Jeriko One was the poet of the streets

In my ignorant discussion of the new 007 Spectre trailer during yesterday’s post I forgot to mention that I do quite like the footage shot during what appears to be Dia de los Muertos in Mexico City.  I’m guessing this is the opening and it should a gee-whiz slam bang humdinger of a scene!  It appears the lovely Mexican actress Stephanie Sigman is playing a character named Estrella (or Star for you White Angelo-Saxon Protestants).  She looks devastatingly beautiful in the promotional pictures and this heightens the anticipation for the superficial pig inside of me.  I first saw Sigman several years ago when I attended the premiere of Gerardo Naranjo’s excellent Miss Bala and I can say she is an actress of great talent and poise.  The name of her character also makes me think of recent Baila Si Puedes participant and Consejo Mundia de Lucha Libre luchadora Estrellita (swoon) who makes my eyes bulge, my heart pound violently and my mind burn with fantasies of being humiliatingly dominated through various wrestling holds while she mocks me mercilessly. 

As I alluded to last time I am not a big fan of the movie Skyfall though I do adore some things about it like Roger Deakins’s gorgeous cinematography, Adele’s instantly iconic theme song, Javier Bardem’s performance (if not necessarily his character) and certain charming scenes – such as the casino scene in Shanghai – which reference so well the many decades of rich Bond history amongst an overall dreary storyline without much payoff beyond a more promising follow-up.  But therein lays the rub as the inner city kids like to say.  It’s amazing how more contextualization and follow-ups can improve one’s feelings of the preceding work.  Storylines come to fruition and make more sense, character beats which once seemed random are now more acceptable and the simple fact that this formerly disappointing thing is no longer the final statement of the mythology makes it seem all the better.  A great recent example is I can now happily watch Terminator Salvation and view it as the underrated masterpiece it truly is!  Or can I?  The answers make shock you to the core. 

Another movie I’m looking forward to with great relish and sauerkraut is Crimson Peak directed by Guillermo Del Toro.  If it’s awesome maybe I’ll be able to watch Pacific Rim without weeping uncontrollably over my disappointment (another example of the phenomenon I just mentioned!).  Maybe I’m just disappointed that he never (to date) made Hellboy 3.  But that’s just yet another example of a wannabe hack like yours truly trying to force his selfish and asinine desires onto true artists. 

For several nights in row now I’ve watched Kathryn Bigelow’s 1995 feature film Strange Days starring Ralph Fiennes, Angela Bassett, Juliette Lewis, Michael Wincott (swoon) and Tom Sizemore.  For several weeks now I’ve also been watching David Lynch’s 1997 film Lost Highway at least twice on a nightly basis.  Those who know me best know I am a notoriously large (physically and metaphorically) Lynch fan and for countless years I’ve debated with myself over which is my favorite feature film of his.  Ultimately I feel I would pick Mulholland Drive but I’ll damned if Lost Highway isn’t perfect in just about every way.  Even its imperfections are perfect!  Such is the nature of wisdom.

I must admit, my fond feelings of Lost Highway may stem from my original memory of seeing it in an old dollar theatre back in that sweltering summer of 97’.  I was dating a Mexican waitress named Yolanda at the time though I affectionately called her Yolis.  We met one morning after I began frequenting Richard’s Diner which was a greasy spoon near the bridge as it approaches the southern district.  She would serve me damn good cups of piping hot coffee as well as plates of artery clogging bacon, undercooked eggs and flat cakes lathered in syrup and butter. 

Greater than Richard’s food however was the generousness of Yolis’s hips.  I used to order extra helpings of cholesterol laden food and scalding bitter coffee just so I could catch her radiant smile and the oceanic sway of her mammoth buttocks which were always crammed deliciously into a pair of stretched-to-the-max black pants (with white pin stripes which had the appearance of latitude lines on a hemisphere as they rounded her gargantuan rump).  When she spoke her accent was thick and captivating and she would frequently laugh at my terrible jokes and place a loving hand on my shoulder.  It was not long before I was completely under her spell and we began a courtship. 

To my delight I found that on the days she was not wearing the pants she opted instead for a classy black skirt which clung ever lovingly to her massive derriere as well as black reinforced heel-and-toe pantyhose with simple black leather high heels.  At the end of a long day catering to the slobbering masses she would return to her small but elegantly decorated apartment and find me eagerly waiting like a dog.  She would promptly demand a foot massage and order me on my knees while she relaxed in a posh chair she’d purchased years ago from a now retired craftsman.  

She would slowly remove her leather high heels, letting one teeter in a rather precarious and exciting fashion at the end of her pantyhose clad toes before it fell to the floor with an audible thud.  In between moments of my loving massage she would use my face as her personal footrest while laughing and berating me, telling me in Spanish how pathetic and useless I was.  The combination of the greasy fumes of Richard’s Diner combined with the natural pheromones ever present in the sweat and oils of her wonderful feet and those two rich ingredients mixed with the denier and material composition of the hosiery resulted in a glorious aromatic delight; perfume of the gods and it made my body run hot with desire as it destroyed my mind and shattered my senses.  I was a willing slave. 

