. Andrew was kid?s obsession. He wanted to be like Andrew. Andrew was everything. He had everything. His dad was a veteran of a war. Vietnam? Kid wasn?t sure. His mom was Tamara. They had chinchillas. Andrew was fat, spoiled. Kid would pray to God that he would be like Andrew. He would pray to be fat, and have everything. You?re so stupid kid. So stupid. Ignorant. You?ll learn. Be broken. Kid moves to Bismarck, North Dakota. He hates it. Misses all the friends he?d had. Kid?s in sixth grade. He?s fat, like Andrew. Has Mrs. Gilbertson as a teacher. Ms. Woodmansee as an aide. Kid doesn?t like school. All throughout school, the other kids have made fun of him. Kid is ugly. Kid finds new friends. Ryan Cofell. Adam Anderson. Andy Carlson. The friendship with Andy Carlson ends soon. Andy wanted to be something else. Time flying by. Mr. Doppler, English teacher. Pulls kid aside one day. ?You?ve got a talent,? he tells the kid. Mr. Doppler tells kid he?s got a great talent at writing. Kid didn?t listen then. Now he does. Now he listens. Kid stabs Salem Towne in the back with pencil in Mr. Doppler?s class. Blood. The bell rings. Class is over. Kid walks out, to next class. The stab. In the back and blood. Mr. Doppler, days later, telling kid he did wrong. Kid, you?re so stupid. You?ll never learn. 10th grade, 11th grade. It all flies by. Flies on wings. It?s to now. Kid?s being locked in a cage. The kid?s dying. I don?t want him to die. It?s all pushing down on him. It?s all such a Machine. ?Get a job.? ?Get good grades.? ?You?ve gotta grow up, Mitchell.? ?Jesus Christ, Mitchell, don?t you think?? ?You?re a good kid, Mitch.? ?You have no ambition.? ?All you do is sit on your computer and listen to music.? Kid, can you hear? Are you there? Beep beep beep, beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep. Cardiac arrest. The bars in the cage and the cuffs go around. Heart?s bottoming out. Vena cava?s breaking, ceasing to function. Kid, can you hear? Are you there? Hello? I jabber on about Bowling for Columbine. We are at Cracker Barrel. Dad?s listening. Man is talking, Kid?s inside the wall. Cardiac arrest. Dad seems to listen. Then he isn?t. He seems to tire of it. He still says he doesn?t want to see Bowling for Columbine. ?I?ve had enough of your psycho babble,? says Dad. Psycho babble? This is my heart speaking. . .my heart speaking. Cardiac arrest. Bottoming out. It?s all psycho babble. Why even say? ?Don?t you think, Mitchell?? Dad standing there. Bleach spilled on bed. It's turning colors. Ones it?s not supposed to be. Feel the tightness in the chest. The Man is there, the Kid?s under cardiac arrest, maybe to never flounder back. The Man explains to Dad that he doesn?t always need to yell. Instead of saying, ?Jesus Christ, I can?t believe you! Don?t you think! You?re worthless!? Dad could?ve said, ?It?s OK, I know you didn?t mean to do it. Just be more careful, and I know you?re beating yourself up about it, but it?s OK.? But no. No. Mother?s never home. She?s off at the bar. Maybe a cigarette in her mouth. A drink in her hand. She?s just like me?The Man?she wants to be The Kid again. Doesn?t want this here. Dad, coming in. ?It?s really gonna happen,? he says. Doubt it. How many times have you said you?re going to divorce? Many times. Still hasn?t happened, but the death of all the good things happens sometime. Everything good?s gonna die. And still, This Man is just The Kid. A collection of books whose spines are worn, torn, broken. Whose books contain ?psycho babble.? Whose existence is to be a slave to this Machine?this world where you have to work for money that keeps them away. I wish I could be alive. But I can?t. When I?m most alive, that?s when I?m least heard. When you speak your heart, it?s ?psycho babble,? it?s no concern. And here you see, in the bowels of me, a kid, in a corner, gazing off, hands held on knees, and he?s afraid. Looking at This Man?this abstract creation of pressure and time?do you see the kid, too? Or am I good enough to hide it? Is it time to tear down the wall? What do you think? What is there to do when in this world Freedom is Slavery and War is Peace and Death is Life and. And Ignorance is Strength. To be stupid is better. It's the better of the worse. I wish I was dumb. I wish I hadn?t let time do what it has. "You make mountains out of nothing," my dad says from his chair. Kid makes mountains from nothing. With words. And in the end, it's just banging your heart against some mad bugger's wall. [b]The Child[/b] Knock-knock . . .there is a knock upon my door i lie in bed, tired (for i am sore to it all) --who could it be, this time? KNOCK KNOCK . . .can you not go away? (for i am sore to it all) i yell, ?GO AWAY? (with tired gesture, flailing of wrist) but--still you persist PeRsIsT,and i. want. to just. shut my eyes (for in sleep there is a better life). . .and my patience is mounting [i heard once say that patience is a virtue, but to me it is like a circling vulture, never getting a meal] . . .and my patience. . .is mount-i-n-. . .g? KNOCK, KNOCK KNOCK, KNOCK DINGLE DINGLE DONG KNOCK, KNOCK KNOCK, KNOCK DINGLE DINGLE DiNgLe DONG (sounds like one crazy bird?s gone twittering in song) yes, yes, i will come (even though i am sore to it all) why must you PERSIST? HOW YOU knock THE DOOR, and HOW YOU CHIME THE DOORBELL yes yes, i will come (but first, i rustle around the hall, come to my closet?with scattered things?and find what it is i need) shotgun now in hand, i come to the door, yelling politely, ?I AM COMING, WHOEVER IT IS AT THE DOOR, THERE IS NO NEED TO KNOCK?OR, FOR HEAVEN?S SAKE? CHIME ANYMORE? then i come (to the door) tired eyes (bloodvesseled red) . .. and only boxers (black and blue), and I?VE GOT A GUN JUST FOR YOU?(for you) hand on knob, palm feels in, the turn of the wrist (like a lock to key), i wonder what it is i?ll see (and ready my shotgun) and OH would you ******* believe? there, standing, is me (only younger, a child stares me back) i ask, ?what can i do for you?? and put my shotgun to my side (for children are innocent and do not deserve to die) little voice answers, too small, ?hello, how are you,? (then OH that smirk which appears) the way his face looks?as it snarls to a smirk. ?how am i?? i spit ?how am i?? ?yes, how are you,??and, those eyes (i know those eyes, those spheres, those pupils, those circles,) i know where they spin. [i?ve heard say the earth is round, but i think it is quite flat, for it is round to me, but the way things are have smashed it,have crushed it down] ?i am quite fine, thank you,? i loop, like the tying of shoes. my voice reeking sarcasm. [and i?ve heard say sarcasm is rude, but i just think that sarcasm is a chasm deep with depth, clever as can be, and most don?t see it, they fall into its bowels] ?that?s good,? chirps my little self, putting it all on the shelf. (for chaos is a mess needing cleaning done best.) ?so, i should get to the point, shouldn?t i?? ?yes,? says i the vulture, patience missing (in dismay) as i circle my prey, wanting a morsel. ?i just wanted to see you again,? he says (the younger me) ?to let you know?I?VE GOTTA DIE?? he screams (the child, innocent, not deserving to die) he moves in on me like time, wraps his hand around my hand, tick tocks, falters me, pendulums my shotgun, gets ready to pull the trigger, and he derides (ha ha ha), it is a sad laugh. it?s the chime of midnight, the end of this day. ?NO?? i yell, try to rend it from his hands. ?WHY?RE YOU DOING THIS?? and i can?t get it from his hands. ?you know why,? he says, voice low but powerful. ?you know why. . .? ?. . .i?ve gotta?? cock, click clack, hand going deeper in on trigger? ??die because?? hand even more on trigger, click clack???it?s my time. . .? B -- A -- N -- G. . . [and i?ve heard say, there?s some moments that slow down time, make it go to a crawl, arms digging, eyes wide, like a baby learning to walk.] i could see the bullets, driving on, from the muzzle, the proboscis of the shotgun, (it was sharp to my ears, punctured into my ear drum) i could see the bullets pass into his head. some exit. he crumpled to the ground (like paper crumpled in a hand, creased and so white and so gone) i caught him, yelled hysterically, ?I HATE YOU!? ?I HATE?? and, with eyes piercing to the sky, (and dropping him like a rag doll) and hands pressed to the sky, trying to touch and bruise, ??EVERYTHING!? i could feel the pain some part of me had died (for i am sore) and i began crying (the tears were red, stained my cheeks) i went down on the ground, touched the younger me on the face, brushed back the hair. (and putting my hand on his heart, i heard the battle going on. the futile battle.) ?I. . .I?? he tried to speak, words like a cold dish in a waiter?s hands, going back from where it came (revenge is a dish best served cold). i promised myself i?d find that dish someday. ?. . ..I. . .love. . .y . .o. . .u. . .m. . .o. . .r. . . . .e t. . .h. . . . . .a . . . . . .n . . . .any. . .an. . .y . . . .on. . .on. . . e. . .. .el. . .el. . .el . . .s?? his eyes twitched (like a dead spider, like the dead cogs of time) his hands fought up at me, trying to touch what cannot be touched anymore. his voice cracked (like the cracks in the cement, the broken cracks and lines) he died. [and i?ve heard say that love is a flower, and i?ve heard say love is rain showers, and i?ve heard say love is a beautiful woman, and i?ve heard say love is a kiss, and i?ve heard say love is a fist, and i?ve heard say love is something wonderful, beautiful, good and grand, and i don?t think love exists. and i?ve heard say love can keep you going, and i?ve heard say the meaning of life is love, and i?ve heard say it?s worth it to die for love, and i?ve heard say love is jesus christ, and i?ve heard say love is all around us, and i?ve heard say love is care, and i don?t think love exists. love dies (a struggling thing with wilting sides, an undulating thing that twitches and dies.) and i believe what there is of love is arranged in the part of us that is a child.] i felt his heart, as it ended, terminated, went away. (sailed to its bay) and it was a cardiac arrest. (the machine keeping track of his life would go beep, beep, beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep) the chains would go around his arms, the bars go in his cage. (and still i would stand here, how strange.) the cardiac arrest, and someone would be reading him his miranda rights. (?you have the right to remain silent, the right to an attorney. . .") if death is anything, it is a judge at a trial slamming its gavel down. i have not been sleeping well my dreams are full (a wishing well) and everything, i fear, that is good must die. (let me just hold you in my arms before that time)

