"So that sort of thing makes a difference."

Mar 31, 2003 19:02

My final conventional act as a free man was to murder my family ( Read more... )

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Bicyclists. unburiable April 8 2003, 13:04:59 UTC
In a shower of rain, blood and the soot from a fireplace came Phonograph. The sound of directionless bodies toppling against the front door sent dull thudded echoes through the boy’s troubled skin. Splintering, but more of bone than wood, as the door creaked in its limits, then pushed inward against the efforts of multiple hinges, locks and latches. The door fell in a gull’s warning of carnage, like a shipwreck, and a broken tangle of stripped bodies spilled into the foyer. Birds chirped outside how lovely it was to be a bird with no worries but worms for the little ones.

The bodies inside, deafening loud and filling the room with a distasteful hint of burning, toppled on either side of a shining marble entranceway, its ludicrous and mangled organization resulting in a red carpet of a sort by which someone of great import may travel. It served, then, as an opportunity of royalty as Phonograph breezed into the room like a late but very important, esteemed guest at a party.

The room was hushed. Simon, bodies, the party that could have been there for the important guest; all hushed.

Phonograph smiled; patters and smears of blood almost too minuscule to be visible were stained on his ghostly white teeth, but for the downfall of blood he had arrived in there appeared no other hint of the horrid affairs he had most assuredly tended to that very evening. Phonograph smiled wider, and a voice in Simon's head murmured, "Blood doesn't stain unless unbloodied be that that it could or would stain."

Simon lowered his head, defeated before a battle could even ensue.

A voice that sounded a little bit like anger-overdue yet without too much haste-sputtered past lips that seemed to try their hardest to keep calm, lending a trembled wavering in between syllables. That was his voice-Phonograph, so much like a record but with so little to make anyone want to dance-and it was in the process of emitting Simon's notice to evacuate the comfort of life.

"It seems we've got a rather small chore to attend to, Simon. Are you ready for the tasks?"

Simon's voice trembled a little as well, but not of anger. "No tasks. Please, no..."

"Please please please, " Phonograph mimicked with hands on his hips and his shirt remarkable pressed. "Oh dear Christ please. Please..." Grinning, with teeth closer and seemingly more misshapen with each uneven vocal excursion, bared as though hungry for Simon's pretty, frightened eyes.

Simon lifted his face. Such a clean sight, he thought while looking Phonograph up and down like a hawk eyes a slower man’s unattended beer. Pressed and tapered and clean, all except for those teeth. It was an accident.

"Shall we?" asked Phonograph.



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If only Loius Yorba knew what it was like to birth a child... unburiable April 9 2003, 21:11:34 UTC
So, perhaps in this lazy intoxicated state i should only wish the hours of sleep were close, but instead a weary hush of a ceiling fan drowns my head. Perhaps these words should be saved for later date. But the night grows long, and my eyes not so tired and i only wish i knew what it was like to be out amongst Mountain Goats. Instead i unconsiously dream of Portland, and wonder what could lay ahead. "Exactly what do i mean to you?", she says, but is answered only by her tears. Perhaps she will read the answer in tomorrow's news headline. "Boy meets girl, girl destroys boy, girl grows up, boy...?????

To different days for different people...

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girls, boys. all versus, no and. unburiable April 10 2003, 16:46:07 UTC
boy tells girl she's the one. girl tells boy she's not the one for anyone. boy doesn't really care if girl stays. girl wants to run away. boy doesn't care what the girl says. girl doesn't know what she really wants. boy could go either way. girl could go either way.

and what the fuck?

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Lonely as the devil makes a man. unburiable April 10 2003, 19:47:29 UTC
I’ve been nursing whiskey all night. The cubes have drowned in it, my third-or fourth-glass. The corn fields outside are rustling. Durwood told me when we were boys that there was aliens out there at night making designs of the crops. I never seen one of them designs myself, but I bet they exist all the more for it, because I ain’t never been too very investigative and yet once I did find a two-headed prairie dog out by the farm at something like five in the morning as the hen made a squabble to my drunkenly just returning to the house after passing out by the pig pen. It was an accident, that thing; so let’s just say I was actually honest-to-God lookin’ for somethin’ next time round…crop circles? Creatures what ought to be dead and buried? When I was a younger man I was all muscle, but now my lover is crying out for the Lord’s blessings, and I still need another refill, because a cool April breeze off the crops makes me eager for more whiskey. God how I love her in that cup.

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