Subsequent to the massage we would engage in several dominant practices for her relaxation and my degradation.  It was often difficult for me to respond during these as many times I could scarcely breathe due to the glorious pressure being applied to my chest, neck and face.  Instead I would listen intently while she would regale me with sordid tales from her previous life in Mexico as well as her aspirations for the future.  It was specifically during these times she recounted to me her great love of German director Wim Wenders as well as her love for Lynch – specifically the films Eraserhead, Blue Velvet and Wild at Heart.  When we saw the trailer for Lost Highway we knew we could not survive without viewing it on the big screen. 

Sitting in a the steamy theatre with Yolis and viewing Lynch’s surreal masterpiece in a lovely 35mm print is one of my fondest memories.  The film would forever haunt and enthrall us and I know we’ve both watched it countless times since then on VHS and then digital video disc.  We walked the town afterward and went for alcoholic drinks, discussing the film, the nature of reality and what it truly means to be human.  She’d worn fishnet stockings and eventually used them to gag me while subjecting me to all manner of sweet humiliating punishment.  I cry simply thinking about these wonderful times.  Yolis eventually returned to Mexico as that was where her heart truly resided though we have remained close friends since and frequently engage in telephonic and computer based communication. 

I recently purchased martial arts master Donnie Yen’s latest film Kung Fu Killer and put it on the ol’ blu ray player while eating some leftover sushi and drinking a bottle of mineral water.  I fell asleep soon after but it was not the movie’s fault as it seemed quite interesting.  I was simply very tired.  Being a miserable failure really takes it out of a guy. 

I go to the airport cafe every night

I woke up this morning and felt like my soul was somehow leaving me.  Does that actually mean anything?  I had a strange, erotic dream about you the other night.  I almost forgot it entirely upon awakening but I was able to focus and recall enough that it now will always be with me. Of course I feel guilty about it.  How could I not?  But I always remember that real life moment of unparalleled intimacy and basso profondo.  His father ran the prison.  

I also woke up this morning to find the newest and first lengthy theatrical trailer for the upcoming James Bond flick Spectre to be watchable online.  Consequently, I proceeded to watch this.  Now, I am not nearly as massive a Bond fan and some of my close friends – particularly the oft mentioned Calvin Black who is essentially an encyclopedia of Bond lore – but I do enjoy many aspects of the series and have a fair few of the films in my cinema collection.  Despite my paucity of expertise I still noticed a few quaint callbacks that should excite most 007 enthusiasts such as Bond sporting his Goldfinger white dinner jacket (complete with red flower accoutrement), some very similar musical moments from John Barry’s score to On Her Majesty’s Secret Service and of course the very presence of Spectre itself.  I’m sure there are others but I am too degenerate to notice.  As for the movie itself, I am excited but skeptical.  I may be in the minority by Skyfall stripped a lot of the joy out of the series for me and portrayed a grayer, more placid Bond with whom I couldn’t quite connect.  But it likes there will be a lot of gee whiz slammin’ spy bangin’ action so I’m there!  Also, I am still madly in love with Monica Bellucci and have been since the cursed day of my birth.  How I wish I could come to her rescue in some Bond like fashion though any such attempt on my part would almost certainly result in our brutal and untimely deaths.  And truth be told, what I truly wish is that she would come to my rescue in a Lady Bond like fashion. 

My desires are immoral and rooted in a version of you which likely does not exist.  But you could know my mind.  Finally.  You could know it in a way no one else could and you would be able help me in a way no one else can.  To be held by your strong arms and to then feel your touch on my face.  And to know that your eyes desire my own gaze.  And for dinner afterward?  I know you would handle that as well.  Divinely. 

I’ve been neglecting you and I can no longer feel your embrace.  I imagine myself dying in the snow and I wonder if you would be there in the final moments.  It has been so long and when I close my eyes I can no longer see your face.  I do not know how your voice would sound.  I beg you not to go away. 

A woman against a red backdrop holding a baby in her arms.  The sweetest sounds I’ve ever heard.  No more technology.  Nothing more beside this living rain.  Something in you.  I see her in the park and life passes from one to another.  After you there is only this wall of stone.  We are covered in black oil.  Their initials are in the sand and soon the tide will carry them out to sea.  And at some point after that they will never speak to each other again. 

Such unparalleled desire for scissors.  How does she seem?  So friendly, so kind and caring.  And yet capable of such wonderfully cruel and evil acts. 

I recently purchased Luc Besson’s 2014 flick Lucy on blu ray and I’ve watched it 2 nights in a row.  It is a stupid but fantastic film.  It is honestly difficult to put into words how much I love this movie.  I don’t know if I will ever re-analyze my favorite movies of 2014 list but this and Nightcrawler should have been on there some-fucking-where.  That was my mistake; mine alone and I will have to live with that for the rest of my life. 

My love for Spanish actress Aitana Sanchez-Gijon cannot be overestimated.

I grew up at the very tail end of the cold war and recall with numbing clarity living under the threat of nuclear devastation.  To this day I still practice curling up under a table with my hands on top of my head. 

You love communism?  I was drinking from a glacier today.  “Meanwhile, back at the wrench”.  He was about to bash me over the head with a crowbar.  Rubber duckie.  We’re all just piecing ourselves together. 

Into the late hours of the night will I be reading Operation: Paperclip?  I think that is possible.

I first heard the terror as a child when it spoke to me through my little blue cassette tape player.  Instead of offering comfort my parents opted to mock me and make matters worse.  It was impossible to confide in them and in many ways they were equally nightmarish as the thing itself.  Memories can be awful, disgusting things.