[size=1][color=red] To speak from what everyone wants to say, height does matter to a point. I know that the taller a person is, the more likely you are to notice them. Anyone that refutes that just isn't being honest lol. In what I've found, women prefer the taller guys, as well, most of the time. Not all, but c'mon, I know tall guys sure make a bigger first impression on you gals, perhaps. Looks do matter, even as much as everyone will refute them. They matter to the point that as long as you're not ugly, then it's fine. Of course, some people are more picky than others. It's nothing to worry about, in the end. I actually like not getting noticed. Works for me.[/size][/color]

you shoulda died when you were born. you’re worthless to us you got nothing to do. you say you’re all through. we’ll bring it back to you. that’s right you’re ours we control you and own you. copyright us. you’ll never even see it your head’s gonna die. you’ll just sit there, eyes wide. you’ll never even see it your head’s gonna die you’ll just sit there, eyes wide. you’re such a pretty little toy that’s right, it’s all a ploy you’re just kid’s play to us. you remember when you were small. you had your dinosaurs. those plastic figurines. your favorite was the tyrant king. he was largest of them all. his roar was louder than hell’s tongue. you could hear it in your sleep as you sung. we’re the tyrant kings we own you stupid thing. you can never know us you’re too cold. you just turn your back away. you’ve put your roots to the ground. we put your eyes to the sky. but really, you’re just digging your hide. too bad you heal then you’d need to find a bandage for your arm to put it in a sling. cause we’re gonna gain control of you. your arm’s gonna sting. we’re sorry the dinosaurs roam the earth and you’re just a dragonfly for us to crush. there’s no reason to be afraid. we’re gonna take your soul gonna have you made. we are the tyrant kings you know how to beg. and still you remember when you were a child, the worthless futile, you would play with your army men. the plastic tans versus the plastic greens. and the tans were the human beings. the greens were just full of envy. too bad your roots are gonna die. you’ll turn the color of wilting brown. the tans will have their ground. the sixties was a setback the counterculture died. you’re gonna have to get by. the armies lost against us. we killed JFK with a metal head. and we shot Martin Luther King dead. and Malcolm X he was a ****** that needed to die. he was leading the blacks too fine. and we didn’t like his religion. Christianity is the only thing that goes. we’re not gonna let you get a hold of toes. and make your own counting ways of god. we serve our god for you you’re such a stupid coon. you should’ve died when you were born you’re gonna feel it before you explode. we’re gonna make you implode and build your walls till you can’t see till you can’t even function as a human being. you tell us it’s mind fuckery we say it’s everything you need. you sit here and say the education is useless. don’t you want to know the facts, jack? that’s right you’re backing down. how else will you get your money stack? you’ve gotta get a job for that. you listen to your music write it all down you digress your heart. well you just gotta know we’ve always had our hand on your heart. and what you’re saying isn’t what we say. you’re gonna get shot down today. just like JFK. because asking “not what your country can do for you but what you can do for your country” is too much devotion. we don’t care about you. we’d rather start wars than see you through. the war makes it all go blue. and makes us get more money too. we don’t care about you you’re a ******* waste of time just go back where you’re doing your time. the bars will hold your mind. there’s nothing here for you to see you’ll just call it mind fuckery. you say the freedom we sell is a veritable hell from where there’s a do-or-tell. you say the freedom we bring is slavery. you’ve got something wrong in your head you’re not getting it in there right. go back to your crib and cry drip until you’re dry. we hope you die. you don’t know anything you just sit there and complain reality’s gonna have a rude awakening for you. you better get out of here before we call the cops. that’s right, we’ll never stop this is tops we’re gonna spin you till you can’t see. make you so full of fear you’ll cease to function, cease to be. that’s the way it’s gonna be. you say we’re killing you the person you are is a carcass down the street in a coffin where revolutionaries speak. well the person you’re becoming isn’t weak. that’s who you’ve gotta be, you worthless mouse all you do is squeek. you better go back, it’s only defeat. for we’re the tyrant kings we’re senseless, we don’t see a thing war is better to us than your well-being. you’re just angsty, you need to see. life’s not all bad when you give in to us. we’ll give you a life, money, and all you need. then you can thank us on your knees. grow up you child you’re just a toy you don’t do a thing we turn your coils and make you sing. we want you to burst out in song, talk about god and TV. you better sing your our father you better sing the national anthem. there’s the one line you need, “one nation, divisible by god.” you’re no god you can’t divide us. get back before we chew your head. we’re getting tired of all you’ve said. it’s either death to you or life. would you rather take liberty or death? the liberty we have is better than all. we’re the best nation there’s ever been. you’re just a has-been washed to our shores. you better stop being such a whore. selling yourself to them all. they’re not gonna listen to you. we’ve got them on our fingers, our bloody fingers. there’s nothing you can do. you’re worthless, still strapped in your cocoon. you better grow up ******* soon. we’re tiring of your childish way. the gays deserve to die the blacks can rot from a tree’s bark hide. the jews are coons. muslims destroyed our towers. and the middle class doesn’t do a damn thing. the rich don’t have to pay much taxes, they know how to be. you deserve a black eye, so we can hang you from a bark hide too. you deserve a star of david in the sky, so we can shoot you cold. you need to fly a plane into our heads, so you can end up dead. you need to find out and soon. the white folks rule the earth, and you’re not even white. you’re some nothing that doesn’t know your way. you’re lost in your phase. get past it, then it’s time to be our *****. you’re gonna be our slave. don’t whine, just do what we say. **** if you have your say. we’re the tyrant kings we’re senseless beings. **** if you have your says. get your ******* eyes away. and carry your chicken legs to work. get caught up so you can’t hear. **** if you have your say. you’re gonna die anyway. you shoulda died when you were born. your mom shouldn’t’ve had her sex that day. it was useless to make you you’re nothing. get away. you’re a maggot, figure your way. we don’t give a **** either way. **** if you have your say. dinosaurs’re gonna rule the earth. we’re gonna roar. you say there’s gonna be a comet to our sides. you’re diseased take some drugs you’re crazy. you don’t know what you’re saying. we’re not gonna go extinct. you’re gonna go there first. you dodo bird. you turd. we don’t care an ell about you. we gave a ****** an inch and he gave us an ell. you’re too black for us. even though your white. **** if you have your say. get the **** away. it’ll all fade you’ll find it’s all right. it’ll all be all right we’ll heal you fine. just settle down now we’re sick of your talk you’re crazy, you need to take a death walk. and figure out your maze. we’re tyrannosaur. we’re rex. you better get on and flex your bones. you’ve got a lot to do you machine of ******* bones. it’s time to find your home. we’re the ruler of the earth. we rule you, even since your birth. you better get back. dinosaurs roam the earth. and we’ve got no time for humans. we’re tyrannosaurous rex we’ve gotta get you hexed. get the **** away. go crawl down your veins. **** if you have your way. we’re the tyrant kings you shoulda died when you were born. we’ll take your life before we’re done. you wastes you can’t even topple us. the sixties was an exodus in our dealing of your kind. get back get in your ******* time. get back in the ******* line. we’ll break your spineless spines. you have not been paying attention. keep us in mind. we’ll break your spineless spines.

