Lyrics:
Seconds too late
True time,
we waste
Build certain fates
Falling grey skies
Calling of
wild
Here we come
Seconds too late
True time,
we waste
Build certain fates
Falling grey skies
Calling of
wild
Here we come
Monday, September 07, 2009
New Song Posted on Myspace, "Heist"
New song "HEIST" is now posted on myspace! Give a listen and add us, if you haven't already. =)
Monday, August 17, 2009
New Song Posted on Myspace
myspace.com/blacktableband
New Song Posted, "Helen, Speak to Me of Rome"
(Photo credit Marcus Vidaurri, Texas 2009)
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
New Music Project - Black Table
Another music project has been born from a hot afternoon, guitars and recording software. We decided on the name, Black Table.
Ryan Fleming (Colony, Ex-Randall Flagg) and I (Ex-The Beau-Traps) are playing guitars and I'll be doing vocals (if any). Drums are machine made for now.
This music will be different from my previous experience, which was more 60's influenced. Our love for post-metal, some black metal and post punk/experimental will hopefully blossom into something we will be proud of. So far so good. I always wanted a dark and experimental band.
the myspace page is up (add us pretty kitties) and music will be going up soon.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Free Book Plate created by Mers
Book Plates are something you rarely see these days. A small decorative piece of paper claiming you as the owner and keeper of a private collection of precious, hand picked books.
I went searching to try and find something to my liking, but my search was short however, it was not uninspired.
I decided to create my own design.
Clothing, shoes, music, film, food, tattoos, clothing, hairstyles, make up, even the drink you drink is a conjuration of who you are and they are choices you make based on what you like, desire or aim to be. I believe anything and everything you do should incorporate as much of your self as possible. Every color, fabric, string of words you read and say, the food you eat, how you eat, what you watch...is important. And though, most of the time it seems like life is random, I think living deliberately leads to less random or misunderstood accounts and actions, allowing for better choices and less talk and more rock.
Thats why your own private and adored libary is so wonderful. Books say a lot about you.
All that being said, I created a book plate with elements that have meaning for me and offer here if you like the design to download and personalize your own books. There is a box for your name and a seperate line for the date the book was purchased or recieved.
If you'd like your own design, I can be persuaded to create one for you for a small fee or trade. ;)
Elements used in this book plate:
Egyptian Sphinx - A temple Guardian
Egyptian Lotus - rebirth
A Raven - ravens to me are one of my favorite birds, smart, curious and devious
A Cat - for my cat Camilla and all the cats I've had.
Winged Solar Disc - falcon wings and snakes
Buer Sigil - Buer is a "demon" or "spirit" of philosophy and logic, a favorite character of mine from King Solomens Era
A Victorian Woman - A sweet Docent
Enjoy.
Thursday, July 02, 2009
Two New Books
In the morning yesterday, when I left my apartment in Jersey City to work in the city, it was humid, hot and sultry; if you were a mold who likes wet and hot spaces, complete sex (like my kitchen sink). By the early evening it was cooler, I would say the light was like the inside of an oyster shell, silver and smooth.
In New York, nice days, pretty days are kind of rare as of late. The winter was unrelenting, an onslaught of heartless cold, relentless rain and a cruel arctic wind, enough to make one cry. "Spring" seemed to be still born and til the last day of June....this chaos has been continuing.
Yes, its warmer now, but the weather suffers us with bipolar bitchiness. 82 and sunny to suddenly 66 and a rainstorm.
So when it's nice outside, I prefer to stay outside. Roaming around, seeking treasures and inspirations. I stopped at Borders with a hungry need to pillage the bargain aisles. You always find a few of the same books there: King Arther, Van Goph, Horses, Irish Castles, and Origami Kits.
Mostly shit people buy as gifts for coworkers they hardly know.
But yesterday, I actually spent some time rifling and found two great books:
The Drawings of Gustave Dore : Illustrations to the Great Classics
Everything You Know Is Wrong: The Disinformation Guide to Secrets and Lies, Russ Kick
I think it already has inspired me with the idea to write an essay "in response too". As I read the essays, I will write my thoughts here and see if that goes anywhere.
You can go to the authors site here: disinfo.org
And for the record, its now pouring outside and overcast...again.
In New York, nice days, pretty days are kind of rare as of late. The winter was unrelenting, an onslaught of heartless cold, relentless rain and a cruel arctic wind, enough to make one cry. "Spring" seemed to be still born and til the last day of June....this chaos has been continuing.