I recently went to the multiplex and watched Terminator Genisys.  This reminded me that I still need to purchase The Definitive Edition 1984 remaster of Brad Fiedel’s soundtrack to the original Terminator.  Maybe one day I’ll have the intestinal fortitude to finally do what needs to be done.  But I doubt it. 

Why bother questioning why certain things are allowed?  We would not have it any other way. 

I understand, truly.  On my knees in the snow with my hands in the air, I understood.  It is preferable not to run anymore if I know you will no longer be chasing me.  Maybe my actions are petty and I am a child.  I just wanted you to know, for always.   

My only solace these days comes in the form of an affectionate prostitute.  Perhaps one day she’ll go too and far and I’ll “accidentally” forget to say the safe word (or be unable due to the massive amounts of pressure being applied to my neck) and the police will subsequently find my lifeless body, my manhood poking out of my rent trousers in a death erection. 

My favorite color is clear. 

I need a raised couch, things like this.  Is there a donation place around?  Was I bit unfair to Joseph?  It’s very possible.  At the very least I have never given Shane his proper due.  I watched it again recently and the angry man was right: it does indeed look fantastic. 

I started this miserable day off by listening to David Bowie’s 2013 disc The Next Day.  I remember the release date well as I took time off work to hitchhike down to ye ol’ conglomerate that I might purchase a copy with a few federal reserve notes which were nestled tightly in my lovely faux kangaroo leather wallet.  In a bizarre twist of fate I also purchased the then most recent Tomb Raider video game for the Playstation Part 3.  It’s been years since I’ve played that game (though it is quite good) but The Next Day has become a regular fixture of my worthless life and likely one of the main reasons I haven’t yet succumbed to the ever tempting and mathematically accurate equation of 1 bottle of wine + 1 bottle of sleeping pills = 1 sweet release.  The moment I knew I knew I knew. 

“Not yet.  But they will be when they find out who I am,” was my answer to her question. 

The "plus" stands for bathroom fixtures

We live in a fallen world.  I have written these words before.  She said them first.  While the sun burned me alive.  When I woke up this morning I once again begged forgiveness. 

I’m ready for a beefier Batman, perhaps a more physically capable Batman.  I am slowly warming up to B. Affleck as B. Man.  The recent comic-con trailer released over the weekend warmed me up even more.  Hopefully by the time March 2016 rears its ugly head and I’m watching the feature film on the big screen I’ll be bursting into flames due to all the warmth I have! 

Overall though I am in a much more lighthearted mood this fine morning and I suspect this entry shall have even less to say than normal.  I suppose there is actually a lot to be quite happy about, isn’t there?  Sometimes things seem so serious but that is almost never the truth.  Upon closer examination you can see quite clearly see the tragic humor.  I was going to purchase the first season of Farscape on blu ray but then I watched a little trailer for it and saw how many alien species – done mostly with practical FX it seems – populate the show and I became worried it may be too frightening for a man as susceptible to these fears as yours truly.  Still, maybe I’ll bite the bullet and chance it.  It’s a worth taking the motherfucking chance, isn’t it? 

I brought an album by Savina Yannatou and an album by Ana Gabriel with me today.  But this music is so lovely and puts me in such a vulnerable state I don’t think I’ll be able to listen to it until the sun begins to go down.  I was listening to The Who earlier and now it’s How to Destroy Angels, specifically the song Ice Age, which always puts me at peace.

I’ve been watching the movie Jurassic Park 3 a great deal these past few weeks – both on blu ray and when it has been on a cable television channel.  It is very much a B movie but I dare say a good B movie.  I love a good B movie. Though I have always been surprised at how different Laura Dern looks from the first to the third in the series; I believe it was only a decade or so between flicks.  Maybe I’ll watch it again while ruminating over my failed and burdensome life! I’m the last of my breed.  Though this sounds much more hip and tragic when said by Sam Neill (swoon)’s character Alan Grant because he is a cool cat and I am not. 

I’ve been washing my clothes with a lot of Suavitel lately because it makes them smell like teddy bears and love.  I’ve been thinking of buying a Stetson and wearing it ironically.  I say ironically because I don’t have the overall look or style for this type of headwear despite my fondness for them.  However I fear any attempts at irony may just result in me looking like an even bigger ass than normal.  But would that be such a bad thing?  For practical purposes it would be nice to have something to keep the grueling and merciless sun out of my way and prevent my large fivehead from being burned every time I step outside.  Chime off below to let me know if you would like to see me in a Stetson and how this change in my fashion may affect your life!

It was the grisly winter of 2014 and I was with White man when I purchased Funkadelic’s 3 disc opus First You Gotta Shake the Gate.  Like so many of the greats it has rewarded patience and repeated listens by revealing a staggering amount of rich and compelling music.  It’s been a go-to album of mine for a while now – weirdly combining well with 2013’s Hesitation Marks by Nine Inch Nails (also an album that only grew better with time – and I’m intrigued as to where it shall take me in the future). 

A female Brazilian body builder was upset that he was not following her instructions.  She pointed to her wondrously thick and powerfully muscled thighs and said in a commanding voice that if he would not listen to her, he would listen to these.  She then proceeded to put him in various strangleholds and headscissors (standard and reverse).  What glory! 