[size=1][color=red] I believe the best fabric to use to construct this towering complex would be wool. I believe what would be best is for you to go to a farm, preferablly far from any authoritarians who would find your embezzlement. Then, when time is most pertient on your side, and night is kissing the day, the moon exchange its rays for the moon, you will come upon some sheep, unawares. Unawares, you will take a clever. You will find a sleeping sheep, and you will stab it to death. It will be the silence of the lambs, and as a precaution, I would advise putting a sound muffler of some kind--a simple towel will do the job--over the sheep's mouth, therefore averting from hearing its cries of pain as it dies. Once the sheep is dead as a doornail, it's time to take its wool. From there, you will need to master the intrinsic wonders of sewing. From there, it's a ball in the park. Glad I could help you--and God's speed, if I do say so myself--you've got a lot of work ahead. Let us all hope it goes as planned.[/size][/color]

[size=1][color=red] Next year's my death lisp. Well, I got myself to take the ACT this year--junior year--so all is well. I can take it again, and I know what to expect. I haven't gone on looking for colleges yet. I don't really care, as long as I get to a college, and I get something I can get a decent job with. I'm thinking of majoring in Creative Writing. . .but I suppose that's terrible. I should just become a lawyer, roll in the bucks, and be a part of our blind justice system. Sounds good to me. Or maybe not. I'm pretty perfunctory on this subject anyway. After school's more of the same. . .at least four years of college. Then it's off to work for about forty or whatnot else years. Then it's retiring. Then it's dying. Sounds good to me. Or maybe not. Damn, I repeat myself too much. Basically, I don't like the way my life's forced like this. What can you do. I don't have any direction. All I know is I graduate next year, then it's off to college hopefully, then it's off to slaving away, getting the money, perhaps loving some girl (riiight), and that's it. That's my life, with writing on the side. And being me on the side. Well, there's been lessers that've done something in this world--gotten their job and all, and retired. I can do it, I hope. It's gonna take a lot of will though. I think it's sad that I waste my life working, going to school. There's so much better I could do. If I could just do things at my own pace, it'd be better. But, of course, reality stares. That stone gargoyle. It's a lot to face up to. . .trying to equal that stare. Why the hell would anyone, in a right and sane mind, get a class ring? School's hell for me. The only thing I like are the people. The people are what make it better. I don't even care, most cases, what the teacher's teaching me. . .what I care about is what the teacher is as a person--what's their personality. And what's my fellow peers' attitudes and personalities. What a waste of time I think. Ah well. I'll find something that'll matter and make it work out, hopefully. Right. Yeah, just mind me. Go about your way.[/size][/color]

[size=1][color=red] I pay nothing to look good. I already look good, so thus there's no reason to worry. I could care less what I look like anymore. I do excerise. I go for walks. I do shower. I do that habitual gobbledegook. I'll be wearing my Pink Floyd [i]The Wall[/i] T-shirt all this week. It's got a hole in the armpit, but I don't care. . .it's not a big hole and it doesn't show. This shirt's pretty much a rag. My mom told me she's going to wipe her butt with it the next time she needs to drop. I don't think so. This shirt's not leaving this man's body. Nuh-uh. Not until I get a new shirt. I've also been wearing the same jeans for about seven days. I could care less. They're still clean. Good enough for me. I had my hair growing long, but I got a haircut. I liked my hair longer better. But it's not so annoying anymore so it's all good. At times I think I'm ugly. Other times I think I'm good looking. In the end, I don't care. As long as I'm something. And as long as I have my Pink Floyd T-shirt and my music. Then I'm fine and I'm beautiful.[/size][/color]

[size=1][color=red] When I was little, I wanted to be a scientist. Now what do I want to be? I could care less. As long as it's something that pays the bills, that's about it. I don't even know why they call it growing up. . .it's more like growing down. You don't grow, you just adapt. . .adapt in a way that's a compromise. To me, my future's full of more of what school's become. Mundanity. Monotony. I'm not optimistic about my future at all. What I would be if I could be something would be something that deals with writing. But I don't think that's gonna happen, other than me being an editor, a teacher, or something else. I could never see myself as a teacher, honestly. I don't get joy from teaching people things which I only know to myself. And anyway, teachers are underpaid. When I have a job, I don't even care what it's about, as long as it's bearable and as long as I get money. Lots of money so it's enough that I can retire early and let the world do its thing, while I sit and grow older. Sounds good to me. If I could, I'd never get a job. But, the reality of the situation's quite obvious: isn't gonna happen. I've got to get a job to support myself. I think I'll be a bum. I can write poetry and sing it, and get peoples' money for it. Coins gittering in my pockets. Maybe I'll become famous because I write such awesome poetry. I could become the national poet bum. It'd rock my socks. It's funny. . .it costs money to live. Living's a "god-given" right, as well as something that should be allowed. Another thing--health care isn't free in this country? I think that's sad. Canada's better than us in that way. And even when you die, it costs money. Funerals cost millions of dollars. Instead of having a funeral, I'll just burn my money. . .sounds good to me. "Money Get back I'm all right jack keep your hands off my stack Money It's a hit Don't give me that do-goody-good ********. . . .Money It's a crime Share it fairly, but don't take a slice of my pie Money So they say Is the root of all evil today But if you ask for a rise It's no surprise that they're Giving none away." In the end, what I'll be when it comes to my time is a slave. A slave to the status quo. . .to upholding my country that I could really, deep down, care less about. I'll be a slave to the machine we have here. . .and become just as cold and bitter as it is on me. And on the side, I'll be who I really am. A human being that has the ability to love many things, and to write them down, and to actually feel alive.[/size][/color]

[b]BloodShot[/b] bleeder yawn shuts eyes sews shut see redroseblossoms only REM sleep taking pupils make love grabbing handles build doors knock on door down fall the lashes hug themselves over the side cocoon mind longest tree where dreams spring is waggling a monster whose hand is on its heart rapid eye movemnt for your part let go choke hold to my parts let go choke hold to my parts feeling fell apart the feeling fell apart choked me monster eyes were bloodshot with gun with bullets of blood bloodshot choke then there's eyes in the bushes in the forest of the trees where lives me on raw knees sick wicked things i'm a thing alien singing dreams fall from the shooting bloodshot sky the monster is I

[size=1][color=red] I think I'd be able to sum it up for everyone. Everyone, including those in this thread, those elsewise. Humans fear the unknown. There's something naked about the unknown. How it's draped in nothing, and has nothing to wear or give but what you see. There's something penetrating about that. Something that gets inside of you. What's beautiful is you can take the past and use it to shape the unknown. You can paint. Chisel. Draw. Make words. You can try to see the unknown and shape it in a way. That's why I write in a sense. The unknown is beautiful. It's also frightening. Disappointment is fear of the unknown. Fear of death is fear of the unknown. Fear of changing is fear of the unknown. Any and all fears you say can be abriged to this one phrase, and everyone should be saying it: "I fear the unknown."[/size][/color]

