The Gobbledy Gook, and his Pearly White Friends.

there once lived a beast named the gobbledy gook
who would carry around his great gobbledy book.
this great black book was his gobbledy pride
and would never leave his gobbledy side.

he would hold it tight in his gobbledy hands,
his bright red heart for his gobbledy plans.
for inside this book were ten trillion names
of children to come and of those who had came.

this gobbledy account that old gob had kept
was as old as the hills and as long as their steps.
the gobbledy studied them days in and out.
rejoiced in the kiddies he read all about.

of michael johanson and his 400 fish
that he kept in a bowl of his dead grandma's piss.
of stephy mcjoe who would kiss older boys
and who would in turn would give her dirty black toys.

oh the gobbledy gook loved to read of his kids
for some lived in great castles some slept with pink pigs.
some sang from the mountains some sang to the seas,
some of them you know (some of them know me).

and a beast like the gobbledy rarely smiles.
baskets of daisies and polka dot ties.
he had a thick blood red hide and deep gobbledy eyes.
black blue gray shoes and sweet apple pies.

but if the gobbledy found some tiny cute kid
lucky to be on his gobbledy list,
he'd drop his great book with a smile and a fist
(give their pink cheeks a lovely little kiss).

he'd invite them back to his gobbledy home,
somewhere in nowhere where he dwelled all alone.
he would insist that they enter his sweetly pink cottage
and insist that they stay for a supper of porrage.

and after the meal he'd watch each dear one sleep,
he'd hold them in his arms till he felt far too weak.
and without fail he'd awake in his gobbledy cage.
and he'd always wake up in a gobbledy rage.

he would string the girls up by their gobbledy toes
and string the boys up by a gobbledy nose.
he would reach deep inside them, for their gobbledy soul

and gobble it down
gobble it down
gobble it down
and gobble it down
gobble it down
and gobble it down
gobble it down
and gobble it down
and gobble it down...

:)

i hope the gobbledy gook isn't something master seuss has already used. i really like this. i really REALLY like this. i'm happy with me now.

Evil rotten witch has mewing cats in her black eyes,
but dentist does not dare hold hatchet or a bloody scythe.
He’s got his babes for fickle shoes.
She's got her hairy man-like boobs.
And it only kills us if our teeth won’t stand up through the times.

i'm starting to regret telling people about my blog. there are things i want to say but can't.

*annoyed*

"parkers posies"

walks home for hours. walks home for days.
feels reassured but allows no delays.

this child has been tapped in the ugliest way.
cannot sing to the birds and can barely walk straight.

goes home to mom,
make those walls nice and snug (again).
wont pick fresh flowers
or hug dirty boys (for now).
call up a priest
to be reborn again (again).
turn all those stains
on your pretty pink dress

to white.
everything is going to be fine.
when its right
gonna glow like april.

you aren't ruined.
when its right gonna to glow like april.

i fucking did it! i've found a way to get famous nudes tapes up into my computer!
the sound quality sucks but with some expirementing i should be able to get it. (update: i got it!)
YAY!

looking at colleges. columbia is amazing, brandeis is nice, oberlin...is ok.

in a perfect world i would hit up some liberal arts school (preferrably columbia's) for a while in new york while playing with my wonderfully successful underground sensation of a band. after a few years as a subterranian celebrity and having made one or two classic and hugely influential albums i would then would head off and teach high school english for a while. then i'd get my PhD and teach college english for a while, maybe spend the rest of my years as a successful novelist/poet making just enough money to support my lovely family and raise my wonderfully artistic children (a musical boy and a poetic little girl).

in this world that is a no. i'm such a bullshit writer. i'll end up going somewhere perfectly mundane. major in english just for the heck of it and then go to law school to make my mom happy (she thinks i'd be good at it but i'm not competetive enough to succeed in that realm or even want to). i think i was meant to live a life i'd hate. look at the story below if you don't believe me. then i can die quietly, with the wife i will have always resented and the children who would have by then disappointed me nowhere near my side.

i was looking at the columbia school of the arts creative writing program and it looks like heaven, but i don't have the talent or the grades to be in a place like that.

