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Sn00p
01-29-2013, 07:52 PM
PancakeBrah


Also known as cakecakecake and SFS.
Active from 2003 to 2005 and from 2012 to the present time.
Posted on GameFaqs.com, BattleZone, Netcees, AOB.

PancakeBrah
01-15-2014, 08:03 PM
AOWL SEASON 2 VERSES

Finals, vs. Frank
Mark collected government paychecks, away from the workaday freaks.
$555 a week, enough to pay for WiFi and all the ho-ho’s he could eat.
He hacked for a fee. Went past meta-crypts to steal megabits
and only accepted BitCoin to hide the income from his case specialist.
Known online as ‘Crackpot’, he did well of it. He had e-stacks printed,
enough to buy a black tinted laptop with the slick matte finish.
Cyber sleuth. Had his custom avators and ‘gaia’ troupes on his hard drive
(his had the custom tailored tiger suit). All in all, an odd guy.
As a pastime he’d try to find the ‘truth’ in archives;
like 9/11 clues, hidden apartheids. He’d often laugh at the sheep
from his swivel chair. “I bet you all think you’re actually free,
while the Rothchild illuminati controls every action you see.”
Surfed AboveTopSecret.com. Being right fueled him in topics and threads,
daily. He had trouble finding news and theories he hadn’t already read
lately. Until he found one post with a thousand replies plus,
written by the handle ‘Knowles’. He read, caught with surprised lust;

“CHURCH OF THE CELL”
http://phys.org/news/2013-06-physicists-self-correcting-quantum-theoretically.html
“Greetings. I am Reverend Knowles, and above is the tome
of the Church of the Cell. We wish to welcome you home.
You may be skeptical, but this is at the very root of the lives that you drew.
We have over 100 members, keen, with an eye for the truth.
Do you want to know the meaning of life? Contact this line if you do; 1-323-903-6972”

The idea was unique. Plus the subscribers co-signed with his ‘think’.
Mark was behooved to listen. The separatist view aligned with his mission
to prove the populous wrong. He eventually moved and was living
with the topics’ nubile admissions. He read the pamphlets over incense,
as was standard for the 'Imprint.' They rarely saw the prophet Knowles,
and instead recited his objective goals. ‘Reject the common known
paradigm.’ ‘Look towards the salvation.’ ‘You’re a steam of digits, honed.’
‘This is your home.’ and ‘We share the mind.’ The digital text spoke
of an endgame. Mark read every psalm with a confident grin.
Hooked. He’d found all of the win, bypassing the crowd in their din.
Looking forward to the truth, his...

Hair coiffed, angled. Crisp, the smile of a model with hazel eyes,
as he exited his squared off chambers and uncapped bottle of maple rye.
Reverend Knowles. He assumed the pulpit in a heavy set of robes,
took a breath, then let it go.
“Welcome!” to the crowded pews, to each successive row.
“As you know, our very cells hold computerized self-correcting code,
and on our collective road we finally arrive, tonight, at our compression goal.”
He lifts his glass, causing the congregated mass to follow,
each containing maple rye and a dissolvable tab to swallow.
“Drink with me! To rapture! Together, as enlightened, connected souls.”
Mark drank his with a smile. Eyes closed as the concoction hit his teeth.
As the poison made him nod out, right before it’d get to his heart
he was assured of his route, like the dozens by him. And before he’d give to the sleep
he cracked one last smile at all those idiot sheep still living in the dark.





Semi-Finals, vs. Diode
Yesterday

We sat at the bonfire. We’d used the last of the kindling and tinder
for this. It cracked. ***kled at the debris in the beginning of Winter.
Dad wrapped up in his three blankets, with that cancerous cough
while the black soot still fell. The very same that damaged the crops.
I smiled at him weakly as the fire cooked our last batch of venison.
He smiled back, with his eyes hollow from the lack of medicine.

