Q ONSET — deadwww

I. Process

I mostly wrote it walking.

Sending texts to myself.

(Like) a Crazy Person.

Fighting the phone.

Fighting the "autocomplete."

Fighting my shaking hands.

Fighting the yanking dog.

Cracking up on side-streets.

Thinking up thoughts.

Songs.

Balloon fog.

Gulliver's travails.

My works look upon.

And then on to home.

Transferred the compiled texts to The Computer.

Copied-and-pasted.

Powerful user.

Characters massaged to completion.

Art's stuck.

Be a pity not to release them.

You are free.

To go.

II. Quiet Onset

            Do be done.
            Thy will as one.
            First word was a curse.
            Fuck.
            Fuck.
            Fuck for fun.
            Tucked lower lip up under and ffffff.
            Fuck for fun.
            Teeth dug in.
            FFFFFfffff—
            Spitting blood and bile.
            Enfilade.
            Executable file.
            Stand in a line.
            A-thousand-one miles.
            Streamed consciousness.
            Redrun.
            Gutters of blood.
            Gallows for hours.
            Wounds for eyes.
            A blue-blonde glower.
            In the stolen sky.
        

III. Puer Hygiene

            Keep a clean face.
            Shave.
            Behave.
            Maintain.
            Otherwise the wilds won't ever be tamed.
            All the while I—
            I'm a shell of a person.
            At war not at games.
            Hypercorporeal.
            Oxygen drain.
        

IV. The Second Order (Cowardice №1)

So many people are only concerned with how many other people are concerned with something.

Wanting desperately to join a crowd.

And it's all done in public now.

The mobbing of morons.

Each and all a comedian dive-bar bombing to no one.

V. GoGo Agony

My shoulders hurt so bad my neck hurts so bad my back is many kinds of hurts I can't really feel my legs the feet feel gone but the head is f l y i n g.

"Pervasive surveillance has made me insane," stated sanely.

You were given a disciple and you dismissed them.

You were given a mount and you opted-out.

You need to fucking focus.

            Sermon's drip-dousing drought.
            Capsized boasts cast about.
            Tightening tensions.
            It's so hard.
            So difficult to sustain attention.
            Everything fleeting.
            And me so superfluous.
        

VI. Bic Lifter

Woke up glad to still have my hat confused about how I got here glad to still have my shoes glad to have the weed I had glad to have found my trousers laid out neatly and considerately (I'd been a good boy and I deserve a reward) glad all my rings are on the right fingers glad for my sunglasses in their velvet case glad my wallet's tucked away glad I've got my cardigan glad to have the tote bag BUT somebody stole swiped my fucking lighter.

(Leave in all your edits prove that you're human) (Scar the text)

VII. All This Want

            Art's waning and wanting.
            You're yearning for something.
            Surely it's not all for naught.
            Not for nothing.
        

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VIII. Drill (Music)

            The difference of small narcissism.
            "They all hate me."
            Bent, bouncing.
            A crooked mirror reflects.
            A crooked finger points.
            The cross is yours to bear.
            The hole is yours to bore.
        

IX. Skullshining Breath

            Tumbling marbles.
            Dicefall and die roll.
            Sharpen your edges.
            Shine your sorrow.
        

X. Amusical Interlude

I SAID, I SAID —

I wrote all this shit on my phone, hunched, hating the implement.

Slows me down.

Changes my words.

Always a fight.

XI. The Pull of the Void and the Tug of the Voyeur

            The panic attacks come like chained explosions, increasing in depth and dimension.
            Frequencies spike.
            The hearing goes.
            Heart's hammering.
            Hamstrings taut.
            Whirling dust.
            Tornadic thoughts.
            Earthquake in the legs.
            Barely-just standing-up.
            Shaken.
            Shook.
            Mouth gone dry.
            I swear to god.
            It feels like I'm going to be sucked into the sky.
        

XII. What It Feels Like (And How)

            Feels like I'm the last of the uncaptured wildlings fighting some lost spite war against god government reason and warplanes.
            Feel like a spearman.
            The fear of the frontier being the thrill.
            I don't want anodyne product life.
            I don't.
            I can't.
            I won't.
            Negative deducer.
            I am produce and producer.
            Life is war and I'm a user.
            I'd rather there weren't winners and losers.
            But I didn't design the system.
        

