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Just Another Lie

13th — Tue, 31 Aug 2010 16:50:44 +0000

Twisted by another desire
I cannot seem to find the truth again
segmenting little anchor
in a sea of lies
beneath a perpetuating deity
decried, deity disguised
false face reveal your demon eyes

physio-political
crudely anti-social
short breath of the sexual
and again, the perpetual beating
beneath the skin lies the heart
center of mortality
unknown what we’re within

gives me a kiss
gives me a kick
plenty of lies
for the love sick
too quick judgment
for which there is
no reprise
beyond what is mine
my own to relive
replay, again and again
cannot dismiss

tormenting demons playing
the same game in my mind
dirty cheating myself
out of time
to express the way I want
to feel, to peel
back the layers
of skin and paint
just to feel, the feel displayed

Quote of the Month; August….2010

13th — Fri, 13 Aug 2010 16:38:40 +0000

“Without obsession, life is nothing.”
~John Waters; movie director, bad taste aficionado, and guru of trash.

Writing – revisited.

:\_khet — Wed, 04 Aug 2010 19:03:41 +0000

mistakes, the maddening amount thereof, and the endless edit… this has finally come to an end for a short story I have been working and re-working since July of this year, the last to be published on this site at all recently, but I have recovered in my time off from these ideas… even though I seem rather taken by this ‘tentacle-raping’ concept, I have finally worked into the first ending since I really started this with focused intent, and will not be the last even though my writing style is very erratic… so now my intentions are tweaked even further through the spectrum, there is no more doubt that I can write, but the motivation still seems to wane when I least expect it… so what now, now that I have finished an actual story for the time being, but I quickly find that other stories await my mind for the grim task of editing to prove my ideas worthy and well-thought out… I think I might actually be on the threshold, but still cannot foresee anything beyond now… struggling to make ends meet from one paycheck to the next, various payments pulling their respective weight out of my accounts, and still trying to find any time to stay happily on the fringe… even though this cruel and sometimes psychotic world does not work through fair use of rules and tolerance, spreading pain and suffering wherever there happens to be a reason, and still we all seem to wait for a bomb to drop… obliteration would save us from our lost gyrations messing over the mediocre lines of disbelief, pulling the puppet strings to make those lines blur, and somewhere we separate from ourselves… that being said, the finished story has opened my mind palate, and it still wants a taste of the everything that a warped imagination can provide… so, next, “we” contemplate the whole slew of tales under my hat… this site has all sorts of creative elements to work out, as I have with my ‘writing style’, but these too shall yield to my time withering patience… half-assed Stoicism, but minus the objectivity, difficult to project but still valid through the nightmares… this manifold destiny I am creating, perhaps legacy of nothing, it screams at me as no other voices ever have… I propose this, friends, that I begin finishing more of these rotten ‘tentacle-raping’ scenes as their potency does me no justice really… the time always nigh to work on/develop my ability to write, I have even begun breaking down the songwriting method in a similar format, and hope to collect a rough draft (at least) of both music and artwork… now questions remain of the next one, and what to do with it while at the same time trying to work intensively with one story every week or so, though my highest hopes would prefer to do make it one a day… within the range of possibility, but not that inspired yet, don’t plan on getting addicted to methamphetamine or any other amphetamine for that matter to accelerate this process… Sorry, fellow Phil Dick fans…

Thanks, khet.

Julius Seizure

:\_khet — Mon, 02 Aug 2010 19:57:35 +0000

I am your prophet of pain; the pulpit insane #1
I am the one of which you cannot speak
I am the one of freakish dementia
Priests, scholars and scarecrows
you must give into the madness
as it reaps and shows us the end
of the world in your hands,
only to bring it to my command
chorus.

It is time to rend as fate demands
possessing the fingers of the damned #2
the hatred being the biggest key
to waking up and killing me
repeat chorus.

Inward turned, your body burned
as those that do are falling
behind me they are falling dead #3
to always remind me
repeat chorus.

Take me away or become my slave
I am damn cruel and harsh to rule
stab me down, O’ Brutus
beware the ides of march #4
repeat chorus.

Art for art’s sake, please.

:\_khet — Sun, 01 Aug 2010 15:52:36 +0000

So again I speak for myself, and on behalf of my practices… the art of what? is not exactly essentially known to any one particular individual, is the twist always something stronger than that which presses us into line in the first place… a creepy synchronicity feeling its way through the tense atmosphere of the pulsating real not aware of the chilling skill with which it all moves into place begging the question of existing at all… mirrored by differences so similar to each thing as itself… bandwidths and wavelengths, parallels and perpendiculars, waves and particles… one and the same begging for understanding, to be understood, and always by the other ones like itself asking the same question in offset timing structures… creating a particular harmony through dissonant details splashing without the idea of direction… ringing to drive out the demons, thrilling beneath the skin, and syndicated throughout the perilous world of sticks and stones and broken bones… the pools of blood feed the plant life, and our own thoughts plunge further through space, splashing against the page… like everyone else craves the strange to break themselves away from stage of the eventual existence… including the brave, it takes them in waves, by the dozens to make it swirl together in violent colors before it fades… where is the canvas? the backdrop plays, the crowd softly whispers to themselves, the elements align as the room darkens slightly… without a doubt, the fierce and untrained mind has seen a light, and it lights up bright tropical skies… rough passages from one moment to the next as the voices ring through our heads… thought a lot about nothing and inane actions in the week of “bliss” and blistered lips, what topical solutions we find Here, but is it left for an untrained eye like me? dropping the pocket and the balls for all to see, and panic of wet floor gripped me straight, from worn off pain to riding planes… the nothing I thought about was the nothing accomplished, a regained essence of life as the tourist eyes replaced my own, and the windows watched reached stumbling in to teach… a guide through penetration, first days end quick, and then the sober sick brain inhales escape… the new patterns of another powerful culture has settled into vision, assimilated transfiguration and transformations through sun and shore, and ocean floors explored giant cruise ships leaned… the gift of flesh, my mind as the fly, and lurid maggot lying there stares long and hard at bodies unaware… nothing really new just many other points of view to spew upon the lessons learned of, though I still don’t know what was the end result of all that drinking religiously, except for that ’serial biting’ incident… the rhyming is the reason that all this comes together with craters and wedges, the cheeses from the buffets, and all-inclusive jargon thrown astray… the six of us, as we all seemed to travel in a pack, toured the fairest island close of all… the classic trust of the familiar rusts and withers as it stays just arm’s length out of distance… out of focus in the hocus-pocus rhetoric, seasickness and Spanish language abound, and then the usual tricks again swirl around… what souvenirs are left us besides our stories witnessed, and the gifts we have kept with us, but something other than the decadent positions… of surface glimmers like the tans, the burns, the blistered exceptions that shimmer as we see them in our mind’s eye projected… what forgives us these qualities?

Quote of the Month; July….2010

13th — Wed, 21 Jul 2010 17:28:52 +0000

“Take a chance, deny control, love someone and see what happens”
~Genesis P-Orridge; musician, mystic, and artist.

I HATE THE ARTIST

:\_khet — Thu, 15 Jul 2010 04:02:50 +0000

‘I sit, thoughtless, stoned
a crippled hypocrite
my own needs and wants
subdues, perhaps,
subsumed by the water
a helpless, lagging grasp
elongating hours
away from minutes
into the infinite
displayed,
the inept transmission
of words and feelings
I’ve lost my hearing
and the visions, too
fade, scaring everyone
that’s playing it straight
my misplaced witness,
staring forward
while looking back to
rival distracting negatives’

the vastness of space-time…

13th — Tue, 29 Jun 2010 19:00:35 +0000

my eyes feel the filter as it falls on to us to change the world… we meet each other’s gazes, but wander aimlessly out into the sunlight together, stranded… as the cold, jarring stain remains… you run into another one, and feel yourself dragged into that depressed state where well-being does not seem to be the highest of priorities… the sensational is where the ignorance lies, born on this earth with that innocent alien compassion so rare, and twisted by the emotions in this demon/human animal we call ‘home’… as the innocence fades, the distance becomes marked by the acquiring of experience, and this is when the subtle shades change the mindset… that combination of aged wisdom coupled with amorous inclinations, delving into that softer tissue anchored with issues, and realizing that there never was a stake to claim… the ‘already there’ has been back and forth through the trigger finger explosion, down both barrels, and we are the awake… the humble evil, that god-mass you may call ‘humanity’, as the crimes grow morals… like vines surging underneath the humid canopy, we are blazing a trail of our own through the unkempt natural scenario, and it won’t be with you or I along if we ever find the destination… humans and the forms of society are the moral evils plaguing an otherwise adaptable nation of billions and billions, it is when the system seems so perfect but is not, that we delude ourselves into thinking that limited adaptation is key… that we only take up as the gears in this ‘deus ex machina’ organism we wish to become, that is what the system/society wishes for us, and we have only to forget the innocence to let it be defiant once and for all… no heroes, only the shallow puddle which the real would become, and we raise our noses at the murky waters there…

folk, freak, & the industrial beat.