Six Months Ago

He stood in front of me, in front of a pack of jackals, of thieves.
Packed to the teeth. Two, maybe three, I didn’t look past him to see.
“Take what you want from us and leave” At any sign of trouble
As our supplies were ruffled through, without fight or any type of struggle
the Walthier in my pocket’s weight felt doubled within my whitened knuckles.
Our cart now barren. As they slinked away I sighed a silent cry of “Fuck you.”
After they disappeared on the horizon we walked in empty silence,
like our reserves. “I know you’re mad. But if we fought, it’d end in violence.
We can find new food. We can’t replace us.” As he coughed up thick decay.
He was weak and I looked at him as if were, in a different way.

Two Years Ago

My first thought was whether or not mom saw or heard the blast
of the plume that followed that awesome, bursting clap of exhumed dirt and ash.
I assumed she died of fumes or the ensuing savage human acts,
while dad gathered supplies; the water, the blankets, the food, the axe.
Any and all he could grasp. I bet she heard it coming, that Godless whistle.
He shook me back to reality, handing me his Walthier pistol
while people outside looted, newborn crooks eating off the gristle
as the panic settled in comfortably. All from one rocket, missile.
He locked the doors. The house was airtight, through to the bottom
coughing all the while. Where do you do chemo in a nuclear autumn?
How does parent visitation work now? It’ll be a long weekend this time,
starting with the first aftermath dinner. Cold cuts and skinned limes.
while the rest of everyone stockpiled in preparation for the weather
we ate…cold cuts and skinned limes. And he told jokes to make me feel ‘better’.

One Year Ago

I kicked rocks off the gravel as we passed by the footprints in the soot
that made use ignore the gas station. Supposedly freshly minted by crooks.
Supplies low, axe dulled. Our cart’s axles squeaked, alignment was off,
and we just walked past a few months of food. My father was soft.
“We’ll find a better place to resupply, I promise. You can never be too safe.”
Kick another rock, head down. Yeah, but you can be too late.

Today

I did cry. As I shook the heap of blankets, flesh, and bones that
I called my father. Now just a weight. A heavy stone, flat,
laying prone, back stiff and eyes lulled, black. I sat there for a while, idle.
Until the tears dried. It’s a voiding feeling. He had his napkin by his rifle,
all wrinkled with dried blood. Weak as he was.

Emotions well and gone, I stocked the cart, hardly packed to the lid.
I left one of three blankets still covering dad. I heard the snap of a twig
to my left. “Hey kid, what you got in the cart?” Raspy and thick.
I turned, cocked the hammer, and shot the stranger dead where he stood
And went on my way, bull by the horn.





Second Round, vs. Mr. J
Business.

David isn’t Patrick Bateman, no. He isn’t Travis Bickle deranged,
he’s simply kempt. Face bathed in soap, tailored in Valentino layered coats
strictly arranged. Fickle, in gator toes. Lapping the ladder rungs,
watching as colleagues slip from the gable’s ropes back to the cattle run.
Detached, with a smile flashing off of his platinum tie clips
with patented dryness. Can’t recall the last he saw of the back of his eyelids
off on his Zoloft and Ritalin coughs. Driven. Medicated in a millionaire loft,
living in salt. Capitalist chakras in tune. On business, he’s visited Prague
and Ibiza, only to know their every marketable feature. His margins aligned,
a cognizant leader with a slight temper and dulled spark in his eyes.

He meets Ava in a bar, of course. She’s wearing Gothika chic and pockets of lint.
Little tassles, lockets and trinkets. Soft in the cheek, she moves like a walking of winks,
adorned with the gaudiest ringlets. Black sheer stockings with her body anemic,
she frolicks the scene, often caught with a free drink from the Johns she was seen with
while David sat sated, starched. A suit, holding an Old Fashioned fashioned with Maker’s Mark
annoyed that the napkin sticks. Passive. A pacifist in matching wits in a scene so dark.
So when she sits down, it’s an adrenal spark. Flush of face in an awkward pause.
This is no place for business cards. There’s no Action Plan if you can’t chart the cause.
He’s fucked his whore or two. Of course. But there’s a difference between rotten and fresh;
“Want to buy me a drink?” He nods with a “Yes.”

“Your performance has declined as of late, David” says the Chairman.

