Wednesday, February 21, 2018

My muse in turn uses me as her muse, and that makes me.... content.

We just keep on bouncing off each other like distracted fireflies, embittered and at once also emboldened, attracted, by the blare of light from the single 60 Watt.

In the 6ftx8ft pump house, is where our dreams became infinite.

A manic high comes from nothing, and there is a mad yelling at the world from a state of innervation, not unlike the manic energy of a genius, one of those eccentric, idiosyncratic beings, giving to delusion, timult, even fits.  The mad yelling at the world calls to her, somewhere deep in her gulliver, that is never quite satisfied, so she is activated like a zombie robot and she goes about, with a prescription for happiness given by her muse.

Her muse in turn sees her own expression of happiness, and becomes inspired, yet again, as in a cycle.  You see: she is his muse, too, just like he is her muse.  And he is propelled further beyond a manic high, an ingenius blurting of noise into the ether, at once having seemingly magnified himself through, not an artificial means, but almost by his symbiote: the thing that is killing him, while making him love his life and desire to live on yet further.

It's really quite a beautiful thing.  One must take his motivation where he can find it.  It isn't all Trump tweet and Facebook memes.  Do something good every once in a while.  Get in the game.

Wednesday, January 24, 2018

making me hate myself.

To find one that one is compatible, with.

To find one that is like you.  Eventually, you pick her apart, hating her, and by extension, recognizing her flaws in you.

Or me.  I recognize her flaws in me.

Find one that is different from you, then shake the very foundation.

Affirm yourself.  Validate yourself.  Hate someone different.  Hate because the person is different than you.

Ice water drawers.

Calm down.  Rub Canola oil on your feet and watch Wayne Brady.  Make some old school popcorn in the pan.

The Nazis never shot-up classrooms.

There was a summer squash of rather fecund, sensual shape, on a fake silver platter.  I said, "is this all?"  "You've seen it all, I wot" came the reply.  There was an assault rifle and a twinkling bell, and I was as a rat in a maze.  I was made to sit quietly.  My hormones raged.  I sweat and stank.  I asked again, "is this all?"  "No.  Now you are expected to find entry-level employment."

Damn

it.

Sunday, December 17, 2017

the muse as one's shadow self(why I like her so much)





When she looks so pretty to you that she cause a psychosis.  My feminine self-image is a hotty.  I, a slob, identify with pinpoint-neat super beauties.  The conundrum folds in on itself and all that is left is a virginal beauty, young and inexperienced because of my latent infantile homosexuality.  The repression falls and a new psychic day dawns.

Monday, December 11, 2017

curtain call

baby with the porn star body.

I have become accustomed to the pit, to the extent that said pit has become familiar and almost pleasant to my diseased brain.

Pleasant feelings.  Leaning over like I'm asleep, while my brain travels at the speed of light within, the speed of diseased thought.

Ansey.

Goes to Ascerdote University.  Attends, as it were, as a student-oriented person, that studies in her spare time, and participates in the odd examination when the mood strikes her.  So she is study-oriented, and not the type to stay in the "safe space".

I, like Ansie, require large amounts of rest in order to function normally.

Wednesday, November 29, 2017

Un Chien Anna-lou






Mikl Carlos Michaels writes: Dali and the Dollies, and uncomfortable silence.  Low buck resto on the GTX goes well.  Will send build pics.  Sugarfoot.  Pit of despair, Dilly Dilly!  So much depends on two drunk Democrats and some reptiles.