*sighs and goes to nc state homepage*
*sighs again*

pink or the salmon. pink or the salmon. pink or the salmon. pink or the salmon. the pink is hot and sexy and it glows like butter, it bites like teeth. the salmon is calm and reassuring to you, barely a shade above the natural color of your fingernail. pink or the salmon. raise the pink an inch above your head and into the gentle light of the drug store. from below it takes on a certain air of filth. it is trashy and cheap. continue to consider the pink. pink or the salmon. do not give in to temptation and do not go with the red. this is not what you are here for. you are here for pink or the salmon. the salmon fades from sight. you drop both bottles on the grey carpet floor and walk out through the cracked glass doors. a distant bell rings at the air but no one bothers to look up from their day.

walk home for hours. walk home for days. no walk home for hours, and allow no delays. you are free. travel on the very center of the sidewalk in a daze. do not faulter even to allow an elderly woman passage. feel the breeze on the toes of your feet and through the gaps in your hair. step over a puddle. find yourself standing in mud anyway. curse. kick your ruined shoe into the grass and carry the other in hand. make it look easy. cut your feet on rocks and glass but do not wince and do not laugh. walk home for hours (allow no delays). find yourself in increasingly familiar territory. wave hello goodbye to neighbor. do not wince and do not laugh. open your eyes to the sun for a moment before finding yourself on your grass and in your garage.

pet the dog you never liked but got just for your dad. it snaps at you. curse. enter the back of your kitchen and see that no one is home. be happy for a moment, me happy for a while. walk past piles of dirty dishes that belong only to you. walk past your brother's shit on the floor. wish you had socks because your house is cold. feel your thighs rub together as you inch up the stairs. look down at dirty black jeans and clean bright red shirt covering fat. smile at the irony. stop smiling because you feel stupid. place your hand on the door knob to your room and hold your breath. you leave it unlocked these days.

open the door and enter into the dark. quickly close the door behind you and press your back against the frame. shut your eyes tight. begin to cry anyway. slide down to the floor. give up. open your eyes. begin to sob. press hands against face and try your best to stop. begin to scream. begin to die. make fists and punch the floor until knuckles are bloody red. curse. reach for nail clipper nearby on the floor. press the curved steal into your finger until you see blood. stop. curse again. feel strong again (enough to stop). wipe your eyes. get on your knees and climb into bed. try to breathe just a little easier.

stream of consciousness fun.

An Imperial Message


The Emperor—so they say—has sent a message, directly from his death bed, to you alone, his pathetic subject, a tiny shadow which has taken refuge at the furthest distance from the imperial sun. He ordered the herald to kneel down beside his bed and whispered the message in his ear. He thought it was so important that he had the herald speak it back to him. He confirmed the accuracy of verbal message by nodding his head. And in front of the entire crowd of those witnessing his death—all the obstructing walls have been broken down, and all the great ones of his empire are standing in a circle on the broad and high soaring flights of stairs—in front of all of them he dispatched his herald. The messenger started off at once, a powerful, tireless man. Sticking one arm out and then another, he makes his way through the crowd. If he runs into resistence, he points to his breast where there is a sign of the sun. So he moves forwards easily, unlike anyone else. But the crowd is so huge; its dwelling places are infinite. If there were an open field, how he would fly along, and soon you would hear the marvellous pounding of his fist on your door. But instead of that, how futile are all his efforts. He is still forcing his way through the private rooms of the innermost palace. Never will he win his way through. And if he did manage that, nothing would have been achieved. He would have to fight his way down the steps, and, if he managed to do that, nothing would have been achieved. He would have to stride through the courtyards, and after the courtyards through the second palace encircling the first, and, then again, through stairs and courtyards, and then, once again, a palace, and so on for thousands of years. And if he finally burst through the outermost door—but that can never, never happen—the royal capital city, the centre of the world, is still there in front of him, piled high and full of sediment. No one pushes his way through here, certainly not someone with a message from a dead man. But you sit at your window and dream of that message when evening comes.

mmm...kafka.

that love is not true is not real is a lie is a phony is a glass on a rock is a dead dead girl in the lake is your pride. be asleep.

i love the weather right now. not because i'm a particularly dreary person, but when it's cloudy and cold the world seems to take on this energy that's complete yet very relaxed. the rain only adds to the effect, as would some wind.