Yes, its warmer now, but the weather suffers us with bipolar bitchiness. 82 and sunny to suddenly 66 and a rainstorm.
So when it's nice outside, I prefer to stay outside. Roaming around, seeking treasures and inspirations. I stopped at Borders with a hungry need to pillage the bargain aisles. You always find a few of the same books there: King Arther, Van Goph, Horses, Irish Castles, and Origami Kits.
Mostly shit people buy as gifts for coworkers they hardly know.
But yesterday, I actually spent some time rifling and found two great books:
The Drawings of Gustave Dore : Illustrations to the Great Classics
Everything You Know Is Wrong: The Disinformation Guide to Secrets and Lies, Russ Kick
Gustave Dore (1832-1883) did illustrations for Paradise Lost, Don Quixote, The Adventures of Baron Munchhausen, Aesop's Fables, fairy tales, The Raven, The Divine Comedy, and others. Dore was a paid artist at the age of 17 in France. His work is pretty meticulous and gorgeous, what's even more exciting is that the text that accompanies the images are also here.
This book is really a great find for many reasons. The essays are written by a plethora of different people with varied view points. The information in the book isn't singing the same old tune, it's not trying to be smart, cute, or stylish. They are serious informative essays written by serious minds. Also the paper its printed on is sweet. Ignore the pop cover.
I think it already has inspired me with the idea to write an essay "in response too". As I read the essays, I will write my thoughts here and see if that goes anywhere.
You can go to the authors site here: disinfo.org
And for the record, its now pouring outside and overcast...again.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
New Painting - THE GATE
This was a Birthday gift. The painted scene is recreated in oil paints from the Birthday-ee's first demo cd cover art.
Oil painted clouds on reclaimed fashion magazine print paper. Hand drawn "Phooka" figure on shrinky dink paper, baked in ink.
The "phooka" is a character created by Brian Froud. An illustration I have loved since I was very small. I redrew it freehand for this.
"Phooka", Brian Froud
White painted wood frame, vintage hardware found in the Adirondacks, vintage key found in Los Angeles.
Title: The Gate
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Part I : The Mark - Short Fiction by Mers
This is the start of a novella. No title yet. I'm thinking 5 parts.
Part I : The Mark
There was a loud darkness to my right, a vacuum filling my ears with space, time, and other things I didn't understand. I closed my eyes.
When I opened them the tv was on but the images I was starring at became slow moving, unfamiliar shapes and sounds. I looked down at my knees, they appeared strange, amputated, dough colored twin rolls of flesh with tiny blond hairs. I couldn't feel my feet or the ground beneath them, or even remember what the rug beneath my feet looked like. The sunlight on my legs appeared solid enough to physically touch it.
I swallowed and the vacuum released my ears. I turned to the right, where the deafening grew out of. I realized there was someone to my left as well, but they didn't matter right now.
In front of me, the hallway was dark, a cold air was radiating with a musky dry smell, like stale earth from under a house. A memory pricked my mind. I was small, opening the tiny door that led under the house, under the porch, the dirt was dry, caked, webs, the smell of stagnation, boxes filled with my baby toys and clothes, half buried brass shot gun shells in the grey earth, DTD containers...
A hard clacking in the hallway began. Slowly I understood it was something walking, but the hardness of the steps on the wood I had never heard before. I waited, sweating.
A shadow came forth, only slightly lighter than the dark, a large head like a water buffalo with silver eyes floated above thin, hairless, dark skinned shoulders and chest of a thin man. Hot air was climbing in thick shrouds from its large glistening nose and the room became cold.
My body stood up from the couch it took slow steps forward. I started to panic, but I couldn't breathe, I couldn't scream, I watched in morbid ecstasy as it got closer and closer. Wake up! Wake up! I shouted in my head.
"This, is not sleep". A low voice said.
I cringed. The lips of the animal did not move.
It extended its arm and in it's human hand was a small coin. It pressed it against my chest, where the heart lives. For a few seconds nothing happened, but then a painful pressure went through my flesh, in between my ribs as if the fingers were growing inside me.
A strange gurgling scream crawled up my throat and finally I was screaming, my mouth open in a awkward slack then everything became black. I heard a dull thud.
"What happened? Are you ok? Hey!" The person to my left had been Frederick, he was touching my shoulder. I remembered now. I thought about having sex with him. I thought about waiting on the subway platform together late at night, they way he put on deodorant. "Hey! Say something!"