[size=1][color=red] [b]"Jesus is dead. Get over it."[/b] Ah, damnit, inside jokes are funny as hell. Especially since they're "inside." I'm not sure how many of you remember this quote. . .I know I do. This is for you people who remember it. No offense to you Christians, but I find this quote holds true to my perceptions of Jesus Christ. While what Jesus says, and what he did, and what he is, is admirable to me, and I believe in what he says on some notions (other than those of religion) his dying on the cross did not save me, nor did it give me some wondrous odyessy to heaven--which, in my opinion, doesn't exist. For those who still don't understand out there, I'll explain this quote in a more in depth way. To me, Jesus's death on the cross was just for something he believed in. He died because he believed in his so-called God, and he wanted to share it with us all. Whether his so-called God exists or not is where I draw the line. So this is what I see Jesus as: he is a man, who, like many others, died for what he was. And because of this, I see no reason to remember this man over all the other people that've died. I can understand giving him his credit where it's due in your religion, but to base a whole religion soley on the fact that one day there'll be another Jesus, and on the sole fact of what Jesus believed in by his so-called "God," I don't understand. To me it is selfish in the way that this man's more important to some people than say. . .the 6 million + Jews who died during the holocaust. [Just a random fact for ya: Hitler killed 2/3 of the Jews on Europe alone. It's crazy.] This doesn't apply to all of you of course. . .but really. One man is a small thing when you consider all the people who deserve to be remembered as well. There's JFK. There's John Lennon. There's so many others, I can't even think. My mind just blanks out. All of the forgotten names go here too. Those who had their cause but died without saying it. Succintly, I simply don't believe in heaven, and I don't believe Jesus saved me from anything. I understand the pain he went through. . .I understand his crucifixion. I understand. But that doesn't mean I'm gonna devote my life to going to heaven. Instead, I'm gonna live. In the end, [b]"We all carry our crosses. And before we die, we are crucified by them."[/b] I'd like to elaborate here, too. We all do carry our crosses--our albatrosses--our cruxes--our problems. And they weight us down, just like Jesus' albatrosses and problems and cruxes and cross weighted him down. We all suffer about as much as Jesus in this life. For the equal well-being of this Earth. Just like Jesus did. Only our suffering is day after day after day, whereas Jesus's was more clement in what it was, even though it was a lot of pain all at once. And in the end, what we suffer kills us--metaphorically speaking, and literally speaking. We die by time, and time has its suffering ways. [b]"Would I were a maggot, sucking most sweet divine."[/b] Excuse me here, those of you who've heard me say this many a time. But I digress. This is a metaphor I have; it's like a trademark of mine. When you see it, if you've read enough of my things, you'll think, "Yup, that's Mitch there." We are all maggots turning into flies. We are all children once. Maggots. Maggots. They are worm-like unseeing creatures whose sole existence is to eat the dead and deliquescing tissues of their habitats. That is what a child is. And maggots, they do not know how ugly they are--how lowly they are. They don't understand what a waste of time it is to be sucking this dead tissue. They do it anyway, and are nurtured by it, and kept by it, until, one day, they must come from their maggot to become their fly. Children are what keep the human race alive--this amass of people. There's more quotes, but I'm burned out. By the way, all the quotes above are copyright me. Thanks.[/size][/color]

How long have you been using my otaku? [size=1][color=red] I've been using it since bacon was the next apples. [Translation: Since about the beginning of its inception into the The Otaku universe.][/size][/color] How frequently do you work with my otaku? [size=1][color=red] I post a multiple prolific of posts each found day. [Translation: I post at least three posts a day. Even more. I'm crazy like that.[/size][/color] What all of you do with my otaku? [size=1][color=red] I post poems, short stories, song lyrics, rants, poems, song lyrics, short stories rants. Oh, wait. I'm repeating myself. Sorry. I try to keep it as random as I can. Otherwise it gets boring for me, and for My Reader as well. I think I'm the genius of My O. :p Yeah. That was definitely egocentric. I'm sorry. :( Shin and I, our My O's kick ***. . .to say the least. Everyone go to Shin's My O. Soon he's gonna do a rant on something very personal that I've forced him to do by my toying ways. Mwahahah.[/size][/color]

[size=1][color=red] James, if you like the Hannibal movies, you'd like the books. I've only read [i]Silence of the Lambs[/i], but it was pretty much the movie, only better. From what I could tell, they used the exact dialogue from the book in the movie. Just a difference of opinion on this point, too. [i]Hannibal[/i] deviates from the norm of the Hannibal series, and I didn't enjoy it as much at all. The way the story was told--the story itself--and the entire movie's way--was just boring, farfetched, and a step [i]far[/i] down from the greater movies of [i]The Silence of the Lambs[/i] and [i]Red Dragon[/i]. The way the story was told was rather boring. The actor who plays Clarice was an obivious absence in this movie, making the movie far less of a fun ride in all its aspects. That's what I'd say, anyway, in response to you Jamesy. Just my opinion, as always. But the other two movies in the Hannibal series were great. I don't see how someone couldn't at least like Hannibal's character in some grotesque, bizarre way. The man's just like that. I think he shows what a real genius is--someone that's out of their right mind and tells what's on their mind. I'm not really well-suited to give a worth-it list of my top five best horror movies. I haven't seen many. I have yet to see [i]Dawn of the Dead[/i], have yet to see so many other plethoras of horror movies. For the sake of keeping this post pertinent, I shall digress nonetheless. [i]The Shining[/i] stands out to me as probably one of the scariest books I've ever read. Scaring by way of the written word is hard in itself, but Stephen King managed it. Reading the book, it's obvious to tell King was numbed with drugs, because some of the stuff in this book is just so unreal it's amazing. It takes your breath away in the way that it's beautiful but doesn't allow you to scream. There's one point in the book where King's talking about how it appears like the fire extinguishers are just going to slither and choke Danny (is that the boy's name in the book? Not sure). That part was just amazing and scary and all that stuff. Then there's a point in the book where the animal-looking clipped bushes look like they're stalking our fellow characters stuck at Overlook hotel. That was scary too. Now, the first make of this book is amazingly tense and scary. I think it's rightful to say it deserves to be on my top five. As for the rest of my top five. . .I guess I'm just gonna cut it short. I don't know enough about the genre of horror movie-wise to give anything else accurate. I'll save it for people like Tony.[/size][/color]

[size=1][color=red] If I were to articulate a response, it'd be almost a carbon copy of what Tony's said. We seem to agree on a lot of things. . .this is just another. All those people who listen to artists like Britney Spears need to listen to something drastically better. Because I have about as much talent as Britney Spears. And much more. I've also got the good looks down too, and as far as I see, most of Britney's good looks are prosthetic and fakely made by way of makeup and other such stupid devises. Tony, I'm your man! I can write good, good songs. I mean, likewise to Charles, this is my second year in a row of Poet Laureate. Charles, this year it's a bitter fight! I'm gonna win writer of the year once! :p[/size][/color]

[size=1][color=red] I'm not too much into heavy metal, but what I know is that [i]St. Anger[/i] sounded like more of the same from a band that's been doing a lot of the same their whole career. I think, while [i]St. Anger[/i]'s decent, to say the least, that it's still nothing new. There's nothing new there--it's the same voice, same guitar-sound, only the drums sound a bit different. That said, [i]Master of Puppets[/i] is far greater than [i]St. Anger[/i], even if the two albums sound virtually the same in some aspects. [i]Puppets[/i] is just high-voltage riff-raff the whole way--it doesn't let up at all. Once you've heard [i]Puppets[/i] you've pretty much heard all there is to hear of the metal heads of Metallica, other than their other emerged style--the more slow, not-even-metal melancholy tunes they have, like "Fade to Black" or "Unforgiven." Other than that, [i]Puppets[/i] has got all you'll ever need to hear of Metallica, other than maybe one more album to dig deeper in a coffin that's already housing a dead style that doesn't change. I don't think you want to do that, though. A gallant horse, once rode too much, becomes a dead horse that you need to beat down. I think Metallica's okay. Their older stuff's wonderful, but they're has-beens in the sense that heavy metal's evolved, while they haven't. I think that there's better artists out there than them if you want to look at them in this modern era of music. Listen to Opeth for one--they have long songs, vocals like that of Metallica, and are just better all around. I think so, anyway, from what I've heard in comparison. And if you want some really good heavy metal, listen to Queens of the Stone Age. Everyone should get [i]Songs for the Deaf[/i], it's an excellent album that continues to grow on me. Just those of you who've heard "No One Knows" should be able to attest this fact. It's amazing--the video for "No One Knows" was actually getting some airplay on MTV. So I'm sure some of you MTV kids know about it. As for MTV, I haven't watched that channel in ages--and thank god. TV's a waste of time mostly anyway, other than the educational shows. And the old stand-by of Seinfield.[/size][/color]