I'm submitting this to squonk:

"The Future's Just Regret Without A Name"

Thames reminded me of an actor; I can't remember anything about the actor, not even his name. But that's because I can't really remember much about Thames. When I think about him my brain explodes into a flurry of images and sounds that are all blurry and none too clear. It kind of hurts when it happens, but I don't think about him much so that’s okay. I’m confident he had light hair and dark eyes (the colors I’m not sure of), and good looks just like a movie star. He wasn't too smart either, just like a movie star I suppose. I think he was going to drop out of school, or already had, maybe he just never cared enough to make it seem like he was there.

I know he was broken. He was like a toy, like a machine with just a little drop of a soul. I could tell it was bad too, that he was running off of system errors and tears, that he needed mending. I still don't know how I could of helped though, we weren't friends, and I just always kind of noticed him. Movie star looks are hard to miss you know. I don't blame myself.

I also know he was into the brain and stuff. He’d always be reading these incredibly thick books on hypnosis and psychology and sociology. All kinds of stuff written by arrogant PhD’s who probably never wanted their stuff read by some barely-literate high school kid.

I would watch him read. I remember he had this amazing sense of energy about him, reading out loud and very slowly. He always looked up the words he didn’t know. But even getting along at the snails pace that he was, he’d clearly be very excited. When he would find something he really liked he would stop reading and write in a notebook furiously, for pages and pages without stopping. I think I thought it was very strange. But I remember all of this in particular because of the only clear memory I had of him.

I had been watching him read, and he had been as normal as he could ever be when he first saw me. Then he got agitated, started muttering, and then yelling. There were curses and obscenities I had never even heard before but just felt dirty. There were words that made me hope there was a god. There were words that made me hope there wasn’t a god. After a while he stopped and a ssumed this look, his eyes focusing, and clapping his hands he muttered something.

I don’t know what he said and I won’t try to remember because the thought of it makes me feel cold inside. I can tell you that directly afterwards I started fading. I could feel everything that was me detaching and dissolving, like sugar into coffee. And Thames was receding into nothingness along with me, laughing all the way down. I could taste my legs walking away from him, I could hear him his happy and empty smile, I could smell my body readjusting to life with me gone, only I couldn't possibly have done or felt any of those things because I was too busy being swallowed up and not existing.

But then something in me sparked, like fire on the mountain almost. I realized that I was losing myself and all of a sudden I was fighting like hell to find me again. In my head I was now clawing and biting and screaming like an animal, waging an impossible war against an unending void. And as I lost, as the void began seeping up through the shell of my humanity and into the things that I truly was, I saw me from both outside and inside like the most beautifully mundane thing that there ever was. And I came back, filled with darkness but back and safe and just a little unsound. That’s how I remember those moments so clearly I guess. For the first time I found myself.

He died the next day with no funeral or anything. I can't recall anyone noticing. He just stopped being there. I asked about him once, I had been talking to my principle about one of my many problems in the school when I asked him about Thames. I hadn't meant to, it just came out. The guy looked at me funny and sent me away like anyone who has ever needed time to be alone and forget.

It’s been months, and the funny thing about the whole situation is that no one has noticed the body. The one lying on the floor in the middle of the hallway with wrists and a neck like burst tomatoes. Everyone just steps over it or walks around it. I don't know how they manage with the smell, because I can barely breathe, even when I’m nowhere near it. But from the look on Thames’ face, I think he's happy with the way things went. Everyone else is.

it's nearly 2 am and i only started my homework about an hour ago. well, i've been asleep for most of the afternoon so i know a good 3 hours will get me through tomorrow, but i just find this very amusing.

i've found links to my blog in some very odd places, mostly from people i don't know that well but really respect. it's disturbing though, the thought of someone coming here and seeing my barely even fully conceptualized poetry and my bullshit bitchy/whininess and assuming this is all the me that there be... not pleasant.

so i'll try to talk about something that'll make it seem like i have at least some level of depth...

tomorrow? today.

you know that feeling you get when your life is so empty, so very very ok that it kind of hurts? that kind of barely-there sense of vacancy that plagues you, and you find yourself having conversations out loud with the air, or laughing at silent/past funnies...silent/past mistakes maybe. it's a feeling i sometimes can't escape, and i know everyone gets it but i just find it strangely peculiar.

admittedly i'm a bit of an oddball but everyone has his or her defenses. some people are shy, some people are mean, some people so friendly they assume that no one would ever hurt them. i personally have done all of these things, and i still do, but above the rest i try to alienate people with my over done if not superficial quirkiness. not to effective since i go to raleigh charter, but if someone can't take me at my worst (twitchy, mumbling, singing, freaky fat boy bad) then they might as well not take me. but oddball or not, this emptiness i'm talking about hits everyone.