Don't hate the game,

Hate its chooser,

he said,

sagely and directly into the camera.

XIII. What It Is Like

This is what it's like living with unmediated schizophrenia.

Which was supposed to say unmedicated (and I typed it correctly!) but my phone (the CIA (just kidding (maybe))) "corrected" it to something perhaps even truer than my initial input.

Which is to say:

I am divining diamonds with satanic technology. I'm a gem comber. I pet exotic cats for a living. I'm a masseuse in Dubai. I'm slathered and coated in fragrant oil. I work in a type mine. I can't act my age. I'm too real for that. Persistent unreality pervades. Faces shift their shape. Sharpen in front. Serpent portals. My eyesight. My god. You really can't focus. You can't really focus. In any sense. Wide-open sensory gates. And no sense. And nuisance. And nonsense.

Just fucking with you.

XIV. "You're a Dead Man"

nasty snatches of disconnected film dialogue from the next room (and then) we invent a flock of lovable whores. a cadre of consorts. for the fuck of the sake of the thing. chilly put in a hit coldcall a shot that rings.

XV. We All Look Like Molerats in the Truth of the Sunlight

            Vicious animal business.
            Violently proudly shitting.
            Making direct eye contact with some other beast.
            Chestpuff snout-up huffing the air.
            Set on "fuck the world,
            fuck the world,
            I don't care."
        

XVI. Just Walk Away

            High up.
            And heightened.
            Lifelines.
            And palm trees.
            By the hand.
            Calmed me, calmly:
        

"Smell the jasmine and watch the light play on the Observatory."

            Best not to disrupt.
            Intercede or interrupt.
            Better to relent and relinquish.
            Take the air.
            A new flame extinguished.
            Though cues are given.
            This doll's dream living.
            Starvation driven.
            Course correct for collision.
            Pavement to pound.
            Mounded oblivion.
        

XVII. A Make-Up Fuck (Made Up)

            Sound for the sake of it.
            Sonic cover-up.
            Febreze over bad odors.
            Faulty products.
            Returned orders.
            Hey get up and turn over.
        

XVIII. Vile Dialing

A call comes in.

A call dismissed.

D'you ever wonder if you're someone else's "Spam Risk?"

If They (looks around ominously) really wanted to Control Us one thing they could do is ensure that certain people they don't want associating with one another always appear as "Spam Risk."

Maybe we need to start memorizing phone numbers again.

They could do it to you.

Do you worry?

I do.

Or maybe you have met everyone you need to.

XIX. Dislodged Lines Take Shape

            Hello my name is wasting time.
            I always come and I sometimes rhyme.
            It's for fun if you want it.
            For free if you can get away.
            Hushed rioting.
            This quieting.
            Lapse.
            Unremembered nights.
            Blackout jackass.
            An abused body.
            An exquisite corpse.
            Oversharing.
            An expository curse.
            How to function, then?
            With the second-mind of constant judgment.
            An inner choir.
            All-accusatory.
            In metal sentiment.
            Immaterial.
            Prisoner and penitent.
            A pled case.
            A plodded pace.
            Dumbdumb riffs in confined space.
            Permanent elsewise the other-than outlander.
            Out of character.
            Out-of-control.
            Discommander.
            Don't make me sick.
            Don't make me ask.
            Don't make me squander my last gasp.
            I am organism sound system and criminal organization.
            I propose mirage.
            But you chose persuasion.
        

XX. Ride Share

            Oh glow up. Come up. Come on. Coming.
            All's known's numbers and numbing.
            Shotblastpop in stopped plumbing.
            Some lovely Jill or another.
            Birthstopping pills.
            Null the mother.
            Paw for pleasure.
            Undercover.
            In simulated mating.
            Ritual abrading.
            Vigorous fucking.
            Vapid fascination.
            Living in a zoo exhibit for the last mammal capable of
            Masturbating to its imagination.
        

XXI. One World Ruining Idea

One world ruining idea is an audio recording app that keeps track of conversations, determines how much each person is speaking, and presents data re: tone, frequency, and other aspects of speech.

Provides a read-out of who talks most, and at what percentage of the conversation's duration.

We all know there are 80%'ers out there.