David doesn’t know gossamer from satin. Is gossamer satin?
Lost in the patterns. Aloft, drinking coffee with her is Latin. Innate.
Naked cross section of passion. Winterlove, winter in cabins. She’s late.
Often. Ava is the watch. Time is so latent. Time is so late.
What is a problem? Cross legged, thatched in a snowy mornings wake.
So foreign, these once pressing capitalization rates.
Cracked fire wood is the pace. Slow. Soaking in every falling flake
outside. Fingertips fire. A single blanket, an ice rink once called a lake
as a view. Teenage dream, renewed. The lack of a ledger,
warmth in Ava. At peace, eyes now undulled, together.


“We need to have a serious talk.” says the Chairman.

It’s an interlock of moonlit fingertips. Surround sound tinnitus. David locked into her. Life's lack of animus. Her locked into him. The big bang phantom dust. Neutron candle lust. Disregard of the rational. She’s his ration, him hers. Each other’s hymn verse. From here to sand, to dust.

“You’re fired.”
“I’m pregnant.”
Freedom. What's to your goal now?
"None. I'm happy."





First Round, vs. YDK
Pretty White Girls.

Marginal. Withdrawn, the void of effervescence.
Next. Succession. Barely buoyant, pressed against it.
Detached. The feeling embroiled in separate sessions,
unboiling. A watched kettle, toiling in desk professions.
The plots, settled. All statements null, facing the factless.
So spacious, the blackness. You're bent over backwards,
wasted, not knowing you're retracing your backflips
for disposable actors. On the spark, and how it died.
Another lark. Just sit and abide by this heart of alkali.
Logical lies. Watch; reflect on past crossing of lines;
the dull gloss is refined. The faux embossment'll shine
until it's all just a bundle of awkward, aprocryphal lies
written on parchment of white, forgotten. Disposed,
with porn as escape. Breathe in the rot of the cloves
nostalgia borne. The pangs of former gossamer throes;
formerly raked, now you willing walk through the coals
in fettered debt. Coloring your tone monochrome in beige
in every tete a tete. You've grown your lot in lone malaise,
honed. 'We' as estranged, with her goading exposition.
"You must love me." Probably, by the supposed definition.
But you could say the same about any pretty white girl
I've known and for which all my prose is written.





Week 9, vs. Frank
It was all a bit less than rose stems with teeth marks.

Alice in August. Disheveled, she lapped through afternoon snifters and flasks.
Vodka would splash on her lips from the glass while perusing her different masks;
there was diffident, crass, flippant, or dismissive with just a smidge of militant acts.
She would flip through her stash, biting her lip in the mirror until it would match
her outfit in the glass. She always picked the maroon lipstick with just a dash of base
since neither seemed to clash with any of her personas’ collective black malaise.
Eclectic, while Flea slapped the bass she pre-gamed with pot in fractioned eighths,
which lead her to machinate on her pitfalls, on her sprawling lack of faith,
how ‘if you don’t stop you don’t withdrawal’, tonight’s party starting just after eight,
and how she tried to recall exactly how her dad touched her clit when she masturbates.
Simply passing the time, this Saturday, recollecting her most prized underachievements,
waiting for the call. Waiting on the last soiree for this summer’s bereavement,
thumbing her attention scars under her sweater when tension calls. Numb to the feeling
as her phone hummed, eventually succumbed to the ringing.

-

Alice is offered. One little tab, a Technicolor sweet tart.
‘Burning the candle at both ends?
Don’t be a sweetheart. After this it’s all wine and rose stems with teeth marks.
Don’t be a drag.’ The party is in its autumn. The once present haze, afloat,
is just a dull sting on the nostrils now. Enough that a nubile would be made to choke
but its secondhand to this apostate crowd. ‘Your nerves are repressive.
Just take it.’ The circle of five are sedated, speaking tripped out cursory lessons
like it’s cursive. “Alice, are you afraid?” said so perversely it’s prescient.
“Of course not.” So she’s handed the acid. Five glares, a moment.
Minutes pass as it's on her tongue. Euphoria bypassed. Its serotonin;
it’s a different kind of numb, it’s bare aloneness,
It’s