I’ve been listening to Sonic Youth a fair amount lately, specifically the albums Goo and Experimental Jet Set, Trash and No Star.  They help me to be a bit more productive though I’ve no idea why.  I think I’ll read Kim Gordon’s book. 

I was originally going to be a chimpanzee standing in the long grass.  Some of this may still be visible.  Now there are slabs of meat rotting behind me.  I kind of like this one though. 

It’s coming up on 15 years but A Day Without Rain by Enya is still a beautiful album, still one of my favorites and still makes me feel like I am with you. 

My capacity to feel certain things has greatly diminished over the years.  Katie.  It feels good to write your name and to say it out loud.  The news that Iron Maiden is releasing a double album in September made me squeal in girlish glee! How I love Maiden!  Bruce Dickinson is a top 10 singer for me.  I saw them a couple years ago on their Seventh Son of a Seventh Son album tour and I’ve been contemplating serious self-harm these past few days because I can’t find this damn fine album and I’ve been desperately wanting to listen to it. 

All she did was smile and bring me a damn good cup of coffee but that’s all it took.  A deadly obsession takes hold. 

I fell asleep last night thinking of an elegant and very well read vampire.  I was delighted to find she is also a fan of Jean-Michel Basquiat. 

Necromance at the roller rink? 

I think I’ll throw Batman Returns on the ol’ blu ray player tonight.  It’s been at least a week since I’ve watched it and I’d like to reacquaint myself with some of the finer details. 

Thank you God for everything. 

Segue

A dear friend called me a slave to the night.  

My dreams prepared for me a drink made of fear and desire.  I drank it down and imagined myself dying a thousand times in a thousand different ways that I may meet you again and for the first time over and over. 

I feel love and desperation so strong in the morning. I beg for everything. 

And at night I drift off and I know you are there and I am coveting. 

Can there be gender without sexuality?  All the days of my life.  What are we taught and what grows inside of us?  Soaking the pages and traveling through conversations and that one particular pronoun is repeated over and over.  And our beliefs are formed without effort. 

My imaginings always include long waves of black.  What am I ascribing to this wondrous everything?  When was the first time I truly felt you?  But this smile. It looks so much like her smile I must feel guilty about that. 

How desire that shame.  And my eagerness for obedience.  I want to live in service of the Queen? You speak in words I do not understand and your voice is beautiful. 

We live in a fallen world.  And I want to turn to her.  I want to be enveloped by grace and drown inside.  

Baby, I've been

Marina (not the one you think) is a glorious new inspiration.  At the same time she exposes how fiercely ignorant and worthless I truly am.  Strangely, last night I dreamed of Marina (this time the very one you think).  Or was it really her?  I was confused in the dream and confused upon waking and even now I am not sure.  Things were painted in broad strokes of teal and violet. 

Paperbacks used to guide me to new thoughts but now the pages and my brain are similarly empty.  I think a group of penguins is eagerly waiting to be fed.  I'm going to read a book on an ancient Indian philosophy soon.  I prick you.    

Lately I’ve been listening a lot to David Bowie’s 1997 album Earthling. What a fascinating piece of work!  I adore the idea of unexpectedly loving your new touring band so much that once the tour is over you immediately set about recording an album in order to capture that fresh and raw energy.  I also love the use of Jungle and Drum n’ Bass sounds.  I just fucking love the album, that’s all!  Mad props to you Bowie! 1. Outside and Earthling.  I can live inside these albums and I am home.  Maybe I can die there as well.  

I’m listening to the 1997 album Donde Estan Los Ladrones? by Shakira right now.  Track 4 is titled No Creo and maintains its status as one of my all time faves since my initial listen so many years ago.  Oddly, it is now reminding me of a woman who I have not thought about in nearly as many years.  They are pleasant thoughts, if a tad bittersweet.  Part of me wonders is the tinge of sadness I feel is not so much related to her as it is to the ever dawning realization of my diminished capacity to feel things in quite the same way as before.  Ah, the beautiful way I live without.  Please don't ever leave me.  

The doors of perception were open to me for just a bit last night.  I loved you so much.  Thoughts were already turned toward the future.  Why am I already writing my four last songs?  I guess it is oddly fitting it should begin on a Sunday. 

 I have an image of you where the sky is growing dim and your hair is being swept back in the wind.  The ocean is before us and I have never seen you so calm and your peace is mine.  It is like I’m watching from an old movie reel; it is grainy, the colors not as vibrant but in an instant it focuses on your smiling face and it could not be more perfect. 

 How can I not worry?  Every day there is some new and awful thing with which to contend.  Is someone just counting down the ways until something turns truly fierce? 

 It is complacent sometimes and in general it is far more calm than I ever expected.  It is raining outside and I can hear the sound of it on my window.  That color and sound is its closest approximation and in that sense it is unexpectedly lovely.

Sometimes there is a wall of ice and it is unbreakable.  Its creation happens in an instant; one moment there is nothing and the next it is there and it rises higher than either of us can make out. 

 Have I been shown the proper way?  It looks like it is all there.  He has such strong desires to submit.  How horrible are his thoughts?  Are they only creating a path to hell?   

 I feel your love so strong in the moments of fragility.  The figure of a woman.  Am I wrong?  Am I only a sinner and nothing more?  I do not recall the first time I knew you. 

 Others ignore or laugh or do not care.  And I imagine.  Is it the same thing?  Can I really say I am any better?  In all likelihood I am worse because my certainty does nothing to diminish my capacity and desire to do wrong. 

 What will happen when it is gone?  Where will you go and what will you be turned into?  The world will continue because the world does not care. 

Sorry (1)

I want to say I’m sorry. 

To you when the John Leguizamo movie Cronicas was on and we laid together and watched and you said you felt such a connection and I confessed to not feeling this and you cried and left. 

To my father for not making an effort during the holiday.  He would never say so but I am sure it bothered him on some level.

Back when I was part of a part of a quasi political ethnic based college group I was somehow in charge of the quarterly newsletter.  That first time I was so spirited and put in a great effort and the end result was a rich and passion-filled periodical.  However my enthusiasm eventually waned and my cynicism won over and eventually what was printed was nothing worth celebrating.  This was my fault. And to young Omar who was so integral to that group.  I inwardly mocked your passion and militant stance.  Was I perhaps afraid because you had so clearly found your purpose and I was still desperate for one?  Either way, I was ignorant. 

That time after everything was over and we went to a dance hall and I let petty annoyances override any sense of decency and you felt – maybe for the first dreadful time – so much anger and spite inside of me.  My apologies were real but understandably sounded so hollow.  And I am sorrow that afterward I was never able to find you again. And sorry that I did not look harder. 

I am a child so full of hate and I want to hurt because it is all I can do and I rejected that small box brought home from the store.  I hoped it hurt.  But I am sorry.  

I’m sorry for those recommendations.  Sometimes I think it was right and other times I’m not sure.  I assumed something and based on my then lack of experience it may have been the wrong choice.  I honestly don’t know.  But it frequently crosses my mind. 

I’m sorry for constantly disobeying and disappointing.  Is my passion and love only real on Monday mornings?  Ah, but then it is nothing more than an ugly self-serving thing.  And what of my desire to see you?  And the way I imagine you look as I am held in the palm of your hand.  I think I need to apologize for that as well. 

622

Sometimes I dream out loud and sometimes I have the strange sensation my dreams are trapped inside a wheel of death.  I sat across from you and explained the strange numerical uncertainty that I repeatedly tried and failed to grasp with my own cut up fingers.  If someone were to cut your throat with razors I doubt I would venture to suck the blood but maybe I would.  Maybe I would not be able to resist.  How is such beauty even possible?

I believe standing up during a sexual act is often quite pleasurable.  The moment where unconsciousness almost seizes is of course the very best. 

There is too much scar tissue underneath and that is why I was so slow hobbling by the golden pages and all the limitless possibilities.  The Russian mob is forcing themselves into my apartment.  They want me to confess.  Someone else burned a stack of phonebooks and drew something on the road with pink and green chalk and then she danced and chanted while the sun was setting and she saw things no one else could. 

I can’t buy anything.  I wake up and bleach the sun.  My skin is peeling off and my brain is screaming for a retroactive feel.  The supple tip of your nipple is letting me know we did not actually win the war and outside there is an awful dog barking and he is letting me know that contrary to popular belief nothing is ever going to be all right again. 

Information overload in the valley of pristine disappointment.  I flip over on my stomach.  What strange and over-calculated things we all are.  Though now I feel I may have gone off track.

Did you see me watching immediately after I swore it all away and took my seat on that humble plank of wood?  I watched so intently.  Flesh colored and peeping.  The proverbial heat was on and I imagined with such delight what a rich perfume would be made from the stress and the anger and the hatred.  What wonderful suffocation.  What exquisite torment. 

I miss peaches though I never knew her well.  There was a killer at my side as a child.  I am someone else and my stomach explodes.

A man on gray waves his hand to me or is it some form of evil salute?  24 bars in and I still have no idea.  Ideas flow from the pen like a waterfall on an undiscovered planet.  But even that isn’t really accurate.  Things are moving much quicker than most minds can process.  Danielle, will you never tell me what you are saying?  Turquoise strings stab at my heart.  And incorrigible melody melts like a clock inside of a sheepish man.  I wore the old suit too many times.  We were trapped inside of a blue dream filled with smoke and incantations and horrifying orgies were around us and penises were bending and mouths were breathing heavy and throats were grotesquely full. 

All these numbers turn to dust inside the rotting inner corridors of my diseased mind and I can’t make sense of any of them.  We swing on pendulums and stick needles inside ourselves and occasionally a spot of red marks the formerly white tile of the bathroom floor.  I shake and convulse at all the flesh eating puppets that are advancing upon us.  How can you say sexiness is a construct of the darkest one?  Have we not all disguised in a most hypocritical way everything we wish to have done to us? 

Wooden panels against a plastic machine made to hang us from trees while we fantasize about all those kissing cousins we never fully knew.  I’ve seen myself getting dressed in your eyes and it always ends with the man down the street buying and oversized plush teddy bear and climbing a mountain with a goldfish bowl clipped to his belt.  Every time I open my mouth to scream my testicles start to quake and I grab hold of myself and talk to silverware and wonder why the good time had to vanish like a thousand lost puppies out in the worst rain storm this world has never seen. 

I’ve never fucked for the hell of it.  I’ve only ducked for the halibut.  There is every season inside the palm of my hand and when I make a fist a baby cries and we all let go of ourselves and our orgasms are explosive and platonic inside the pious structures of long drawn out mortals.  We’d bite our own tongues off if weren’t for the massive paychecks we’ll be cashing on the morning of a star’s birthday.  Giant balls of gas.  Formations are so terrifying.  I’ve longed dreamed of dancing inside the vastness of a telephonic melody that plays inside the stadium of your love.  My fuckness is approaching new depths.  I may just have to buy a fucking submarine.  Can you believe all the equations that are spilling out of body?  It’s enough to make a man fume with regret and then order bacon and eggs until someone tells him to stop out of sheer, manic necessity. 

In my strange countenance I’ve forgotten the importance of the lovely.  I have many questions about this strange bittersweet air I am breathing.  Millions of lines of poems are inscribed on iron bars while I patiently hold for an interpreter. 

Windows are shattering all around me.  Orange to grey to some tap dancing shoes.  I love scary monsters so much.  I have a picture of you in my room and it is so close to my heart.  The screaming never stops. 

I want to die.  I wish I fell asleep with a bottle by my side.  And then I wish I woke up on red sheets.

I’m about 5 years too late.  And now I’ll never see you.  You’ll never touch me like you should have.  All I wanted was for you to make me cry.  But that’s too literal and pedestrian, isn’t it?  It would be so easy to see right through things and expose the uselessness barely contained within. 

I think there’s a picture of me splayed out on a car somewhere.  A woman is naked between two panes of glass and I am afraid to look at her as I pass by.  The spiral steps horrifyingly led to nowhere.  Everybody knows this is.  None of the favorites think this way, or do they?  He wrote so much about death but it eventually became one of the favorites.  My side will always be yours to take and at every moment I am invading your dreams.  I receive no strength from any statements because words are thinner than the air I breathe and I have resigned myself to make war inside a glass bubble. 

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As I secretly alluded to in one of my last post’s I am an obese fan of composer Danny Elfman.  I recently purchases a new copy from a third party seller of his score for Ang Lee’s 2003 film Hulk.  I like to imagine myself listening to this disc in my automobile but not nearly as much as I like to imagine myself crashing in my automobile, being ejected from my seat and splattering my brains all over the unforgiving concrete. 

Hannibal tv series showrunner Bryan Fuller recently described the show as like a “pretentious art film from the 80’s”  Recently I watched the premiere episode of season 3 which was entitled Antipasto. 

Saturday morning I spent a great deal of time contemplating suicide before eventually settling down on my bourgeois sofa to watch a bit of television.  Fate had grandiose plans for me that particular day as I happened upon Gilberto Agustín Martínez Solares’s 1952 film El Bello Durmiente.  Is there anything greater than watching a beautiful Mexican cavewoman devouring what appears to be a chicken leg (standing in for some dinosaur meat). 

Oh Jade, you have stolen my heart.  I would let happily let you bash me over the head with a massive club made of prehistoric rock.  How I wish I could live with you millions of years ago and dance and play and be with you in the sun. 

I recently finished Clive Barker’s new book The Scarlet Gospels.  It is a relatively short book and I read it in roughly 4 days time.  It was a fast, brutal read and I quite loved it.  Early buzz from years ago said this was going to be a massive 1000+ page tome with multiple timelines and plot threads juggling a cast of who knows how many and there was a fair amount of controversy amongst Barker/Hellraiser/Pinhead fans when the final product was released with a huge amount of that stuff edited out. 

I will also say it seems the cartoon The Flinstones ripped off many of the ideas presented in this film.  One day I will own a massive home theatre system and illegally charge average American citizens to watch this film on it. 

I saw American Sniper at some point recently as well. Or did I?  The answers may be more difficult to accept than you had hoped. 

Back in January I made one of the biggest mistakes of my miserable worthless life and it will haunt me forever unless I am able to rectify.  Will I be granted a second chance?  If so, I swear I will not fail you again.  Deanna, I swear. 

She was in a house and there was a dead child by the stairs.  Anyone who looks at the child is hypnotized; their eyes roll over black and they start to scream.  How did she come by this knowledge? 

Self destruction is my heart.  And I have so much room to grow, so much to explore. 

The sweet pull of temptation.  I thought of you before falling asleep.  This was so wrong.  Have you ever thought about me?  You cannot possibly be this virtuous.  My diseased mind is playing elaborate tricks on me.  Still, I see such elegance, such grace and passion.  Art flowing freely out of you.  It is so intoxicating to be a part of that.  And in those moments the desire is so strong I just want to get down on my knees.  How I long to be subjugated.  I desperately want to be enslaved.  You are all in white.  And then black.  With a shroud.  There are two of you, one good and one evil, both glorious.  There is such tenderness in your eyes and that is something I have never and will never deserve.  Would you hold me in the palm of your hand?  And then crush me between your white teeth. 

They want me to be like all the other zombies.  What a disgusting world.  Despite my best efforts I could not muster the strength to care.  All that will ever be is reflected in their eyes.  It is an empty and horrifying vision; so much nothing.  We build our lives on nothing, create nothing and then die and our lives mean nothing. 

This is the house that Jack built.  That’s what one old man said to the other.  The 5^th dimension terrifies me.  Oh God, it hurts.  I’m sorry I failed you again.  I’m sorry for my whole rotten life.

Somehow David always makes things better again.  Is he the only one who truly understands?  I think of him driving like a demon from station to station. 

The ends of my fingers are all bitten off.  I was so terrified the other night and convinced someone or some thing was going to walk into my bedroom.  I pictured it walking in slow but silently and I would lying in bed awake but unable to move. 

My heart is a shameless disgusting whore and I hate it so very much. What right do I have to imagine?  How dare I dream the unthinkable. 

I listened to the album Ahi Vamos by Gustavo Cerati while writing all this garbage.  It is a great album. 

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I ate a bowl of spaghetti for dinner the other night.  I also watched two spaghetti westerns which arrived in the mail sooner than expected.  It was very much a pasta oriented day.  Sometimes I like to imagine myself living in the old west.  Since I am very much a coward these imaginings typically end with me being gunned down after shamelessly begging for my life.  Actress Loredana Nusciak from Sergio Corbucci’s 1966 western Django was so darn beautiful and compelling.  Sometimes I fantasize about being in the old west and being rejected by her or women like her.  Then I go to an old saloon and drink all my problems away. 

It is possible dissension will take place at some near point in the future.  If this happens I have already made up my mind.  Truth be told, there was never any doubt to begin with.  Was it inevitable there would be infighting?  I think so.  Or maybe I like to think so.  I always feel so comforted when things take a turn for the worse because it proves my instincts – nay, my central core – as being correct.  What would I do if things ever stayed on the up?  Still, that question has no relevance to the current situation.  I’ve always known which side I am on.  I will follow you until the very end. 

Such sweet sexual splendor. And oh what delicious suffering.  All four of them shoot me with a taser and as I am on the ground with teeth clenched and writhing in agony and they laugh. 

The way you gave my hand that little extra squeeze I knew you wanted to kill me. 

Let it be known that I predicted it here: one day Shakira’s 2005 album Fijacion Oral Vol. 1 will be regarded as one of the all time greats.  I have written extensively about this release in the past and every day I become more convinced of my assertions.  The variance and MASTERY of so many styles combined with lush instrumentation (with the late Gustavo Cerati featured on a couple tracks), some of her finest vocal work and poetic lyricism all combines to create a glorious work of art; sometimes somber, sometimes pulsing, its explorations of love remain as poignant and intoxicating as ever.  I’ve also been listening to the Ramones and Scott Walker lots and lots lately.  I ordered Trickfinger’s new album the other day and I will diligently wait until it is delivered to my posh flat in a small brown cardboard box.  Then I will listen to it on a second rate stereo system.

Estrellita was eliminated from Baila Si Puedes last night.  It has been a glorious month or so following her progress and salivating over her every dance just as I salivate over her every wrestling match.  Please mock me.  Please humiliate me and strangle me.  Oh delightful hosiery.  I consider once more the phenomena of objectification and my own role in this.  Ultimately, I can only conclude that my own sexual desires are repugnant and inklings of some deeper evil lurking within myself.  Yet, I still love these desires; I still foster them and watch them grow.  I dance with them in the pale moonlight and I wake up beside them, full of hate but eager to take them with me wherever I go. 

After years of ever building pants wetting anticipation Hannibal season 3 finally begins this Thursday.  I am especially curious to see how the latter half of the season tackles adapting Thomas Harris’s original 1981 Hannibal Lecter novel Red Dragon.  It should be no problem at all to surpass Brett Ratner’s 2002 effort (all due respect to Mr. Ratner, his direction was surefooted if a tad pedestrian and that flick suffered from many more problems) so if any comparisons are to be made they shall be with Michael Mann’s stellar 1986 film Manhunter.  However the series has thus far proved so distinct that aside from an occasional homage to these aforementioned adaptations I would wager that any need for a comparison shall not arise. 

Is there a P Bass in my future?  I wish I had all the answers.  If so, I hope it is in the classic and timeless sunburst style.   

5 months of progress was shattered in the space of a single second.  One second was all it took to fall in love all over again.  Why do I always need a muse?  I don’t want to kill my inspiration but this inevitably happens.  Chew me up and spit me out.  I want you to throw me away.  I love being used by you.  My heart is a shameless whore. 

All my life I’ve been searching for a frame worthy poster of the flick La Nave de los Monstruos, one of my all time favorite films.  I feel I’ll be searching for the rest of my life. 

Lately I’ve also been thrilling to John Carpenter’s new album Lost Themes.  It is synth-laden instrumental greatness and I like to drive around at night with this as my soundtrack, imagining I may be about to do terrible things or – even better – that terrible things may be about to happen to me.  I’ve been on a Carpenter kick as of late, re-watching the original Halloween and The Thing and In the Mouth of Madness and buying Shout Factory!’s beautiful blu-ray releases of They Live, Escape From New York and Prince of Darkness.  All have great scores and I adore how he handles the music himself.  Carpenter’s artistic integrity has blown my brains from my skull! 

If I could I would go back in time and travel across dimensions until I found one where actress Maria Victoria really is the character Inocencia from the classic Mexican TV series/feature film La Criada Bien Criada and I would convince her to marry me through a potent mixture masculine charm, above average wit and several lies about my finances.  Once married I would politely ask her to always wear her maid outfit while doing everything in my power to hide from her the daring and intricate games I play involving forgery, extortion and the occasional improvisational murder.  I would always offer her a foot massage at the end of the day and hope she would belittle me while I undertake this action. 

Discussing the Lecter mythology has reminded me I desperately need to purchase the score to Red Dragon.  Good ol’ Danny Elfman.  I’ve been a mega fan ever since seeing Tim Burton’s Batman way back in the summer of 89’.  I was dating a vedette from Queretaro, Mexico named Sandra at the time.  We’d met at a club where she was performing during one rainy night.  I’d just lost several thousand dollars in a card game with a salesman from Cleveland and was drinking a Singapore Sling paid for with borrowed money to dull the pain.  As though she were bestowed with supernatural abilities she seemed to sense my despondence and promptly danced over to my table, giving me a far greater vantage point of her routine.  I was immediately taken by her coal black hair, her dark tempestuous eyes and the phenomenal curvature of her enormous seamed-fishnet-stockings wrapped derriere and stunning thunderous thighs.  Her smile was full of warmth yet also showing she completely understood and loved the mighty power she possessed over men.  I bought her several drinks with more borrowed money after her show was over, we began to chat and I was soon completely under her glorious south-of-the-border spell. 

We went out for several months and even though I knew I would never be the one to truly capture her wild heart it was an honor to be by her side, if only for a brief time.  How I yearn for the days of yore where she would return home after so many sweaty dance routines, slip off her strappy silver high heels and promptly use my face as her footrest.  It can be truly said that I loved her. 

I recall the night we went to see Batman at the midtown Cineplex that she wore a Batman t-shirt tucked into impossibly tight cheetah print pants that were under savage and wonderful strain of ripping and knee high leather boots.  She jiggled and I sauntered into the theatre and we left in awe of Burton’s gothic pop-art vision, Anton Furst’s glorious German expressionist Gotham City, Michael Keaton’s unexpected coiled intensity, Jack Nicholson’s gleefully unhinged lunacy, Prince’s ubran funk themes and of course Danny Elfman’s propulsive, enigmatic and utterly anthemic score.  We’ve been Elfman fans ever since and though we broke up soon after this flick left theaters we’ve remained in touch and I view that time as amongst the happiest of my life. 

So upon receiving this Red Dragon score in the mail I think I’ll throw it on the ol’ stereo, take a shot or four of El Jimador silver tequila, throw an old used (not by me) pair of pantyhose on my head and dance around my room, holding back simultaneous tears of depression and screams of ecstasy.  I have now ordered a “Like New” used copy from someone’s private collection via amazon.com; such is the combined wonders of time, finance and the written word. 

Sometimes I feel like my mind is diseased.  I close my eyes and grind my teeth and cannot make sense of anything.  It is highly unfortunate human beings were given the ability to breed.  I suspect we are all in store for a very harsh awakening. 

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She wakes up and is not sure what day it is.  She fell on the sofa because she was too afraid to sleep in the bedroom.  Her phone is on the small table next to the sofa and she checks it and sees the time is 3:50 in the morning. 

Please forgive me for failing over and over again.  Am I talking to Jesus or his mother?

I type worthless things up, I sign them, I sign them, I receive them back for corrections, I resubmit and then I start all over again.  How can this become anyone’s life? 

The morning is when she most considers killing herself.  It is an oddly comforting thought and sometimes she laughs when it crosses her mind.  There is a lovely orange container with a white cap and white label in the cupboard full of sleeping pills and there is always an unopened bottle of wine somewhere to be found.  She could put on a movie or album and turn the lights off and simply drift away.  There are also at least a couple different ways in which she could easily acquire a gun.  She thinks it would be great somehow for her brains to be splattered against the walls of her apartment and slowly rotting while the big frightening and disgusting world outside keeps moving along as though nothing happened.  That’s true though: it would be nothing, but a glorious nothing. 

She hears Scott’s voice in her head saying he’ll give her 21, 21, 21 and she touches herself and imagines hands around her throat and for a moment there is ecstasy and a

I never want to leave my room. 

Death death death I want to fucking die I want to jump of a building I want to blow my fucking brains out and when they find my body they’ll blood and shit and all the rotten fucking garbage that’s inside my head maybe next time I go driving a semi will hit me and my body will be crushed and my bones will shatter and my neck will snap or my head will just be chopped off maybe someone will feel like I do and just stick a fucking gun in my mouth

Wherever I go everyone is staring at me.  Why does anyone even bother talking to me?  I hate all of them and I don’t want to hear a single word from their mouths.  I see people on fire in front of me and I see babies that are doomed from the moment of their conception. 

It occurs to her – not for the very first time – she mostly prays in the morning and most often right in bed or in the shower.  She prays for relief and to be taken away from everything.  She imagines a bearded face with long hair and kind eyes and being embraced and kissed and told that everything would okay.  There is a room with candles and a bed with white sheets and what follows is tenderness and fulfillment and then blissful sleep.   

Driving to work she has powerful to slam on the gas pedal and drive her car into a well or steel pole or off a bridge.  She imagines unbuckling her seatbelt and how it would feel to be launched out of the vehicle, her head shattering in the windshield before striking the pavement.  Sometimes she laughs when imagining an oncoming truck, the driver of which is unable to break in time and large tires crush her head and chest and she is left as a grotesque red stain on the pavement. 

Why does my head hurt so much?  There are whores living inside my head and the endless fucking keeps me awake at nights.  There is no one who can save us. 

I’m just a little girl with grey eyes.