I realized I was supine on the floor. "Bed."
He picked me up, and put me on my bed. I rubbed my face slowly. After awhile I said, "I think I had a weird dream."
"But you weren't asleep, you mean a day dream? You looked really strange."
This, is not sleep. I shivered. "No, I mean, maybe it was a hallucination." I explained what I saw, what I felt, what I heard and then when I talked about the coin, I hastily opened my buttoned up shirt.
There on my left breast, was a discolored disc of purple with faint flecks of red. I got up and went to the mirror on the closet door. I started to feel light headed.
"What? So then what happened? What is that?" He looked pale and worried.
I explained.
"Do you think, I mean its fucking crazy..."
We stood there and debated whether or not the coin could be there, inside my organ, squeezed in between valves and folds. No, of course not. That's stupid. Then, we debated the reality of my daydream, where the bruise could have came from until we were exhausted, and laid down on the bed together.
I've known Frederick for a few years. We had met in an alley, both trying to find solace from the drinks we had consumed and from the people we had arrived with. People who made us act and feel who we were not so we drank and drank to get to that hot point where it didn't matter, and everyone was our brother, and we were just animals, living. But that night, we had both drank too much, we both had acid reflux and we both drank whiskey and cheap beer, something not soothing to burning acids and internal sick flesh.
He had came with coworkers, and I had come with a guy I had met on the subway and his friends.
I was trying to puke inside a small recess in the tall brick building, but it was all dry heaving and dribbles of foamy bile. I gave up and leaned on the wall, in the dark, trying to imagine how I was going to get home without Darren coming with me while my vision bounced around.
I heard the door of the bar slam, and slow footsteps came towards me.
Someone blurry, tall and in black clothing. He stopped in front of me and unzipped his pants.
I jumped up as the realization someone was going to piss on me sobered me up. He screamed and grab his pants and tumbled back onto the cobbled alley. He stared at me, groaned with embarrassment then started to moan, holding his head.
"There was no lock on the bathroom." he slurred.
I kneeled down almost falling over. "Are you ok?"
He laid there silently for a few minutes.
"Dija see that girl? She was hidin' there in the...in the...bathroom...no light either" He writhed around slowly.
"Yeah shes gone." I laid down next to him closing my eyes. I remember the cold of the cobble stones felt so good on my sweating body. "I could lay here forever."
"I know, we should."
"This bar sucks."
"This bar sucks! It does, they arranged it stupid, its like a fancy garage my dog would poop in."
I didn't understand but it was funny and I laughed. "I'd rather drink in a dumpster. I wish I had a coffee."
He dry heaved, wiped his mouth. "You want coffee? I'll buy you a coffee, if you help me up and find me a bathroom." He dry heaved again.
And I did, we walked to a diner and drank coffee, and after while, after the whiskey thinned, we shared bad memories, private secrets and politically incorrect feelings. Like when dogs sniff each others butts, its all they need to know about the other dog to get along. The rest of the world was swallowed up by a gentle shadow, as if we were in a tunnel. There wasn't judgment, shock or apathy, just a common acceptance. We never spent a day a part since then.
That was the stability of our relationship that we didn't joke or lie about feelings or experiences, so when I told Frederick about the Buffalo Man, he soulfully contemplated everything I said. I would never admit a thing like that to anyone else.
We fell asleep on the bed, in our clothes and woke up around 7pm. The mark was gone and I sighed, relieved. I took off my shirt to take a shower and walked to the bathroom. Frederick was still laying in bed.
"Hey come here."
I walked back, about to lay on top of him, but he turned me around so my back was facing him.
"You have a bruise here too." He poked my back and I cried out. It was tender. I ran to the mirror and saw that a bruise was now on the other side of my body, directly across from where the other was.
"It looks like the other one."
He stared at me through the mirror. "Maybe it's something else." He didn't want me to be scared.
I didn't either. "Yeah, possibly, most likely." I walked away to take a shower and I could feel Frederick starring after me, and something else watching as if it was outside the window curiously peering in. I wondered if Frederick felt it too.
Part II to follow.
Part I : The Mark
There was a loud darkness to my right, a vacuum filling my ears with space, time, and other things I didn't understand. I closed my eyes.
When I opened them the tv was on but the images I was starring at became slow moving, unfamiliar shapes and sounds. I looked down at my knees, they appeared strange, amputated, dough colored twin rolls of flesh with tiny blond hairs. I couldn't feel my feet or the ground beneath them, or even remember what the rug beneath my feet looked like. The sunlight on my legs appeared solid enough to physically touch it.