‘Alice, in chains. As a carcass, her body of cross thatched lattice,
with synapses aflame. Tossed around, lost, aloft in a dark black madness,
and all that is pain. Where visage’s waft bare boned, unspooling aura
around her raggedy Anne frame, brittle and soft, for humored horror
in a tableau devoid, a broodish noir. It’s a ghoul’s haunted lilt at night,
a thousand screams but her own, with her lips sewn tight
and eyes wide shut. It’s the shuttering creep, the floating touch on her cheek.
Barren nostalgia of her father’s shuffling feet.
It’s kill on sight. Every fear under the sheets brought to light, a fever.
Her soul on ice tethered to the chill of all fright, measured and metered.
It’s the realization of blight. Soaking. The loss of all features,
the muffled “Why?”, wading through ether.’

-

Alice, in bed. Recovering from the path she’d gone, the awkward pause as she left
the party, made up of scoffs and guffaws. What was once halcyon’s now bereft.
Kleenex box at her head. Self-medicated, the induced results that she felt;
hands on her face, and as always she couldn’t find the pulse in her pelt.
Lost in her thought, another road preferably less travelled, taken.
‘These are the cards you were dealt’/ ‘Fuck that, your mind is a playpen’
The masks would bask in battle back and forth, as she’d lay still, lost in time,
with one more mistake, one more mask, to be haunted by.





Week 7, vs. Vulgar
“Would you mind if I took a picture?”

Lester had the rock knuckles. Dry skinned, with the creamsicle polo.
And street charisma. Scene stealing when he preened in the photo,
with a hand full of gel caps. Half-fiend, fueled by his dreaming in proto-,
the only path he knew was the L tracks. A walking ode to the motto
“Play the hand your dealt.” In turn this street was the road that he’d follow
to which he deemed as his dojo, lessons soaked through the bottle.
Earned his stripes, for dolo, although most the ribbons were Blue Pabst,
and half the trash was lotto tickets he scratched and tall necks he threw back,
driving his El Camino through the grotto, now riddled with new jacks.
It was his block. And he knew that.

Marlon walked as a bundle of tics. Bumbling. He fumbled with wit.
His tongue unequipped for quips and hand unfit with stumbling writ.
Described as happy, actually naïve. Comfortably numb to the shit.
Actively looking for passive relief, Summer time basked in reprieves,
looking for a good time regardless of the number of quids.
Relapsed. Lost to the beat, as addicted as any addict that breathed.
He just passed through the streets. Grasped to the ridge.
Simple. Getting high enough to ignore the past that he lived,
Boundless. Loosely wound, street walking as a fountain of nerves,
in his only pair of jeans, and a yellow sweater he found on the curb.

Smoke curled in poofs. Bar tattered, same as the roof.
Conversation unfurled uncouth. Bar talk, chattered lies same as the truth.
Lester, one seat. Marlon the next. One confident, the other was less.
The lame, and the spur of the boot. Next to one another in front of the booths.
Depressed, midday drinking. What else is there to do?
Slunk in his seat, Marlon turns. “Hey, can I bum a square?”
“Sure, kid” Lester thumbs his pair of jeans and pulls a marb one Hundred, bare.
“I’ll smoke one with you.”

As soon as they’re out the door it’s
“Would you mind if I took a picture?”
“Sure, kid.”
And it’s a Pulitzer for John H. White, for the still that he’d get
of two people who had never met,
aside from a cigarette, a neighborhood, and skin that’s tinted.
For a newspaper that probably wouldn’t waste the text to have their obits printed.