Hell, maybe we are them.

Maybe we just can't shut the fuck up.

Maybe it's nervousness.

Could be nerves, yeah.

Could also have a mode where it records speech for actual textual analysis.

Provides you with a typology of your conversation style.

Get you in your head real good.

Relationship ender, to be sure.

Good thing California's a two-party consent state.

Right?

What kind of conversationalist are you?

▢ The inquisitor. ▢ The overtaker. ▢ The mansplainer. ▢ The storyteller.

▢ The braggart. ▢ The recipient. ▢ The spy. ▢ The connector. ▢ The suggestor.

XXII. Manipulator Music

I'm a television executive. A televised execution. Institutional corrective. An improvised explosion. Private dick detective. A device set in motion. All the devil's accounts. Calculated emotion.

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XXIII. "Little Fluffy Clouds" Comes On at the After-Hours and She Looks at You with Those Infinite Drug-Eyes

            Stoned smirk.
            Idiot gape.
            Eyes blink at the vacancy rate.
            Headbanded and crown-bound.
            Bred circuitry.
            Cirrus clown.
            Confused to conclusion.
            Finalized matters.
            Vaporized confusion.
        

XXIV. Fuck You / No

It's captured.

There's no point.

No sense to compete.

No —

Not with the fraudulent fallen-up elite.

It's a kept club.

Not for you, to the manger born.

There can be no competition.

Won't be.

Be forewarned.

Not on merit.

This world runs on rails.

Cold truths aired.

Destiny heaves grievances.

Predetermined players.

Narratives parrot.

Publicists' puff.

So you see,

All you see —

What's visible's a solved problem.

All properties are squatted.

And their shitters rocksolid.

Cowards, beyond contempt.

The unworthy elect.

Backed by demon armies of bureaucracy's bodies.

Bogged sludge.

Byzantine bullshitters.

Shitstained bitch litters.

Enemies of novelty.

Uneasy with agility.

Upstart-stoppers.

Stunters of pluck.

In purchased perches.

Ladies of luck.

Pilfering purses.

Lunching large.

Diseased sinecures.

Installed in hillsides.

A rotted aristocracy.

Coarse salesmen.

Horsethieves.

Dull-dealers.

Go-alongs.

Echoes of the echoes of the echoes of the echelon.

Terminals and tombs. Childsplaying games. Bored and dumb. Bored. Bored blue. Stuck with getting fucked. Stuck with rigged rules. Rules, forms, and ruled forms. Snare-roll on a doldrum. House rules, homespun. God-damaged. Scarcity, managed. Manufactured. Plotted and planned. Scams on scams on scams on scams.

Another day as an American.

This space reserved.

A graveyard guarded.

Reinholders, champions.

Anointed important ones.

Empty-heads, embarrassments.

A windfall and where it went.

Spirit's suffocation.

Gobbled institutions.

Reign on regulations.

Coffin constrains.

Cooked books and cloudy outlooks. Closed kettles, silos. Open crooks. What's taken's took. The lure of loot. Pointless and moot. Front-row seats. Cuckquean hooks. The king of fools and the jack of boots.

Listen if you will, as you will, let the northstar be the guide.

If you want to come up.

If you want to cross divides.

Forget playing straight.

Work illegal or outside.

Have no confidence in confines.

They want you beneath.

But you can top from the bottom.

Guillotine glint.

Chop a little headroom.

Pressure choke.

The air of authority thins.

The veil despoils victims.

Treasure is sacked.

Blood, sucked.

Needledick bandwidth of a tick-tucked.

Tell-tale eunuch.

Decayed betrayal.

Constructs collapse and systems fail.

Dismal masters brung-down for their lowness.

High-horse holdovers dragged-dead and winged boneless.

Dung-minded dimwits.

Lords of the limits.

Cheapening gimmicks.

Basic incumbents.

Extractors.

Exhaust, deter, exclude.

Distracting trash refused.

Shone the truth of poorpisspuddle reflection.

Horned infection.

Necrotic, sclerotic.

Amen, oppression.

And at your discretion.

                Majesty!
                Should it suit your station.
                We'll open up some minds.
                Expand imaginations.
                Unfold an old world into new dimensions.
            

                They'll be beaten.
                At games and in battles.
                Of our invention.
            