I swallowed and the vacuum released my ears. I turned to the right, where the deafening grew out of. I realized there was someone to my left as well, but they didn't matter right now.
In front of me, the hallway was dark, a cold air was radiating with a musky dry smell, like stale earth from under a house. A memory pricked my mind. I was small, opening the tiny door that led under the house, under the porch, the dirt was dry, caked, webs, the smell of stagnation, boxes filled with my baby toys and clothes, half buried brass shot gun shells in the grey earth, DTD containers...
A hard clacking in the hallway began. Slowly I understood it was something walking, but the hardness of the steps on the wood I had never heard before. I waited, sweating.
A shadow came forth, only slightly lighter than the dark, a large head like a water buffalo with silver eyes floated above thin, hairless, dark skinned shoulders and chest of a thin man. Hot air was climbing in thick shrouds from its large glistening nose and the room became cold.
My body stood up from the couch it took slow steps forward. I started to panic, but I couldn't breathe, I couldn't scream, I watched in morbid ecstasy as it got closer and closer. Wake up! Wake up! I shouted in my head.
"This, is not sleep". A low voice said.
I cringed. The lips of the animal did not move.
It extended its arm and in it's human hand was a small coin. It pressed it against my chest, where the heart lives. For a few seconds nothing happened, but then a painful pressure went through my flesh, in between my ribs as if the fingers were growing inside me.
A strange gurgling scream crawled up my throat and finally I was screaming, my mouth open in a awkward slack then everything became black. I heard a dull thud.
"What happened? Are you ok? Hey!" The person to my left had been Frederick, he was touching my shoulder. I remembered now. I thought about having sex with him. I thought about waiting on the subway platform together late at night, they way he put on deodorant. "Hey! Say something!"
I realized I was supine on the floor. "Bed."
He picked me up, and put me on my bed. I rubbed my face slowly. After awhile I said, "I think I had a weird dream."
"But you weren't asleep, you mean a day dream? You looked really strange."
This, is not sleep. I shivered. "No, I mean, maybe it was a hallucination." I explained what I saw, what I felt, what I heard and then when I talked about the coin, I hastily opened my buttoned up shirt.
There on my left breast, was a discolored disc of purple with faint flecks of red. I got up and went to the mirror on the closet door. I started to feel light headed.
"What? So then what happened? What is that?" He looked pale and worried.
I explained.
"Do you think, I mean its fucking crazy..."
We stood there and debated whether or not the coin could be there, inside my organ, squeezed in between valves and folds. No, of course not. That's stupid. Then, we debated the reality of my daydream, where the bruise could have came from until we were exhausted, and laid down on the bed together.
I've known Frederick for a few years. We had met in an alley, both trying to find solace from the drinks we had consumed and from the people we had arrived with. People who made us act and feel who we were not so we drank and drank to get to that hot point where it didn't matter, and everyone was our brother, and we were just animals, living. But that night, we had both drank too much, we both had acid reflux and we both drank whiskey and cheap beer, something not soothing to burning acids and internal sick flesh.
He had came with coworkers, and I had come with a guy I had met on the subway and his friends.
I was trying to puke inside a small recess in the tall brick building, but it was all dry heaving and dribbles of foamy bile. I gave up and leaned on the wall, in the dark, trying to imagine how I was going to get home without Darren coming with me while my vision bounced around.
I heard the door of the bar slam, and slow footsteps came towards me.
Someone blurry, tall and in black clothing. He stopped in front of me and unzipped his pants.
I jumped up as the realization someone was going to piss on me sobered me up. He screamed and grab his pants and tumbled back onto the cobbled alley. He stared at me, groaned with embarrassment then started to moan, holding his head.
"There was no lock on the bathroom." he slurred.
I kneeled down almost falling over. "Are you ok?"
He laid there silently for a few minutes.
"Dija see that girl? She was hidin' there in the...in the...bathroom...no light either" He writhed around slowly.
"Yeah shes gone." I laid down next to him closing my eyes. I remember the cold of the cobble stones felt so good on my sweating body. "I could lay here forever."
"I know, we should."
"This bar sucks."
"This bar sucks! It does, they arranged it stupid, its like a fancy garage my dog would poop in."
I didn't understand but it was funny and I laughed. "I'd rather drink in a dumpster. I wish I had a coffee."
He dry heaved, wiped his mouth. "You want coffee? I'll buy you a coffee, if you help me up and find me a bathroom." He dry heaved again.
And I did, we walked to a diner and drank coffee, and after while, after the whiskey thinned, we shared bad memories, private secrets and politically incorrect feelings. Like when dogs sniff each others butts, its all they need to know about the other dog to get along. The rest of the world was swallowed up by a gentle shadow, as if we were in a tunnel. There wasn't judgment, shock or apathy, just a common acceptance. We never spent a day a part since then.
That was the stability of our relationship that we didn't joke or lie about feelings or experiences, so when I told Frederick about the Buffalo Man, he soulfully contemplated everything I said. I would never admit a thing like that to anyone else.
We fell asleep on the bed, in our clothes and woke up around 7pm. The mark was gone and I sighed, relieved. I took off my shirt to take a shower and walked to the bathroom. Frederick was still laying in bed.
"Hey come here."
I walked back, about to lay on top of him, but he turned me around so my back was facing him.
"You have a bruise here too." He poked my back and I cried out. It was tender. I ran to the mirror and saw that a bruise was now on the other side of my body, directly across from where the other was.
"It looks like the other one."
He stared at me through the mirror. "Maybe it's something else." He didn't want me to be scared.
I didn't either. "Yeah, possibly, most likely." I walked away to take a shower and I could feel Frederick starring after me, and something else watching as if it was outside the window curiously peering in. I wondered if Frederick felt it too.
Part II to follow.
Monday, June 08, 2009
Antique Apple Peeler
Bought this at an antique store in the Adirondacks called Raven and Ring Antiques. Its a beautiful mechanism. There is something magical about devices like these, they can work forever, they can be repaired, they can be dismantled and created into something else, its tangible - you can hold it and bring it to life with your participation.
Friday, April 10, 2009
John Fante - 1909-2009 A Hundred Years
My friend Brian C. forwarded these links to me which celebrates John Fante as this Wed was 100 years since his birth. Thank you!
There is not a day that goes by the Fante is not in my mind, in my soul, in my hands when I touch or my eyes when I seek to understand; he is a kind of amulet for me.
John Fante's great gift to Los Angeles
The long love affair between a city and the author of "Ask the Dust," who would have turned 100 this week.
By Stephen Cooper
JACKET COPY
John Fante's 100th birthday
Carolyn Kellogg for LA Times
John Fante's 'Ask the Dust' grows with time
The 1939 novel is finding its way into college classrooms at the 100th anniversary of the author's birth. Tonight, Zócalo hosts a panel on him at the Hammer Museum.
By Carolyn Kellogg for LA Times
Zocalo at Hammer Museum Video Podcast about John Fante with Stephen Cooper and Fante's children Victora Fante Cohen and Jim Fante
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
The Self-Important Jackass
The Self-Important Jackass or "Epitomizing everything that I fucking hate about the human race"
by Marcus Vidaurri
He will approach you as the initial intention to prepare your first meal of the day crosses your mind, on a workday. To his credit, he will not know this is your first priority, as there are no obvious signs, but his unintentional courtesy ends there. He will, however, see that while you talk on one phone line, another blinks, awaiting your attention. This is the manner in which business is generally conducted in your particular line of work, and he knows this well. He does not need to follow these basic guidelines. He is entitled.
He has come for someone else, but upon discovering their absence will "deal" with you. He will decline help offered from others as he awaits for you to finish your current task at hand. He vaguely describes some extremely detailed thing that he wants, while being perfectly capable of describing it to a T, and providing you with it's corresponding numerical identification code, thereby helping you in some small, but significant manner. He will wander around your workspace, asking ambivalent questions, in and of themselves, to no one, and answering them himself. As if asking his memory; "Memory, do you know anything about this combination of words, and their location? Do they make sense to you?" and his memory responds, "Yes. But not specifically, nor in any way that relates to the current situation".
He will pose these banal questions about something that was obviously your choosing, but not relative to anything that he wishes you to accomplish at the moment. Do not be fooled into answering them! No matter how much he coaxes you with blank looks and silence! He wishes you to speak only so that he may speak over you, and prove that not only does his memory now what certain things mean, his memory also knows what YOUR memory remembers, and is capable of attaining this knowledge whether or not you attempt to answer him (or even succeed in doing so).