Week 6, vs. NYCSPITZ
Nothing to see. He had ample neurosis.
He shuffled his feet and sampled the dosage,
holding a picked apart bouquet. A stranger, emoting
with unrequited handfuls of roses, hydrangeas and posies,
as they started to fray. Neither staying or going.
Brown haired and bland. Staid. Laid in a stasis, no motion.
Filling out forms. Faceless. Interesting, but boring.
Lame tasteless prude. With the same face as you,
Refined, but gaudy. 21st century snoring zombie.
A walking grey, beige, and blue origami.
Surfing the same site, just refreshing the page
all night. F5 worn out, each tap repressing a rage
until the next session of 'Day'. Porned out.
Picking between Gianna or 'Gauge: Sex in a Cage"
Between Jack or Jameson. Lessons, or daze.
Pappy Mason in plaid, minus success and vision,
charisma and pay. Picking contacts to text,
and eventually leaving 'Send' unpressed.
An imprint without impression. Joy Division.
Confidently guessing, with no decision.
He's just there. A voided prism.
A Religious man, with no soul within him.
A waste of potential, but not.
Every choice avoided, suspended and stopped,
on his death bed where every breath is a cough
to no audience. His little equity bereft
speaking his last words,
"Maybe next time, I'll make a right instead of a left"





Week 5, vs. breathless
He preferred black and whites, the dark and drab,
and a Blick palette knife for the arts he'd tag
on naked concrete slabs. Crouched in faded jeans,
spraying slouched maître d's with empty shopping bags
who pout "Delaying the Dream"; he popped the caps
like an aerosol fiend, free, sovereign, brash;
a student of Banksy's themes with a backlog racked
with the pain he'd seen; depressed, his coffee black
painting life on subway cabs to Mogwai tracks.
He dreamed, with the duress of a suppressed insomniac,
of sunlit days filling causeway cracks with vestiges sprayed
with mirth, that his melancholy message'd change,
free to express his form away from these desolate days on Earth.
An addict to sedatives. The way it worked; he'd inject then plunge,
then nightwalk. Pick through his bottles, each separate one,
and stalk his sidewalks to pick the next section done.
And that's how, on the wrong night with the right cop, weapon drawn,
he'd set upon his next path, of somber mannerisms
during a couple years in jail, for a drug charge and vandalism.

He stared, affixed and straight, to one wall of the cell
of the six by eight, and ignored the waveless minute's wake
where he was accosted to dwell. He kept to his own,
cleared his dinner plate, and welcomed this home.
When the lights would quell, he sat cross legged on the cot,
stare still affixed, and imagined the sights he'd spell
with his grips on a valve, dispelling his thoughts.
He'd mime the motions. The diagonals and cross thatches,
odd patterns, new shades and gloss patches;
he grew. Gave to new palettes. The freedom of blues and reds,
off hues of grasses. Revived, he exhumed the dead,
and let go of sadness and the misused guile of his art,
picturing depth in joy, and he smiled in the dark.
Pastures of wheat, oak trees grew in his sleep,
he'd imagine them on that wall, those square miles of park.
Plying his trade, without touching a lid,
just through rewinding his brain. He loved through his bid,
and left with only one tag; signing his name
on the best piece that he ever did.





Week 4, vs. Gamble
Salt.

Like similac, a statuette colored of mildew on ash,
opaque, but on sunny days it's like seeing through glass,
a still life silhouette with borderlines thin as your lash
the same hue that's cast after the kindling's scratched,
on a Dead Sea's shore, an ode to the wicked, the crass,
the scorned. Visible across the fjord as a witness to wrath,
now garden borne, slave to the minutes that pass,
the waves that'd crash, and the thunder's tinnitus claps.
Martyr to those of a similar path. A model, explorer.
The Godless emoji, fraught with modern impatience;
"What with Lot walking so slowly..." God isn't patient.
Turncoat curiosity, "Just one more look at Sodom, Gomorrah."
And then, the whiff of iodized salt. The simplest twist.
There's no parable. No lesson learned, presented as gift.
Just another stupid bitch, another poem, and someone who didn't exist.