and i'm starting to think that maybe that's what defines us, more than those exciting pressure filled events, more than our passions. because passion is temporary, passion isn't an extension of what we are but something we have to create in ourselves every once in a while to get shit done. maybe this empty feeling, that thing where the insides of your chest feels faintly reminiscent of styrofoam, and i guess how we respond to it defines us better. because its always there, and it's evil. ever since people stopped having to work from dawn to dusk and sleep from dusk to dawn cause they were so fucking tired, we've had too much damn free time. and we get these bullshit artists and these bullshit deep thinkers that try and make those moments when you’re not fucking doing anything and you’re just left to yourself more worthwhile.

and all the art, all the poetry, all the theories are bullshit. they really really are. i could try and capture the human condition in two or three lines or in a thousand pages and be no closer. some...geniuses...gods i say have come close, but i am neither, and i never will be.

i must be more sleeeepy than i had thought.

if your name be eric, or tre then look at oi suntan. revised goodiness.

i'm fine
i'm fine

he always is
he is he be

there be no happy
be no empty
be no tired
be no dark
no laughter in his rotten belly

so to be he he be.
be we then we see he.

and the sun carries he
across the pond,
but she takes me back
when she sees me smile.

it knows that i've swallowed piggy
and brought you along
and it won't take our
dirty tricks or our purple songs.

he always is she
he is he be.

there be no happy
be no empty
be no tired
be no dark
no laughter in his rotten belly

there just be he
in the silent sea.
there just be he
there just be he.

comfused i am.

but i don't know why, i'm gonna hate that little poem in the morning, but i'll let myself enjoy the false sense of brilliance that accompanies true pretension.

for a while anyway.

oh, i edited the little pic below. it now includes some song titles.

i love this new one:

damn it i can't stay away.

i like this new version of oi suntan though. it makes no sense in some places, and it's needlessly vulgar!

"oi suntan (dirty sanchez, the)"

the dirty sanchez
takes the forest covering
his latin heat balls,
and shoves the hairs
betwixt her teeths.
he asks his girl to pull.

you see he wishes he could stay out in the sun
and he wishes he could stay out in the sun.

his father's name
was juan carlos,
and he carried a silver gun.
but he was only an outlaw of love,
the hearts of latin women
and sexy dirty fun.

but he could never stay out in the sun.
he could never stay out in the sun.

Oi Suntan! Oi Suntan! Oi Suntan!
Oi Suntan! Oi Suntan! Oi Suntan!

Oi Suntan! Oi Suntan!

And i tell you this
because his mother has died,
and he is all alone
and he will always only have her rotten thighs.
for he is a vampire that makes his own
oi suntan.

the dirty sanchez
takes the forest covering
his latin heat balls.
shoves the hairs
betwixt her teeths,
but this child looks just like his dear old ma.

he buys a rose
and puts in his teeth.
the tango he has in his
heart.
he is a sweaty young
catch oh he is
with a sexy, hairy
latin chest.

wow, that gets almost homoerotic at the end, or very very disturbing depending on how i'm gonna sing it. who knows.

oh, and i censored myself. there was a song called "cunt" and i had to change a lot of the words because apparantly my age group just isn't ready for it. i fee dirty and cheap. mmm...like a whore.

"the song formerly known as cunt"

love you keep your feelings
wrapped up like a tight little ball.
You keep the raptures away
but it's nothing for sure.

and if your head turned into
the arms of a shark.
we would turn you into a gun,
and you would always be my gun.

you keep the pictures away,
you spill our salts on your name.
we pile our meats on a plate
and shove it into your face (those two lines weren't what you're thinking they were, ok?)
I spill all over the place
and make a sticky escape.
I spill all over the place
and make a sticky escape.

but it's all for the good.

and i'll never force you to stay the same,
sleeping in the lips of your hurt.
i swear i'd never force you to change
but it's all for the good.

just that four day blog free period has produced revamped old songs and a bunch of new ideas (A BUNCH). and i've come to a few special realizations while hiding in eric's bathroom during band practice (don't ask). maybe i should not blog more often.

ok, this technically isn't an update (i am not so easily broken, oh no), i just need eric and tre and angus to see something(s).