He is omnipotent. He is his own best friend. He is his one true love. He can do no wrong. He loves his voice, and uses it loudly, but rarely says anything. Your misery gives him an erection. He loves that you cannot stand him, but must. I know many like him. He is the worst. He comes by most days.
by Marcus Vidaurri
He will approach you as the initial intention to prepare your first meal of the day crosses your mind, on a workday. To his credit, he will not know this is your first priority, as there are no obvious signs, but his unintentional courtesy ends there. He will, however, see that while you talk on one phone line, another blinks, awaiting your attention. This is the manner in which business is generally conducted in your particular line of work, and he knows this well. He does not need to follow these basic guidelines. He is entitled.
He has come for someone else, but upon discovering their absence will "deal" with you. He will decline help offered from others as he awaits for you to finish your current task at hand. He vaguely describes some extremely detailed thing that he wants, while being perfectly capable of describing it to a T, and providing you with it's corresponding numerical identification code, thereby helping you in some small, but significant manner. He will wander around your workspace, asking ambivalent questions, in and of themselves, to no one, and answering them himself. As if asking his memory; "Memory, do you know anything about this combination of words, and their location? Do they make sense to you?" and his memory responds, "Yes. But not specifically, nor in any way that relates to the current situation".
He will pose these banal questions about something that was obviously your choosing, but not relative to anything that he wishes you to accomplish at the moment. Do not be fooled into answering them! No matter how much he coaxes you with blank looks and silence! He wishes you to speak only so that he may speak over you, and prove that not only does his memory now what certain things mean, his memory also knows what YOUR memory remembers, and is capable of attaining this knowledge whether or not you attempt to answer him (or even succeed in doing so).
He is omnipotent. He is his own best friend. He is his one true love. He can do no wrong. He loves his voice, and uses it loudly, but rarely says anything. Your misery gives him an erection. He loves that you cannot stand him, but must. I know many like him. He is the worst. He comes by most days.
Friday, February 13, 2009
The Beau-Traps - Whose Got the Fear?!
Hear our song "WHOSE GOT THE FEAR?!" on
www.wearedreamers.com
Also check out:
thegalactica.com
sundrysullen.com
xo -mers
Wednesday, February 04, 2009
Trully Uninspired - by Marcus Vidaurri
Marcus is a good friend of mine who lives in LA and wears sailor hats. He sent this to me and I really always adore nihilist writing when it's poignant.
Trully Uninspired
by Marcus Vidaurri
Everything irritates me. People and politics. Those concerned with the world's well-being and the further survival of the parasitic human animal. The death-fearing. The life-hating. The poets and their muses. Those longing for love, and the people who could care less about them. The walking genitalia. The eagerly inebriated. The abstinent. The pathetic stench of true poverty, and the vomit-inducing optimism of false wealth. They who haven't any faith, and the pious alike. They who build their homes and make their clothes of the bitterness they cannot let go, and they who drool through their grins at the prospect of another breaking dawn. The unemployed. The corporate ladders and the erect train of flesh that climb them. The elderly and infantile.
The crowds where they all gather and the isolation of your sixth lonely beer with only the unblinking eye of basic cable television. I hate the way it is and the way it used to be, when I can remember it. The shame of a weekend past, and the embarrassment of a couple years ago. The longing, and the desire to finally detach from it all. The know it all. The oblivious. The timid. The foolhardy. The singers and the songs. The movies and the actors. The novels and the authors. But most of all, the fact that I'll be every single one of them until the day you die.
Trully Uninspired
by Marcus Vidaurri
Everything irritates me. People and politics. Those concerned with the world's well-being and the further survival of the parasitic human animal. The death-fearing. The life-hating. The poets and their muses. Those longing for love, and the people who could care less about them. The walking genitalia. The eagerly inebriated. The abstinent. The pathetic stench of true poverty, and the vomit-inducing optimism of false wealth. They who haven't any faith, and the pious alike. They who build their homes and make their clothes of the bitterness they cannot let go, and they who drool through their grins at the prospect of another breaking dawn. The unemployed. The corporate ladders and the erect train of flesh that climb them. The elderly and infantile.
The crowds where they all gather and the isolation of your sixth lonely beer with only the unblinking eye of basic cable television. I hate the way it is and the way it used to be, when I can remember it. The shame of a weekend past, and the embarrassment of a couple years ago. The longing, and the desire to finally detach from it all. The know it all. The oblivious. The timid. The foolhardy. The singers and the songs. The movies and the actors. The novels and the authors. But most of all, the fact that I'll be every single one of them until the day you die.
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