February 2nd, 1996
Here I am stretching the strands of a cocoon again. How many times has this worm sought the solitude of darkness, to have my shell of interlocking rings desiccate and crumble and change, change, change - To find the strength to break free and out and be what it is I have become. What will I become? Each time it is harder and colder and longer and weirder and strange and inexplicable… To look through this two-way mirror and see the faces of those that look at me see themselves reflected. Wrapped up in strands of fear and anxiety there is no comfort here - There is only the pain of change. But this time, will I be a worm again? Always a worm crawling in the dirt, eating peasants and kings, idiots and geniuses, artist and artisan - a worm - Or will I emerge a butterfly finally - Not gray cold steel sad, spreading gloom with each bat of my paper thin wings - But strong bright multi-colored, scintillating, exploding, blue, red, green, yellow, orange, black, white and weird - Oh, so weird. Everything… The universe is warping and falling collapsing into colorlessness, not white or black, but nothing, made from the chaos of all things, pressed into one thing, one place, one thing. Nothing.
Sadness is day to day to day to day, again and again. I don’t write down the time anymore. What does the time matter? When will I get to the point that the date will no longer matter and the then words… And the music, not the rhythm, nothing again… I end with nothing… LOVE…
Okay, something. love, love love love love love love, death, death death death, like a toad croaking in here inside the shell, the cocoon, with me… like flower whispering as petals scrape softly, love, love love. The song is harmonized with death, winding round each other in delicate and awful beauty filling the night with sounds never composed by one human genius. No Mozort or Bach. N one. No God, or Jesus or Buddha, Siva, Vishnu, Lao Tzu, Bitches Brew, Robert Johnson Blues or old Russian men playing bad jazz on electric pianos down in the subway at 34th street, in the corner where a ramp leads to the BMT lines, ever made this sound, this jive, this song whirling inside of our heads. Soft and loud, crazy and planned and boring and sick and sexy and fuck - Chiming out of the cradle endlessly rocking - the ocean gave birth and sings to us wayward children like a midnight toad, croaking black and dangerous death, death, death, death
Where loves lies, I don’t know - in the heart, in the head, in my loins, oh, in my dick sometimes, sometimes in my stomach when her small soft hands brush the trail of hair there, on the back of the neck, in the curves of her body that remind me of the ocean (death, the gulls come in like bitter altos eyeing sopranos with increasing jealousy), in the angle of my own rough hewn cliffs made soft - slowly devoured by her? love, love, love, love, listen, whisper. listen. quiet. listen. love and death. whisper. quiet. death.
Sadness is day to day to day to day, again and again. I don’t write down the time anymore. What does the time matter? When will I get to the point that the date will no longer matter and the then words… And the music, not the rhythm, nothing again… I end with nothing… LOVE…
Okay, something. love, love love love love love love, death, death death death, like a toad croaking in here inside the shell, the cocoon, with me… like flower whispering as petals scrape softly, love, love love. The song is harmonized with death, winding round each other in delicate and awful beauty filling the night with sounds never composed by one human genius. No Mozort or Bach. N one. No God, or Jesus or Buddha, Siva, Vishnu, Lao Tzu, Bitches Brew, Robert Johnson Blues or old Russian men playing bad jazz on electric pianos down in the subway at 34th street, in the corner where a ramp leads to the BMT lines, ever made this sound, this jive, this song whirling inside of our heads. Soft and loud, crazy and planned and boring and sick and sexy and fuck - Chiming out of the cradle endlessly rocking - the ocean gave birth and sings to us wayward children like a midnight toad, croaking black and dangerous death, death, death, death
Where loves lies, I don’t know - in the heart, in the head, in my loins, oh, in my dick sometimes, sometimes in my stomach when her small soft hands brush the trail of hair there, on the back of the neck, in the curves of her body that remind me of the ocean (death, the gulls come in like bitter altos eyeing sopranos with increasing jealousy), in the angle of my own rough hewn cliffs made soft - slowly devoured by her? love, love, love, love, listen, whisper. listen. quiet. listen. love and death. whisper. quiet. death.