Eight slow hours.

[unburiable]

The rich kids in class were always talking the loudest. Even when the teacher was in the middle of explaining what a paradigm was. You would think that always having everything they ever wanted would sort of make the rich kids bored of everything; even talking. But that really wasn’t so, I guess. Maybe the hot new cars they could afford were always

Comments

Dead pigeons filmed for three hours straight and called art.

[unburiable]

Five years ago I’d have laughed it off as some really lame joke some commoner-turned-up-and-comer might tell at a big premiere party circle while we all poured our first chilled glasses of champagne and clinked to what an amazing accomplishment whatever schlock disaster it was we were spending thousands of dollars being there for. But today it’s one of those mock-surprising realities only bad writers like Steven King seem to think are worth shoving at the end of a 600+ page novel about ghosts seeking revenge, or aliens assuming the bodies of the living-or any other fucking ending from ex-science fiction magazines out of the 1950s that nobody gives more than half a fuck to remember.

Where we toil through the wasteland crumbles of respectability? It’s right here. On the one hand we have bullshit faux artists with really expensive 3-piece suits (Louis Yorba), and on the other hand, unfortunately, we have skyscraper planes/dreams and romance under the midnight stars for 16-year-old Radiohead fans and the girls with star tattooes who got the new Death Cab For Cutie record signed on vinyl and shoved straight up their asses (our diary bios are all counting down).

I’m so fucking sick of this shit, and it’s not even time for my mid-morning blowjob from any girl who just flew into town from Ohio that’s trying to make it big in the big L. and the big A.

But the night is young, as they say. Boat drinks? I’m having my personal team of chefs invent new fruits for those boat drinks, my friend.

Being asked 20-questions for so many magazines I can hardly keep count,
Neil Garriscond.

Jason Robards in All the Presidents Men.

[unburiable]

Two girls just came into the office asking about the gold ring around the elevator button leading to my floor.

Re: Dead pigeons filmed for three hours straight and called art.

[escape_infinity]

and then we have artist like you who sit back and only find homour in those who try, and then some how forget that they are not being orignal, they are only being observent. I guess we are coping eachother we are all coping this rewritten roughdraft that only seems to be the same no matter how hard we try.

i think the only way we can be orignal is to be random and unorganized following no rules. here's an example. "we die talk fall for talk for cat sand far leche cattle for too do for for for toot fart cat shit of the fatttttt klsoiasfoiajweiofhiosdalkasdfg asfjka alfjdoijfo jsdfkldsfjiowe sfjosejr" but yet that well probably be copied at some point in history because we we'll never be origanl enough or artistic enough for the observer. who can only observe and be unorignal like the rest of us....

hey, so why didn't you help the victim? not while the faggots were in thier stabbing him, but after when the corpse lie there bleeding. why didn't you run for help? or maybe see the guys who did it?

Re: Dead pigeons filmed for three hours straight and called art.

[escape_infinity]

is this just a story you wrote? because im really confused.

[unburiable]

i wouldn't let danzig touch me anywhere, if he were the last troll to ever stop here on tour.

If I didn't know better I'd say you were a dumbshit.

[durwoodsauls]

Hey, here's a novel idea for a true original artiste. Shut the fuck up. Or at least keep your vile self important attitude to your id and your ego. Super Cunt. Would you like to Value Size your McGapingVagina with that. Leave pop art and philosophy to those who know what the fuck they're talking about. Go stand in a field somewhere and let someone else tell you what's cool for once. It's obvious you're not getting the point.

Later Fag,
D.S.

OH, one more thing why don't you try to "escape" my "infinity" up your goddamn ass you prissy little gland sucker.

An empty bottle next to the chipped wine glasses and a pitchfork.

[unburiable]

Some purely ridiculous half dead girl with a crowbar stuck through her sweet, flat belly. When making love, she likes to ride her opponent like a bull. A broken chair lies silently, collecting dust and bacteria in the corner; after I swept the floor I put it all there. The moan she gave as I was going down on her was, incidentally, the very same type of moan she gave when I was fitting my balled fist into a tear in her neck that I cut there with the intention of climaxing onto her windpipe. The trachea. The sweet spot. Both moans sounded the same but they meant entirely different things. What part of her psychology was responsible for that? I tried to scrape out a wide hole from her heart, big enough to put some change into; a few quarters, a whole lot of dimes, scattered nickels. But it was a tough organ, and the stuff inside didn’t budge much for even the sharpest spoon in the drawer. Lovers eat on the same side of a booth while dining together at a restaurant. Coffee poured hot into her empty neck. Her fingers on my lips as she went down on me. A really pretty face. Nice hips, nice attitude, fashionably conscious. Her body draped in silence across the bed with my teethmarks all across her back, shining up into the light. Face down into a pillow. If she were alive she’d never have been able to breath in that position.

-Cabe Houghton, 13 December, 1977.

be excellent

[escape_infinity]

Real pop art and philosophy, fucks you through the center of your stomach, and doesn’t waste time spiting angry words on gay ass live journal. Ohh and I’ll tell you if you’re cool or not. Perception is my weapon. weak word fuck..

E.T. was no bible bashing extremist

[durwoodsauls]

why don't you whine a little more
so you can wait for me to score
on your fat ass lil' sister
you big gay cock blister
hey mister, why not
squeeze your noze and bleed snot
all down your slimy gizzard
like the jizz I shot on your schnizzle

who does this quy think he is god's gift to 50 cent?
does he really think he's getting anywhere special by insulting his own medium of attention getting?

this is my live journal too, o.k. guy.
ps. you misspelled "spiting."

quire thesaraus-less twat.
the D.