Week 2, vs. King Ra.
"Nikole,

Your attention wanes. The last three of these I spelled in vain,
left unresponsive towards your weathervane.
Tepid, ensconced in my own predicate nonsense,
I sift through your 'Okay' and 'K' menagerie posits,
perched and so lofted,
to find a glimmer of chance. I'm Godless.
I'm rereading periods and pauses. Editing my myriad of clauses,
taking your speech as the gospel,
and looking for meaning in the brief responses I'm lost in.
Do you recognize my opining? I'm not trying to drink.
Or mention drink in my rhymes. But you make me blink,
and sink into wine. And recall those past plotted lines
of our teens in my blacked out rewinds.
I can't outlast you.
A casted shell over a meditative yolk
eventually breaks. So I meant every sentiment spoke,
every message, mention, insensitive joke,
negative blow, and sentence I wrote,
so long as it garnered a reaction,
even some menial poke,
to see for one more time our residue's glow.
Even as a bluer flame. Just to know you still knew my name"

Imagination
Every word's a success.
We lay in rest, my hands in tresses,
no longer restless.
This is how it works.
I opined and pained,
and through the sleight of hand of my refrains
I feel the touch of skin,
supple, thin. My worth, a forgotten apple rot,
is gone,
You're back, and the pain is an afterthought.

PancakeBrah
01-15-2014, 08:17 PM
stuff.
"And one day we will die
And our ashes will fly from the aeroplane over the sea
But for now we are young
Let us lay in the sun
And count every beautiful thing we can see"
-Jeff Mangum

Their signature. Her fingerprint's tattoo,
that he traced off the steam of the backdrop's dew
in a dream, covered by a screen of leaves of bamboo,
far from the scenes of the blacktop zoo.
Margaret stayed. Prostrate and laid,
being nipped on her rosebud nape,
tickled pink, smiling in the mocked verite,
on some thatch of strawberry hay.
Her lace unclasped, unlocked,
and garter sprayed and cast across,
heaped on hydrangeas. They watch sweat beads drop
as perfect strangers, as prescient connected dots
in lock stepped procession with each breath
hushed in tune as a sun slipped under to
a slim summer moon with their skin flushed of hue.
And with each sober touch
the film shutters through, before it eventually molts to dust.




Sometime (w/ Certain)
Certan then Pancake, Alternating

Sometimes I sleep in my queen-sized like the Vitruvian Man,
sheets coming off the corners from this toss-and-turner moving again.
I'm untucked. Loosely pretend like I'm unspooling a thread.
I'm undone. But my sweaters don't sing,
they itch and require dry cleaning.
And I always preferred Pinkerton for its broken-wing butterfly screaming.
And I always rehearsed dry-heaving at my suit-and-tie meetings.
I plan to die dreaming. I prefer no one be there to wake me up.
My security blanket fort has tank support and paintball guns.

Sometimes I feel the weight of she in a mattress.
I explain to a shadow the root causes of a hedonist practice,
with phantom cigarettes perched in the curves of my ears,
with all these nervous arrears trying to apologize for the seeds of her malice.
This whiskey drag is for you. And the next one, too.
Reflect on a reflection, the mind creates a passion sex won't do,
another misstep towards perfection, that I dance for you
in lockstep practice, the motion of forlorn enchants a fool.
Wake up and hope for a new refresher course in each sunset,
already nostalgic for the regrets I haven't done yet.

Sometimes I awaken in the foggy morning sun amid a choral hum,
leaving whispers on my pillow from last night's absorbent rum.
My eyes are boarded shut. My windows open to the allergens
carried in by the same prairie wind that led the carol sing.
And you're never here. You've avoided me and my pollenation,
as though it's my choice to be empty, hollow, vacant.
I leave your mug out, with stains on the rim circling like vultures.
As I percolate, my nerves escape:
Two creams, one stir from brain convulsion.
But the coffee's never hot enough to burn my morning hopelessness,
and the bed beckons, calling for a return to snores and loneliness.

A smattering of blacked out jots and missives,
non-specific, aimless, scribbles about 'haunted visions'
Sometimes emasculated, nonsense awkward glances
Midnight coffee dances, Marlboro read and over-saturated
In this half-awake session with a glass on my tongue as a weight
Every spoonful weighs a ton, forgetting the sun is at stake
Empty tundra, procrastinating, hoping the thunder abates
Spent all this time adrift only to find there's nothing special under the wake
Searching for depth with my restlessness as a barrier
It's a weakness, masquerading as character

The bottom drawer of my bedroom dresser is empty.
So am I. Oppressive, resenting my coalescing stressors and envy.
Every day I pull the shade down on my mirror,
and I can't see myself anymore.
Answer myself at the door. Fancy myself for a whore.
These tantrums won't help, but the single-malt Scotch might.
The main goal this evening is to tickle my balls right.
The main goal most evenings is to fall asleep eventually
and dream and see the world for a better place than it's meant to be.
Retracing what's left of me, finding nothing to hunger for,
and I'll awaken again tomorrow cold, clutching my comforter.