[size=1][color=red] I was singing this in the shower, so I decided to make it into the poem. As I wrote it I was singing it too, sort of chanting. I think it's rather raw and visceral, and that's what I go for with poems. It needs work, but I'm happy. I don't see any reason, personally, to make it better. So yeah. It's sharing time. I wish I had a microphone, so I could attach a file of me singing it. Perhaps that's what I should buy. Hm.[/size][/color] [b]How am i to tell you[/b] Come inside you told me to this unreality deep inside a forest among many trees in my mind you beckon me among many leaves there is certain sigh that bothers me and here inside there is a thing which powers it all sucking from the roots it falls how am i to change a thing when there is nothing here you tell me to hide but there's so much to fear i would like to lie in here and never feel at all reality's got no bearing on what befalls how am i to tell you anything different than they have you should save yourself for their land where they certainly kill and suck the moisture dry there is no reason for you to come here inside there is nothing here for you to ever ever find only my ugly deep insides they tell you their reality you say it's fine you come to me and whisper that it's so benign i tell you to come inside and hide and softly cry to you that there's nothing to find i should just go away and never come again exile me away make me never see what is here and never have to know that is where we should be able to go but there is nothing here in my mind for you to see only a beauty that's lacking anything of me one day you will notice i am not me we will know the leaves will fall from the trees we will hide among what we have left to keep and i will keep telling you it is time to leave that you should have never ever came and bothered me here in my mind there is only unreality nothing is here that will keep me only things that kill you as they want you to believe how am i to fall into your arms and sleep when i am always wounded by this thing? i will never be able to be who i am they will only stymie me with their dam the water will flow from the river slowly trickling through my south seas i will find there's nothing here but useless human being i still point over to where it sings tell you there is nothing here to go where you please you still stay here and comfort me i will climb away from deep inside these trees there is too much hair here there is too much killing me i will go upon the face of the hill above find there is ledges impeding on my love i will see flying above many doves when i reach the top i will fall onto my knees you will look up to me and feel i am diseased i will look down upon the big picture thing it will be a land of useless being where they all are slaves to the machine i will yell down to you that it is too late our forest we have crafted will be cut down and when it all falls there will be a certain sound the sound of us screaming together as we lie trying to feel each other's insides i will tell you there is nothing here to find you will touch me where it pleasures we will cry the trees will fall on over us as we sit and ride they will find us naked draped and tried in their eyes i will see malice and ill intent devised we will hold each other until we die but before this can happen there is another thing standing upon the hill the doves fly to me they squack at me through their bills in loud noise they begin carrying me over to the other side tears fall from my eyes and i look over to you your face is dead you are dead i see you cannot live i fight the doves and try to win but there is no hope at all i am stolen from you and you cannot follow me to where i am going there is nothing you can do only for you to sit inside the forest feeling blue the doves put me in a cell and lock me in chains rustily they clack as i try to remember your name i remember i had told you there is nothing to find that they will suck all the moisture dry i sit there and cry myself until i feel i'll die i want to go back inside the comfort of my mind i imagine you are in front of me and kissing me so nice i hold you in my arms and we escape to our unreality but i realize i am groping at nothing and my chains have me the doves come to me and change to what they really are they are uglier than anything by far their eyes are full of malice i can feel their deathly gaze on to me their eyes call out and i cannot help but look they hypnotized me i am no longer anything at all i have forgotten what was worth it to fall i sit here in my cell and atrophy on my own your face is just a passing drone i am part of the ugliest devise i am a maggot turning into a fly there is nothing left anymore they have sucked me dry the only thing i see is money in my eyes i work for them inside their devise i am hypnotized to feel i am accomplished inside i work for nothing and slave away until i'm shied i get money and with it things i find to buy i feel happy when i'm not i feel numb and cry but they have control of me and give me drugs to get by i do not remember you anymore at all where you are is of no concern to me the only thing i do is do what they say i am a slave to them and in my chains would you know that in the end you lose and when you're most alive they keep you most bruised my heart it does not bleed anymore it's lost and it no longer grew they ripped it all away there is nothing i can do you are someplace else where i cannot reach you how am i to tell you what they already said? i cannot comfort you i am already dead i should go kill myself upon the cross i carry upon my shoulders it is getting quite hairy you should come along with me and we can look at each other and in our passing breaths know what we once were and ascending to our hell we will feel we didn't get what we deserved there is no way i can tell you my pain you reach inside you reach inside it is all in vain you only make me hurt more and feel pleasure in my pain you cut my heart in pieces to small veins i do not know how i can touch you anymore it only is itching one big sore i will leave it all abandoned on the bloody shore there is no reason to even talk anymore in their eyes they control us all and there is nothing else i escaped once into my head but i was taken back i did it for you so you do not have to worry at all but it had nothing to solve i think i think i made you in my head i think you will die i think i think i made you in my head i think you will die i hold you in my arms and awaken from the dream finding the reality is not what i wanted that i wished i had stayed i will kill myself find myself to be displayed i will be naked open you will fall shame they will have control and i will be a slave what was me will be buried in the ground depraved i will look upon my grave there will be no flowers for us to be remembered we will be all over we will be dismembered i will call a passing cry and dig for your name nothing hollers back in his deep blame

Sleep is a bone cushion where many lie And on its mouth there is a sucking Lover called time So kissing its mouth i found myself down south Where many things very private do lie and I found sleep is a bone we all have to pick and quick or else we'll fall and landing on our fingertips feel broken sharded like glass never knowing,never showing our naked forms' rash to another's trash and throwing it all (away as it is) sleep robs us (since we begin) and there is,over,a lady who i know who has some things quaint to show me: with her soft hands and her breasts i will suck the white milk of it all, falling to the ground,herthighs to mine, her hands all over me,we shall be animals the world it cannot steal this now we'll fall asleep somehow: for who is to say i do not already slumber? Only a fool,who,with his shut eyes does not see. for the fool,he is me. for the fool,he is reality. she only she can release me she only she (can release me) from this reality

[size=1][color=red] I would go, as my parents were engaging in the selfish act of sex, and stop the sperm from getting to the ovum to germinating to becoming a fetus to becoming a child to becoming an adult to becoming old to becoming dead. The world would be a better place.[/size][/color]

[size=1][color=red] That's basically what I do. It's called My O. I also have a text file I write in when I need it. But I suppose in My O it's all "rambling" to you, too. Ah well. I think it's beautiful. You don't have to, and there's no reason for you to. You can just call it "psycho babble" like my dad does. Cause when I ramble, that's my heart speaking. But that's rambling to you. It's stuff like that that makes me not want to write and not want to say anything, and just go about my way. Why write something when it's "rambling"? That's not what those who consider themselves "professional writers" want. Might as well write simple sentences that're boring to read, and could easily be found in textbooks, and isn't the way I like to write. . . And if none of you noticed, there's a lot of song references in there. Specifically Pink Floyd (which should be extremly obvious by the posting of that song), and Radiohead. "Outside the Wall" is referenced. "Comfortably Numb" is referenced. "Another Brick in the Wall" is referenced. "The Trial" is referenced. I say "Idioteque" in the piece, which is a song by Radiohead from [i]Kid A[/i].. The ending of the piece is lyrics from Radiohead's "Morning Bell," from [i]Kid A[/i]. "Climbing Up the Walls" is by Radiohead as well, from [i]Ok Computer[/i]. "Evil lives in the ************* pigskin" is from System of a Down's "Soil." Good song. All of them are good songs. Also, there's mentions to about two poems. "Bruised Smear" was a poem I wrote. The part about "Bruised Smear" isn't in this version, but I added it before I handed this in as my Journalism column today. "Would I were a maggot, sucking most sweet divine," is from a poem of mine titled, "Maggotula Rose." There's limitless other distinctions I could find. This piece is basically me looking in myself, and that's why it probably doesn't hold together well, and doesn't make much sense, and seems "rambly." But I think it's good. And that's enough for me, as I said. It's esoteric as it is. Perhaps I'll go about making a "reader-friendly" version of it. Who knows. Also, then there's the major influence on this piece--[i]The Wall[/i] the movie. Excellent movie. Ah, I also want to mention. The Maggot metaphor. That's sort of like an inside joke to me now. It's also my trademark. It may be old, but whenever you see it, I know you go, "Yup, that's Mitch. Same old boring metaphor." :p[/size][/color]