ok:






if you like any of em, or like one the best, then tell me the next time i'm online.

i'm gonna take some time off of blogging, just to see how long i can stay away.

i'm not very sad anymore.

just in a bit of a rut.

you see, for the past few months, all of my writing has been for either my bandmates, or you my dear reader. it's kind of bogging me down, and i feel very confused. you'd think that these little posts would be enough self-discovery land for me, but that's not the purpose. this blog is basically made in the hopes that someone somewhere will find it and understand me. i don't know how, i speak in half truths and riddles that no one really notices, but it would take someone very special indeed to get through all of that, and i think i would like to be their friend.

anyway, the point is that i haven't taken any time to write for me. but that's the place that i've always learned the most, and it's the place where i've been able to cope with the rest of my life the best. so i'm taking a break from blogging. it'll be refreshing, and if anything good comes out of it you'll be the first to know.

sing now all the little children.

i wish that someone could cut off the top of my skull, oh so delicately, so that my brain would be seen but un marred. they would take a knife, they would take a fork. they would cut a 1/2 by 1/2 by 1/2 inch cube, somewhere in the back. they would eat it. they would repeat. all the while i wouldn't actually die. they would devour my pleasure centers and what ever it is that interprets what my other senses experience and i would see colors, such beautiful colors. i would smell strange smells and hear strange sounds. and i would slowly slip quetly to sleep and then to death.

open mic night sucked (for me anyway). eric, tre, and angus were great. my mom told me i'm just not cut out for that kind of music. she's told me a lot of things lately. other stand out acts included pam (who rocked the house), tuck and jeremy(?), mike and robbie, angus and tre, and sam witherspoon and his gang of...well...i'm not so sure (diawww).

i was supposed to go see "the passion..." with danny and evan. i couldn't. i'm very sorry.

i won't go into it, i won't justify it, and i won't bitch about how cliche'd it is.

i'm very sad.

i'm working on these lyrics, mainly to make tre happy since i doubt famous nudes will be putting a lot of effort into recording the song.

an interesting character that one is.

"oi suntan (the dirty sanchez)"

the dirty sanchez
knocks the women down
by the bush of his balls.
the forest beneath his raging son
and grimy teeth,
like pictures of ancient lovers on the wall.

such pretty things
he is a pretty boy
such pretty things

and

oi suntan!
oi suntan!
oi suntan!
oi suntan!
oi suntan!
oi suntan!

the juan sanchez
was his sexy father.
he had a sexy latin chest.
taught the dirty boy
to make love.
he did his best.

as mother died a while ago.
mother cries now in her grave.
as mother died a while ago.

and

oi suntan!
oi suntan!
oi suntan!
oi suntan!
oi suntan!
oi suntan!

he keeps a rose in his teeth.
he keeps the sweat on his musty chest.
he keeps the tango in his feet,
and keeps to his hair constantly.

there was supposed to be this whole thing about this girl ripping out certain hairs with her teeth, but i changed it around so it would fit better, and the song is dirty enough. it's not supposed to be brilliant, but i hope it's good enough for the humour to not be too pointless. i have to edit a bunch though. a lot of the phrasing is off.

work work work.

look, my very first review!!!

so i bought an angus cd, and well...

i'm really impressed. maybe i had lowered expectations when i started listening to it because people have bad mouthed his stuff in the past, but this isn't out of sympathy or anything from all the stuff that's been going on with sam. the recording quality is piss poor, and the drumming is kind of sloppy, but i actually like it. for all of his simplicity some of his guitar riffs are incredibly catchy, and there's a lot of really cool modulation (that's when you switch from one key to another).

and his lyrics, i can't make them all out perfectly, but he's crafted some pretty good stuff. i know that it immediately turns one off to hear the word emo, but he manages to skip out on a lot of the melodrama and just write nice (though a bit poppy) love songs. he reminds me a lot of billy corgan in that way. cause let's face it, that big bald freak was just a romantic at heart.

my one real problem with it was the drumming. when i said the drumming was kind of sloppy, i meant that it seriously took away from the quality of the songs. i could hear what he was trying to do, and the ideas of a lot of it were really cool and pretty original. i could hear the interpol (joy division as well?) and radiohead influence and that made me very happy. but the sound quality of the drums was way below that of the rest of the stuff.

still, overall i was really impressed, and come on, he did this all by himself. thumbs to tha up.