Depression hits compressionless. I could sniff those grams,
but instead I drink those ounces. I'm no 20th century schizoid man.
I'm not special, I'm just writing in lithographs and pictograms
I'm not unique, I just enjoy slipping past the mission plan.
Sometimes I get drunk. No, all the time I get drunk,
I spelunk into funks, enjoy the heartburn
of sipping flasks, a tipsy man,
and not giving a fuck when the next card turns.
sleeping until noon, asking if something is up.
I'll wear an ill-fitting cardigan today, why not
You can wake. I'll just try to champ the championship of dry wrought.

Sometimes I wake up cradling a seven-fifty milliliter,
with the cap on just enough not to spill on my already-filthy T-shirt.
Sometimes I don't wake up at all until the a.m.'s turned to evening,
and my nervous feelings curdle into fervent, worthless seething.
But I'll never break these habits. The fox can chase the rabbit,
but talk is just a language for the lost who pray on Sabbath.
And I've already found God, but she left me like all the rest.
I fall depressed in Autumn's nest. My whole life is awfulness.
It's fucking whiny. Catcher in the Rye. Holden steady.
I'm playing Jack. Two of a kind. And it's time to fold already.

I'll sleep to acoustic versions.
And wake up to a dead laptop.
My bemused diversion.
The sun it rises, it can't stop.
I'm not as deep as I get.
I'll write words about dreams I can't make up.
I sleep, then wake up. With regret.




@Zombie dull boy Darth Yoda BWHAHA
I'm the often lost dreamer. Across. In the margins. Offing harlots and hauling off skeezers. Aloft. If I were to breathe or just cough you'd get lost in the features of the visage I've got. Sneeze. I could scoff and leave you bereaved in a jot or leaflet of some missive forgot. A footnote in the time that I've stopped. Period. Comma. Hakuna matata. My bravado is a myriad of serial dramas pressing keys in staccato. I need a mullato. Period assonance. God. I'm smart. Foreboding. You're Martin Brody in a collapsing ship. Floating. Tossing off passengers, flask on hip while the ocean yaws, sulking. I'm the maw. ->Period/Awkward Pause<-. Orator of the circle jerk,




Pale. (There's no Twist.)




Sixteen. Her raven hair sprayed against the native earth,
the bottom, she would say it hurts,
but she loved every thrust, the dew, and cicada's chirps.

----

Cheers. She often got startled by the glass's clink,
lost in a martini,
with the breath of a menthol and match's link.
Ms. 'Past the brink', the residuals of the waning soul,
Black dressed, with purple mascara and lashes pink,
she'd rather just stash her drink and remain at home,
with her bedroom floor lathed in mink and satin sheets
and a stainless pole. Then drink her vodka straight,
ovulate, and by nine succumb to a blackened sleep.
But she'd cave to the crutch
of the public. Alone, her depression wasn't pervasive enough.
She loved it. The needs of a wooden bar full of subjects,
sated a lust, and made her feel like a duchess. The ardent stares,
tending to like a garden square
and passive lisps of whiskey-tongued failed Bon Ivers.
Muscle bound or mops of hair, it's all the same when a whisper's impaired;
just moths in the air, dismissed with another flip of her hair.
Because they couldn't know her expression. All the lessons and lesions.
The predicate reasons for the "Well, it’s best I be leaving"s.
Everyone's lived twenty one years here, to earn a taste,
but not a one's lived hers, and how it permutates
and reflects every isolated act like some burnished plate
carried on her neck, slouched by a burden, burned in place.
"Everyone has a troubled past."
Yes, but not everyone who experienced lived it then fucking crashed.
And she had no time for macro takes,
when she only had one test run at life to machinate
the patterns of self doubt and shame,
and how one love can then douse the flame.
Possible suitors, a dozen a dime, could enjoy a fast life,
but she'd rather explore the depths of depression, and feel what that's like,
resigned to a familiar home, headstone in native earth,
soul at rest in cadence with cicada chirps.