[size=1][color=red] Well, I honestly don't care what the reader reads. I care about putting my feelings down on paper. Writing's not some tool that I tell others stories with. It's not something that communicates--it is something I say something with, but it isn't. It is something I tell stories with but it isn't. It's just something more than that to me. Writing's more personal to me than that. If this means I do not care about the craft, then that's what it means. I'd tend to agree with you. I don't care much how the words come together. I like how they come down the first time often better than if I'd go back and edit a piece. What you've said is all right, and you know it, and I'm not denying it. . .I haven't denied it at all. You're right: I really don't care what the reader says. Writing's like painting a picture for me. . .like creating music. It's art. When you listen to instrumental music, is there an exact meaning to it? Do you listen to it and do you know what it's saying, other than the emotion it gives you? No you don't. All you know is the emotion it gives. The way the soft piano solo might make you feel melancholy, or the way the rocking guitar might make you feel you can take the world. That's what writing's like. The words aren't used for the reason of communication. They're just used as a venue to express. Sometimes I'm playing a melancholy piano when I play. The words give you the emotion, and there is some meaning there, but what the real meaning is is the emotion it gives. Music has meaning even if it doesn't use words in a way that they make sense. It's the same with writing. Some of music's words are actually the instrumentals--how the piano sounds here, the noise it makes, the way it comes to your ears, the way the instrument being played comes to your eye. All of this combines to give an overall feeling--perhaps it's a feeling of oppression. Perhaps it's a different feeling. And from the instrument you're able to make your own sense. Maybe the piano solo sounds like there'd be a romance scene here--the woman kisses the man. Maybe the guitar's loud riffs sounds like a man punching another in the face until he's bloody. Whatever the case, you draw images from something that's more than words. . .you're drawing it from how the person playing their instrument looks. How they stand. What techinques they use to play their piano, their guitar, their cymbals, their drums. What it sounds like. This is what words are like for me. This is the purpose I use them for. Writing's something more--different-- to me than what it is to you. At least from what you've said. Hopefully, in comparison, you see what I'm saying about writing. If you don't, that is fine. Writing's art to me. Art is expression. Sometimes, what you're feeling is nothing. That nothing's something so you decide to use it. Play it. Beat the drums. Strum the guitar. You decide to put it down as it comes, and sometimes it's amazing, sometimes it's not. But this is creation, there's no doubt. When you love someone, Alex, is there intention to the love? Is there a reason for the love? You love them because you need to express. You love them because you need release. You love them because they can love you back and can make you feel better. You love them because you come together to make something. You come together when you need physical release, mental release. You love them because it's hopeless and you need something to give the hope. A fake hope that helps you out. That's writing. A need to express. Something that goes beyond words. This is what I think, of course. I'm supposing some of this is over your head. I'm guessing I shouldn't even post this, since it's probably going to do nothing for you. And, you know, when I think about it, I don't want to be published. I write for myself, so I might as well keep it for myself. As for your thoughts on life. That is what you think and I, as always, respect you and that. Perhaps my perceptions shall turn to yours one day, but at the moment I am more of a naturalist. I sometimes brim on a realist. Sometimes I'm a romanticist. Sometimes I'm an idealist. A pragmatist. What's the difference? I go through a brim of different feelings each day. I can't label it down to one word to describe my entire life's mantra. I just think that, in the end, life is a waste of time. It's fun when it's fun, but I tend to feel more pain than fun. But sometimes the pain is fun, too. Without the pain there wouldn't be the inert feeling of needing to survive. What a fun feeling, isn't it? To be honest, the world doesn't care about me. If I fell off of its surface, a bruised smear, it would not remember me.[/size][/color]

[size=1][color=red] I'd agree the metaphors are tired. I'd like you to elaborate on how I "make fun" of the reader? I don't even talk about the reader in here. In the end, this piece wasn't even for the reader. It was for me. It means something to me, and that's enough for me. The reader doesn't have to like it. In real writing, the reader should be the forefront. But this isn't "real" writing. This is more of me just putting down thoughts. If you like it, fine. If you don't, that's fine too. I'll listen to what you say. Whatever the case, I'm sure there's others out there that like this piece. Even if it isn't "good writing." I know I like it. That's enough for me. I didn't write this for the reader. I know that I should, but writing is more than just writing for someone else's joy. I write for myself. I've already woken up from Dreamland, and I realize this world's a waste of time. I shall be adapting, though.[/size][/color]

[size=1][color=red] The reason I'm here? To post genius. Post genius stories and poetry no one understands but I. Everybody's their own genius, my friends. And padres. And amici. Let's all be congenial now. Let's not stymie each other's growth. Let the bones grow till they're the skin. Till there's nothing left within. [/size][/color]

We’re actors. Every one of us. The actors in Hollywood are frauds. Any one of us acts better than them. We all have our acting down to the improvising. Walking down the hall. “Hi,” they say. “Hello.” “How are you?” How are you--the words come from their lips. Flutter from them and catch on the skin of the brain. The pigskin. Didn’t you know evil lives in the ************* pigskin? “I’m fine.” Liar. Fine is far from it. But still. The words come steel cold metal from the mouth. Premeditated. There’s no stopping. The feet move and the feelings stay. No one cares. This moment was brought to you by the normal conventions of society. The each man for himself mentality. We hope you have a nice day. Sitting in the room. Hands on the keyboard. Typing. Working and writhing. The door blows open. In comes The Man. “You need to get a job,” says The Man, His face moving. The jaw muscles move, the circuits in His brain blink and murmur in action. His jaw muscles, steel beams of complex fleshly life, act on meticulously unflawed instrumentation from the brain, pivoting the right way to show mechanically stern resolution. His voice is emotive with flair, but deep in the metal dead eyes there’s a flickering light of something almost human. What wasn’t taken from the poor carcass of a man. “You need to get a job. So you can pay for gas in your car. So you can get money. I don’t know why you aren’t excited. Most kids are. It’s freedom. You should be excited.” I should be excited? The Man is telling me I should be excited. What if I’m not? Then what happens? The Man careens his neck. Centers his eyes’ vision with skilled perception. “Tomorrow you need to go back to Video Action and ask the woman if she’s going to hire you.” And ropes hang to keep us all alive. Sitting in the back of a car. Country music blares. The station is changed. The Man didn’t like the song playing. Classic rock emanates. We drive by Gateway Mall. The movie sign is there. Passion of the Christ it reads. The Man’s Other Child speaks. “The Passion of the Christ is rated R.” Discussion surmounts. The Man tells how he can’t believe You don’t believe in God. How could You not believe in Our Lord and Savior? You’re going to go to Hell. In The Fires of Your Hell You will realize You turned Your back on Jesus Christ. And because of this You will Live Your Afterlife In Hell. You stupid, insipid fool. How can You not believe in Jesus Christ our Lord and Savior? Deus ex Machina. That is why. God comes from the machine. Just like you came from the machine. Just like I did. We are slaves to the machine. The machine made this God to give us Hope. Hope which doesn’t exist. We are all actors. We have our Hopes. We have our Dreams. The Karma Police will steal them all before the end. In the car again. The Man tells the divorce is going to happen. It’s a reality. He doesn’t seem so much like a machine in that moment. He seems vulnerable and penetrated. I remembered. This was history repeating itself. A veritable and touchable history. At the age of three, This Man Whose Name Does Not Matter’s Mother divorced His true Father. His true Father was by the name of Tom Smith. The name does not matter. He could care less about This Man Whose Name Does Not Matter. He would call me and ask me how was school going. How were my grades. Then he’d ask me to get my blood taken. To see if I was his real son. Being the Child This Man Whose Name Doesn’t Matter was then, He didn’t understand. Now He does. But now He does. The Stepfather This Man Whose Name Doesn’t Matter has now is more of a father than he’s ever had. Now history repeats itself. “Who’re you going to live with,” asks The Man to This Man Whose Name Doesn’t matter. How am I supposed to answer? “Myself,” It says. The It turns and looks out the window of the truck. Pushing it away. You can’t do that forever, It. It’s just as I thought. Love doesn’t last. Happiness doesn’t last. None of it lasts. The Flies seek to be Maggots again once they’ve matured. The Maggots, The Children, are happy--happy because they do not know. Happy because they don’t understand. Happy because they are ignorant, stupid things. But they think they are so pretty. They’re so much Maggots they can’t see how ugly they are--how utterly stupid and servile they are. They can’t see what they‘re eating. How tied into The Machine they are. The Maggots are born into the world to eat the Dead Decaying Tissue. From this they grow. Augment until it is time to be a Fly. Because of The Maggots turning into Flies, and spawning more Maggots, the Human Race survives--the festering amass lives on. Be a World Child, Form a Circle Before We All Go Under. That’s what it’s all about. Push it all aside and that’s what it’s about--Survival. And the Circle that’s made because of it. The Flies, they seek to be Maggots again. Most do not know it, but it’s what They search for. To be Maggots again. We cannot make ourselves happy alone. This Man Whose Name Doesn’t Matter cannot make himself happy alone. There is an inert need for other things. Other pretty things to use and abuse. To make hurt. There is a need and there is a want. There is a lust and there is a love for it. The need needs feeding. It needs flesh to chew. The teeth need to sink in. So They make Their Walls. Two hands, two flesh-beings. They coalesce together. Come together. Become one. Form an anomalous entity. An Alien Thing with its central parts the largesse of the hearts--two hearts whose beat is One. I have a Wall with a Child in it. You are so stupid, child. You are a Maggot. You should die Everything dies. Let it all die. There is nothing keeping You alive but yourself. Why not die now? They will kill You. They will surely kill You. Why suffer? All The Pretty Things Are Going to Hell. I keep this Child alone and alive because he is all I have. The Child is more alive than any thing other in this Machine. The Child can do Better Things than This Fly can. The Maggot--the weakling--is Stronger because It is Weaker. It is Weak with idioteque, and that makes It Stronger. Stronger than The Flies. The Child is behind a Wall. The Wall is built with the intention to keep Flies out. To keep Them out. To stay away from The Machine. The Machine wants The Child’s heart. It wants to rip It from Its Chest. It wants to probe in and put an Iron Heart in once the Bleeding Heart is taken out. It wants to Maraud and Steal it all. I will not, shall not, allow it. The Child is in a small corner of The Wall. Beside His Corner, He sits with His head against it, hearing the noises outside. He is lulled and cannot hear much of what’s going on out there. Out there he can hear Himself--the part of him that’s a Fly--going about His day. With a crayon in hand, The Child writes on The Wall. He writes in riddles. No One understands them. He is writing this on The Wall right now. It is coming down because The Maggot has control. This Man Whose Name Doesn’t Matter hasn’t cried for years and years. This Man has become Comfortably Numb. He used to have a feeling, his hands used to feel just like two balloons, but The Feeling is gone. This Man is slowly being assimilated into The Machine. He is sure one day The Machine shall arrive in all its glory and steal from This Chest a Heart. And when it takes This Heart it will first cradle The Heart as if It’s a baby The Machine has nourished its whole life. Then it will puncture the Vena Cava--the largest artery in This Heart. Then This Man will take over. Change to a Fly. The Child, The Maggot, will be Dead as Leaves. There is No Future left at all. An Optimist is One who thinks the best is yet to come. A Pessimist is One who knows the best has already happened. Child, do not cry. I see your Tears outside the wall. I know they thought The Berlin Wall was taken down. That the Great Wall didn’t imprison. I know. I know they were wrong. The Fear--needled in and usurping--is There. It is There--in The Great Wall. The Berlin Wall. It is there. This Man doesn’t care. He does not care about Education. He does not care about The Future. He does not care about His Heart anymore. This Man doesn’t know how He is going to go on. This Man sits here each day and learns. He acts like He cares about what he is learning. He Respects His teachers. He enjoys his Teachers. But He does not care about the Facts anymore. He does not care about It. There is no enjoyment in Learning. This Man wishes he could be Stupid. He wishes he could be Stupid. This man is Stupid. The Ones who are smart are The Most Stupid. Stupid because they are so Complex. Because they cannot come to Understand why things are the way they are. Stupid because they always Question. This is what This Man feels. And He is sick of Acting. He is sick of Being Part of The Machine. This Man is Numb. Tear down The Wall. May The Child be remembered. The Festering Crawling Maggot--the Useless Being--may He be Remembered. Soon He’s going to be Dead. And the Fly will have Control--The Insectile Slave to The Machine will have control. The Heart will be Dead. Replaced. In the end, it’s just beating my ******* heart against some mad bugger’s wall. I guess it’s time to Climb Up the Wall. It’s time to be Climbing Up the Walls. Would I were a Maggot, Sucking most Sweet Divine. Oh, Would I were a Maggot, Sucking Most Sweet Divine. The Morning Bell--I’m glad I know you’re coming. Release me. Release me please. Cut the kids in half. “All alone, or in two’s The ones who really love you Walk up and down outside the wall Some hand-in-hand Some gathering together in bands The bleeding hearts and the artists Make their stand And when they’ve given you their all Some stumble and fall, after all it’s not easy Banging your heart against some mad bugger’s wall.” [b]--Pink Floyd, “Outside the Wall.”[/b]