:\_khet — Fri, 18 Jun 2010 19:16:54 +0000

the doomed have their rights to… a festive outgoing somewhere out of the heart of the sun… a lucid conquest between stealth and travesty, I suppose… Here, the scene is rife with all those aspects i have been utterly willing to finally expose myself to… there are many various bits to assimilate into the rest of the stew… let us start first with folk music, as descended from early ethnic musics, that have streamed into America through the efforts of migrant peoples… we seem to have taken things for granted a long time ago, and the generations upon generations have created some substrata of concrete ideas and awareness that misery after misery inflicted by the “moral majority” hits the public mass, putting so much pressure on the working class… the result of which throws us all into a dogged tailspin dubbed a ‘depression’ by the quick wits of the day… which we happen to be re-experiencing every time we allow our culture to become defiled from within, it may take the shock waves a few months to arrive, but they always occur in reaction to the latest trashing that we condone from our rulers… the thick rotting smoke billows and flows from the syrupy wake of the industrialization of world economy, and even that distance seems too much from this far away… the reality of the present day, that gift of immediate awareness now, and the capability to function through these electric particles… to swing our arms up and shake away all the problems of the modern day takes a casual fluidity stupendous… the music fills that space… the ghastly hybrid meets the martyr halfway between this hell and the next heaven scape that unfurls itself on distant planes… so, in a winding motion, the folk spoke from those roots that bled for the machine… the early days of machination still required human beings, but it was at this point they were acquired to labor by day as work animals have always had to, with nights filled with grim lusts and grime-coated tongues as they drank themselves dry if they were lucky… too many died in the gears of this previous anarchy, the worst kind yet still in use today, where the forces that be reveal themselves to be against the people… as lamed animals we accept this sedative lifestyle for ease of production, we still waste away, but the music seeds far more than clouds Here… the dreams were once filled with the creams of crops harvested to keep up the profits, the machines began in the ideas from mankind, in kind of like twins fighting the same revolutions again… once to bind, twice to cut free and be, and three times with the mercy trailing behind the cruel and the heartless… the tragedy is that we still resist, and give-up in a balancing act that will deprive as much as deprave all the rest of us, making tests of us to find out who is the best of us… earlier in the century just behind us lies the real revolution that came to a head in the Sixties, one can always read about such things now, but previous to this there were tight controls on information and people getting into breaking free… free from the disOrder that sprang up out of the industrialized menace on the streets, police were becoming more frequently as restless as the criminal, and the gray areas began to thin out as masses grew… the beats were always integral to the counter-structure, creation of dissonance within the system, and even before the Great War there were artists running against the dogmatic regime that has built itself an ivory tower to watch over us… guiding this bliss-stained cultural zenith through subtle grandiose gestures to stem the flow of rebellion… right at the pulsating vein where it comes from… freak has always been partial to me, from a school-aged taunting and onward, it always comes back to me how diverse we really are… music, for myself and many others, is the means to overthrowing the ideal systematic cancellation of creativity… to fr3ak people out, friends… again, the last real American revolution took place just before the deaths of many great leaders, and the constraints of the “conservative” agenda with no real public interest… merely interested in the public, the demographic, the statistical individual… to what degree does a being quantify into anyone’s graph or chart, we are the motion of energy, the physical regulation between forces unknown… we are not graphs… we are graphic artists, hell, we are all artists…

Remains of the Dying Age

13th — Thu, 10 Jun 2010 16:19:10 +0000

A flippant nostalgia for the things that we have lost
carry over from the pain of cost
I think we have given all that we got
all we have left is time to rot
leaving us drained in Salem’s Lot… sand and salt

chorus~
Invoking the end to this dying age
casting the runes to cause the next plague
slipping into the coming storm
chaos crawling out through this fettered form

… the streak of freaks, fanfare up and away
to savor the flavor while pissing the day away
in nothing we sit, in the nothing we shall display
pushing it back behind the eyes, not to see
the elephant problem room, prevailing
lavish the love for your own soul when you can
while you can hold it in your hands
before you betray the true function
rusting primordial source for reproduction
to wallow in our mass-produced progeny
then to wash it all away, the hiding truth come clean
ourselves, our minds, well unaware of
the final scare, crying out our selfish dismay

chorus repeat~

Vampires and scags come out to play
as the world begins to fall from the sky
bathing in the pain of the sun
the plaything casualties of irresponsible fun
a reverie mass like flies at the bar
have come to lick from the scar