PancakeBrah
01-15-2014, 08:19 PM
Trading Place (w/ Vulgar)

Vulgar
Donnie Darko pajammy-jams. Amy looking sexy.
She had initially replied to my bird calls. But wouldn't text me.
So when doleful ambition led me to a wooden pantry.
I grasped for the honeybuns within, erstwhile hollowed out,
like the beige interior of Brooklyn Bentley's. Sulfuric taste.
Am I a repeated bad luckster? Suffering fate, as the night sky's drifting past.
is this God's way of inflicting wrath...
Do nice guys with nice (aspirations) for degrees really finish last?
I wanted to share an awkward glance. Feel our presences linking.
Trying to make an impression and thinking she'll be interested
in what I have to offer as a man if she even possesses an inkling.
A truly adorable caramel Jada Pinkett type, with half-painted nails.
A warm laugh, kiss on the cheek, dialogue seems to be pacing well.
He'd rather go out and freefall than start dealing with the pain he feels.
Aboard Darjeeling bullet trains, concealed. In a lower compartment.
He's reading Langston Hughes, his blue nose in the parchment.
Modeless, Sephardic, a Roland McFarlane. Dressed in the robes of a harlot.
Breathing in the same air of disappointment that's left on hotel balconies.
His heart holds...well, agony. Haggardly. & with impeached directive.
But a surgically sharp intensity tends to surface when you least expect it.
Lease neglected on intellectual property. Say goodnight to the Highland lad.
who's buying Axe to tie a sash around a sighing siren's ass.
Who knew we wouldn't make a vibrant match?!
There's no choice. Guess I'll have to drink this wine, then crash.

Pancake
Telmar drew a charcoal mirage along the margins in the back of Qur'ans
picturing sarcophagus catamarans when the family's packs of cattle were gone
because the Iowa Caucus's plan had forgotten the Caucasus of Azerbaijain
Playing freeze tag in mausoleums, his father would sip from the old Ale
in a worn dishdasha, viewing his land now stripped of it's gold shale
you could almost feel the breeze off of Henry Kissinger's coattails
His sister Aydashka would make her hijabs, thumb locked spooling
and at night enjoyed gum drops until her tongue stopped drooling
while she played the olynka and gusli with a SubPop tuning
Working the sod was awkward and grueling, as their father sweats
a real Saspirilla caterpillar, he cultivated in quarter sets
The Kurdish Elk, he watched the dubbed Lost of Damon Lindelof
and brought the dushdara everynight (Telmar enjoyed a thicker broth)
While thousands of miles from the cattle and pasture
George W. had schematics and logistics for satellite trackers
he fancied himself an entrepreneur, a real International Fracker
and had no time for Aydashka's maladroit laughter
It's Always Sunny in Hajigubal, and obtaining oil is just a matter of law
Telmar's fields made the perfect spot for Haliburton's 'Plaza Mahal'




GRIZZLY BEARS.
GRIZZLY BEARS.

I'll take my gin straight, thanks. I'm reading Bram Stoker
and eating clam chowder, gluten free and pan smoldered.
This laptop is Apple. Steve Jobs is an idol, but a passing one.
His death was passé, and I'm not a part of the cattle run.
Is that Kettle One? How cute. Again, I'm drinking gin straight.
Watch me spin plates, I'm the residue of renaissance menstruate.
Look at these vintage wears. Skinny jeans and pithy glares.
Have you heard of Grizzly Bear? I doubt you've heard of Grizzly Bear.
You're more of the Thin Lizzy fare, one of the populist's enlisted.
You probably couldn't fathom the postulates I've written
or the probable admittance of colleges I'd visit.
(I'll probably turn them down, colleges are prison,
I'm actually working on a collection of collages and prisms
about Ghandi's inquisitions. I'm calling it 'The Visions')
I'm sure you've notice my tawdry imposition. And these designer frames,
they're very rectangular, