(no subject)
I am sometimes too ambitious, it causes me to never finish anything of any substantial worth. I am currently 10 songs (and 3 unfinished) into a full length. I need to get a job and buy a decent condenser mic, then start recording guitar/cello/piano/drums myself. Afterward, I will take the bus to Boston and then the train to RI where Sheila and I will work on her violin parts. I am also considering sifting through and sprucing up the 60+ poems I have sitting around my house. I'm not too keen on most of them but I see no harm in sending them off. Then there's this novella I was working on and then abandoned and now am working on again. It is about a murderer who kills his ex because he can not find peace within the civilized world and perceives himself to be a god of sorts. After, he flees and finds peace with a cult who worships two tigers that they offer sacrificial infant victims to. Who knows if I will ever finish it? I live in a world of fiction where no one can touch me and I could care less about other people. It's nice to be in here.
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I just wrote this rough chapter in the novella. It's 6am so I don't feel like revising it and picking through it with a fine toothed comb for grammatical errors. When the story is assembled once again, I will decide what fits and what doesn't.
Pyres of Beth Stacked Into the Sky
Blood beads at the tips of my fingers, dripping onto the tufted carpeting. I will take you down to hell by my side. I will cradle you deep down in the molten rock. If only you had not touched me with that cursed hand. If only. If only. If only.
Gods are men and women born into some undefinable, unattainable distant land. Men and women that create and destroy because their hands can perform nothing more than mere actions. Their hands can hold nothing for any prolonged amount of time. The longer a God stands indolently with some throbbing life in their hands, the more it seers away their flesh. There is only one logical end to anything. Our porcelain vases will someday be excavated from a vast wreckage. The satisfaction of creation is only matched by the defeat of eventual destruction. We can not stand on one leg until the end of time. I dream that my hands have been severed and so I severed that god damned soon-to-be betrothed left hand that so stupidly reached out to touch me. One can not touch a God, try as they might.
My Volkswagen waits in the driveway for me. It is finally time for me to leave this place with all my loose ends tied. My own raft constructed entirely of writhing serpents begins to set sail some place far away. Billows are rising from my smokestacks. I am finally leaving!
The four lane highway has never seemed so expansive and desolate as tonight. With the radio off, everything seems distant and remote in the silence. Streetlights draw my focus outward as they pass, waving goodbye. I am plunging into a foxhole. Slipping between the mesh teeth of a blue whale. I am dragging you down to hell with me.
Soon enough, the police will find you in there down on your knees in the center of the living room. Your severed left arm stuffed down your throat. Your engagement ring shoved up your cunt where it belongs. Your eyes gouged out for they never did you any good to begin with. Empty whiskey bottles strewn around the room. Broken glass. I only wish to see the look on your fiancee's face as they slide the crime scene photos across the table, if they ever do.
I will build a new shiny city with my bony, arthritic hands. There will be streets lined with silver and gold. This city will be true burning beacon to the Gods and they will finally, for once, smile down upon me. I will sit beside them in silence. The sidewalks will remain quiet and deserted. The city itself will remain desolate save for the roaches and silverfish undeterred by the sunlight and my slow, plodding footsteps. They will hum unfamiliar, archaic songs out to me. I will speak only to my reflection as I watch it stroll beside me in the store front's glass on Main Street.
Good news will be brought to my city scrawled on papyrus, rolled up in a gilded scroll. The paper's headline will read: man cheats death, drunkard finds peace, cripple rises from his wheelchair, thief inherits his father's mansion, children's dreams are granted, welcome to your new land of ease and luxury. Every day for as long as I live, the paper will be printed with the same headline; The only notable difference will be the changing date.
Beth will return to me and I will turn her away at the locked gates. Oh, how wonderful this seems! I push my weight into the driver's seat and mull over these thoughts while accelerating slowly up the Appalachians. The center of my chest begins to go numb. I am hovering above the driver's seat, not sitting in it. Our electrons repel each other. My hands will be severed in time while all of the grand pianos of the world stare up, pleading to be stroked fondly.
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I just wrote this rough chapter in the novella. It's 6am so I don't feel like revising it and picking through it with a fine toothed comb for grammatical errors. When the story is assembled once again, I will decide what fits and what doesn't.
Pyres of Beth Stacked Into the Sky
Blood beads at the tips of my fingers, dripping onto the tufted carpeting. I will take you down to hell by my side. I will cradle you deep down in the molten rock. If only you had not touched me with that cursed hand. If only. If only. If only.
Gods are men and women born into some undefinable, unattainable distant land. Men and women that create and destroy because their hands can perform nothing more than mere actions. Their hands can hold nothing for any prolonged amount of time. The longer a God stands indolently with some throbbing life in their hands, the more it seers away their flesh. There is only one logical end to anything. Our porcelain vases will someday be excavated from a vast wreckage. The satisfaction of creation is only matched by the defeat of eventual destruction. We can not stand on one leg until the end of time. I dream that my hands have been severed and so I severed that god damned soon-to-be betrothed left hand that so stupidly reached out to touch me. One can not touch a God, try as they might.
My Volkswagen waits in the driveway for me. It is finally time for me to leave this place with all my loose ends tied. My own raft constructed entirely of writhing serpents begins to set sail some place far away. Billows are rising from my smokestacks. I am finally leaving!
The four lane highway has never seemed so expansive and desolate as tonight. With the radio off, everything seems distant and remote in the silence. Streetlights draw my focus outward as they pass, waving goodbye. I am plunging into a foxhole. Slipping between the mesh teeth of a blue whale. I am dragging you down to hell with me.
Soon enough, the police will find you in there down on your knees in the center of the living room. Your severed left arm stuffed down your throat. Your engagement ring shoved up your cunt where it belongs. Your eyes gouged out for they never did you any good to begin with. Empty whiskey bottles strewn around the room. Broken glass. I only wish to see the look on your fiancee's face as they slide the crime scene photos across the table, if they ever do.
I will build a new shiny city with my bony, arthritic hands. There will be streets lined with silver and gold. This city will be true burning beacon to the Gods and they will finally, for once, smile down upon me. I will sit beside them in silence. The sidewalks will remain quiet and deserted. The city itself will remain desolate save for the roaches and silverfish undeterred by the sunlight and my slow, plodding footsteps. They will hum unfamiliar, archaic songs out to me. I will speak only to my reflection as I watch it stroll beside me in the store front's glass on Main Street.
Good news will be brought to my city scrawled on papyrus, rolled up in a gilded scroll. The paper's headline will read: man cheats death, drunkard finds peace, cripple rises from his wheelchair, thief inherits his father's mansion, children's dreams are granted, welcome to your new land of ease and luxury. Every day for as long as I live, the paper will be printed with the same headline; The only notable difference will be the changing date.
Beth will return to me and I will turn her away at the locked gates. Oh, how wonderful this seems! I push my weight into the driver's seat and mull over these thoughts while accelerating slowly up the Appalachians. The center of my chest begins to go numb. I am hovering above the driver's seat, not sitting in it. Our electrons repel each other. My hands will be severed in time while all of the grand pianos of the world stare up, pleading to be stroked fondly.