Tripping Into Yourself

Sliver-King Jackal

Melding patterns, perception, rhythm, texture and balance. 10/22/2010.

Some Place To Be

There aren't any loans here, or tabloids or chain-yankers..
Or chains, even.

Will they escape the death of vengeance being chased away, called madmen for not subscribing to time, caught without a zippered suit or electric chord that runs from ego to thought..
Chased, chased away around the rims of some planets and underneath symbolic billboards.
Surely the queen would choke on a rye, they sweated, seeing the sweating jealous hatred of feeble faces. But there, was it running that would really lead there!? Surely running would only deepen within the muck and the filth.
There aren't any loans here, or tabloids or chain-yankers..
But vanished, where did the mobs go, chasing with categories, trying to box away non-participants. Sucking everything up along the way fragmenting it to fabricated shards of discounts and brand-representatives.
One foot of balance on a twisted spiral leading to a cosmically tuned breath of non-worry while the other foot stutters and risks the slip of being shot down to a collection of vanity magazines and robotic customs. But I can see it, I can feel it. Don't suffer before you're convinced it's right to fall into a collective, suffering because it's in the printed layout..
I can breath it, because I didn't pay for it.
There aren't any loans here, or tabloids or chain-yankers..
Or chains, even.

Sarge Tulse

Sgt Tulse devoured ants as I recorded footage and took photos of the event. I'm guessing this is 'blog worthy' even though it doesn't have tits, scandal or politics written all over it (unless you're into bugs or are an ant humanitarian, or maybe that shade of green isn't the most fashionable.)

These are from 04.2010. I have trifold the number of bug portraits than
any involving people.

Happy is the rat

Insomnia Calendar

Insomnia lures sleep-time notes over my head
My head feels bloated, my nostrils stuffed with goo.
Come get to know me through the details in my breathing
Like cinders mixed with sand or some rusty cloud
that goes so slowly you really wonder if it's moving at all.
Or maybe it's stuck in the sky.
Who might I scare away
See me pacing words with a pure intent
only speaking a language nobody has ever heard of before.
Who might I scare away
Maybe some will be interested by the abnormalty of trying to seek sane
Of attempting to balance the woes of a world that is a tremendously
stubbed toe while pills are shoved down it's throat and hammers
are beating it's nerve
and i'm the scenic trauma for wanting to let it rest on ice for a while.

No because I never spoke your language before.
I only speak through sleeplessness
and get so flustered trying to surround a world to love
that only contempt and hate can result when efforts are gouged out.
I could read to you forever, being that cloud who sits content
But somebody will have to remind you of thirst, or worry
or schedule and off you'll run back to the growing pains.
And who might I scare away because of those interuptions
of the addiction to pain and fear,
where drugs are also mentalities, and addictions are states of mind

I beg for nothing, letting moment pass,
Don't change your calendar this time
I manifest passerbyer to keep me company
Drinking in thought and screenplays written by the wind.
Stare at me through your keyhole in the door
like the portal to a wooden world
Where walls are only dotted lines
but they seem so damn real now don't they?
Just like that cloud, telling you it's all silent
with A hint of rust, sun and moon eye to eye.
Don't change your calendar this time.