Where is this? Where is this? Where is it happening Happening? Where is it happening? Where is this? Where is this? This is where we roam. This is where we go. It is our home. We won't let you have it. It's our own. Where is this? Where is this? But you should've known You should've known This is where the machines roam. This is where the machines roam. A child--the innocent bystander of every story that's had its yarn. The question that's pertinent is if you can sew them right. Or if you cut them in the process. We were all children once. Look over at that elderly man there--the one that's at the bus stop, the sun on his face like a halo. He was once a child. And look over there--the alley. There's a bum there. He's got a long beard, and a strained face. It's sure you could smell the reek of alcohol from him, since he's got a bottle in his hand. He was once a child. We were all once children. How can something as beautiful as this come torn away? How can it leave us, like it wasn't ever there? It's such a paradox. From the outside, it looks contradicting. How can anyone lose their essence--lose the child in them? But deeper in, in most peoples' eyes, it's really gone. Gone is the imagination. Gone is the wonder. Gone is the splendor. It's all gone. All of it. What took it? How could it possibly have been taken? I know I will fight for my child. But what happened to the rest? I've seen it. Yes. I have. I have seen what's taken it. The world, it's one big machine. The way it functions. The way it appears. The way it eats at you. The way it shows itself. It's all a machine. Each and every day, we awake from our sleep: from our dreams. We wake up to go out and waste our lives away doing what this machine wants us to do. What it tells us. Get an education. Learn about humanly-created facts. Devices. Ideals. Subjects. Get a job. Get experienced in your job. Uphold the status quo. Get your money. Save some of it for retirement. Get a nice house. A nice car. A nice wife. Get a nice life. Get a nice reason to your existence. Get a nice way to live. It's all about it being nice when it's not nice at all. All the while, your heart's slowly ripped right from your chest. The cold metal will first feel your hair. Then your neck. It will touch your lips. Your lips will flutter in fear. You will feel the metal and it will numb you. You are touched by the machine. [i]Deus ex Machina[/i]. Your are touched by the God that comes from the machine. What it does to you. What it forces you to do. What it tells you to do. Your are brainwashed. You are stymied. Hampered. Impeded upon. And in the grip of this God that comes from the machine, that watches over it all, you become so disillusioned that you can't even see how much of a waste of time it is. All of it. The machine assimilates you and moves you on. To assimilate you, it'll take your heart. Just your heart. It's nothing much. Nothing much at all. In the heart there's many things. There is blood. There is capillaries. There is veins. There is movement. There is beathing: a resonant thud-thud. And here there is no machine. It is all muscle, cells. There is no machine. But are our bodies not machines themselves? Just shells we wear? Perhaps it is true. But it is our minds. From our minds we ascend. With our minds we are more than machines. Even if our minds are cold and calculating in what they do, there must be something more there. Is there? I have searched for the answer. I believe what makes us different from machines is we feel emotions. And we have feelings. And most of all, we have heart. Hearts that're far more than blood, tissue, muscle, capillaries, cells, atoms, electrons, neutrons. You can go small as you want. There's something more to it than that. And that part of me I won't let Them take. I can feel the machine probing me. Feeling me up. It wants to entice me. It wants me to break down to it. To give into it. It wants my heart. It wants the me I know to die so the me I don't know comes to life. The me who has an iron heart. Who is a machine in every way. Flawless in action, unfeeling and cold in demeanor. That's what it wants. Some have lost. Some have let the God that comes from the machine gain them. Let Him conquer them. I won't. Over in my mind, I see what it's like. The metal hand, it grasps you. Comforts and numbs you till you can't feel anymore. Then, when you're least paying attention, it slowly crawls its fingers up your bare chest. Crawls like a worm. It comes to the center of your chest. It gropes there, feeling. Feeling the warmth of what's down there. It knows the warmth. It knows it's not needed. Then down. Down it beats into your chest. First it bruises your skin, softens it up. The beating resonates in your ears, but you are too dumbed to hear it. Too numb. Your eyes are off in the distance, they aren't your own eyes anymore. They are someone else's. The someone else of you. The middle of your chest now a bruised smear, the hand retracts, moves its fingers back and forth, back and forth. It prepares. Then. Then with intense speed its hand rears down. Its fingers, held open, dig into the middle of your chest. The skin is punctured, torn. It digs deep in, moving its mechanical fingers for leverage. Down in. Down in it goes. The blood. The anomalous pain you cannot feel. Then with precison unlike in human nature, it is at your heart. Holding it. Cradling it like it's a baby. Like it's a baby for it to own. Like it's given birth to it. It's nourished it, nourished it from a fetus to what it is now. And it's true. It has nourished it. You've been alive in the world--the way it is, the way it acts, its proclivities, its banalities. You've been with its everything since the beginning. It had you from the beginning. Had you enslaved. Servile, you had done what you had done, thinking it was right. Now it comes down to this. The stealing of your heart. Of the thing that makes you most you. The thing that's different than anyone else's. The thing that has you in it, and is the you you know in every way. Thud. Beat. Thud thud. Beat. Can you hear it? Can you hear it beating. Beating as its hand's in there? I can. And it's dying. This is not the first time it's been in your heart. It's fingered it before. Fingered it like it had an itch to. There are scars on your heart from where it's gotten you before. But this isn't before. Scars are memoirs of what should never be allowed again, but it is too late now. It's too late for you. The machine has you. It's got you down with just its presence, and now it's got you by your heart. I can feel it touching your heart. I can feel it, and it is sending shivers up my spine. The hand lies in there for a while. Just cradling your heart. Feeling it up. It's taking its good time. It's taking its good time because it knows it has its good time to take. Then it goes in. It's a well-trained killing machine. It knows right where to go. It goes to your vena cava--the largest artery in the heart. It chokes it with its two fingers. Then it grabs the rest--blood dying and all--and brings it out. It holds it in its hands for a while. You're still sitting there. Blind to it all. It sets your heart down--it's dying now, the beats are slowing; soon it'll be gone. Gone forever. It comes at you and takes a metal heart out. Cold still. This one's cold steel. It's steel cold. And in you it goes. It's too late now. When you finally wake up--when you finally feel a hint of what is taken, when you finally know what's happened--that your whole life was stolen from you from the beginning, you'll be too old to do a thing about it. You'll be old, emaciated, inundated, debilitated. Wasted away. There'll be nothing you can do. When you die you'll die alone. You'll die alone because you don't have your heart. I won't let it happen to me. I am standing outside the bus stop as I write this. The old man I was talking about--I can see it in his eyes. He's been dead a long time. I feel numb. I feel dead too. But in that dead carcass of nothing, in that dead carcass of nothing that's inside me, that I'm swallowing, I feel something moving. I feel something slithering and heartening me. It tells me to keep me me, and not let the machine take me. I listen. Walking in the bus, I listen. They all follow their God here. Their God who made Jesus Christ. Their God who put him on the cross. That God comes from the machine. God isn't like that. God isn't. God is not judicious. If he were judicious, the Holocaust wouldn't have happened. Wars wouldn't have happened. Suffering would not have happened. The machine we live in today wouldn't have happened. If God was what they say he is, then I'd still be a child. I wouldn't be changing, struggling to keep me me. Struggling to have it. We all carry our crosses. We carry them our whole lives, and we suffer as much, if not more than, Jesus Christ did in that one day. The machine tries to help us carry it, but it can't. You're going to be crucified by that cross one day. I'd rather make mine the real me. I'd rather write on it what I want. I'd rather bleed and sweat and cry on my own. Not for this machine. Not for this waste of time world. Not for this. But I can't. It's funny that those who have full hearts are seen as the most empty. In we go In we go In we go Go go go In we In we Go In we go We go Goodbye heart Goodbye

optimist club it says on his shirt i won't join i won't i won't join that club i won't be joining that club the shirt is green it's green is green and it's green like envy. green like envy gonna turn me green with envy, with envy. optimists are those who think the best is the best is the best is yet to yet to come optimists are those innocent enough to still have something worth having something worth believing i won't i will not i won't be joining won't join that that club i won't be joining that club. the intelligent are often the most stupid. they're the ones that wanna be green. we are all such actors such machines. we are all such such we are all such actors machines. i wish i was stupid. i wish i could breathe i wish i wish i could breathe i wish i wish i wasn't just another another machine. wishing is a fool's game i don't believe don't believe i do not believe in stars. only falling ones.

[b]numbed sore[/b] this is killing me slowly killing me death-bringer, he don’t wear black death-bringer, he don’t bring it back this isn’t the same old time i knew this isn’t the same old place i knew what’s happened hey, what’s happened? can you tell me? can you tell me? the emptiness, the looking in find it--claim it own it. how empty a heart is that’s full in the world . how empty a heart is in this world. this is killing me slowly killing me i feel i will die on my own. don’t need this anymore don’t need this anymore. numbed sore i’m numbed sore i’m nu mb ed sore i’m i am i’m i’m numbed sore and this--this is slowly killing me, i am a cannibal. i’m a i am a cannibal i’m a i eat myself. shove it in me shove it down me feel it in me feasting was feasting was so feasting was so good this evening feasting is feasting is what feasting is what i do each day i’m a pig you’re a lamb let’s make friction. i’ll be fiction it’ll beggar belief beggar belief it’ll it will beggar belief oh how my bones oh how my bones how i get closer to them i can taste them. the muscle’s almost gone the brain cells’re dead. i’m braindead lack of brawn. i’m still going on. wanna stop me? stop me in a red light? you better stop me in a red light. you’re a lamb i’m a i am a pig you’re a you are a lamb let’s make friction let’s do what we’re meant to do here. i’m your slave i’m a i am a slave you’re a slave i am your slave you are my slave we bend each other we eat each other it’s still all about me it’s still all about me. i’m a cannibal. my own flesh tastes to my mouth’s rough ends and my teeth puncture the skin. kiss the lips say goodbye we’ll eat our hearts we’ll dine. and it’s all about me and to you it’s all about you too bad you’re not real fake plastic sheets cover you whole. you’ll get ate one day don’t you know you’ll get ate one day don’t need this anymore don’t see it anymore don’t have it anymore I’m circling The Flies Buzzing Around my Head And I’m grasping, holding, clenching, fighting, folding, bloating, bending, rending, tearing. I’m a planet of capillaries bones, mallow, tendons, muscles, I’m a planet I’m not habitable i’m i’m not i am not i’m not i am not habitable the conditions are too harsh too harsh--they’re too harsh too harsh. alien you’ve come alien you’ve come come on, come on in. come come in. let’s fill the serenity of nothing with the serenity of chasms. build them deep till they hit the heart till it bursts. the single movement of the heart’s beat is the single movement of each and every one that’s come before. we’re no different. we’re such whores, my sheep--such whores. habitat me. we’ll grow our own field of field of sores. of so res. of sores. sores of sores of sores of sores. of sores. and me me, i’m me i’m me i am i am a cannibal i am eating myself whole. you can hear the skin tearing, the bones crunching. this is beautiful i am creating a scaremonger scaremonger scarecrow visceral me i am i’m creating a scaremonger scarecrow of me. i’m i am killing myself i blame it on Them. i blame it on i blame it on Them. Them Them Them i blame it on Them. there is nothing anymore. They took it away. i am i’m i am i’m numb ed sore numb ed sore.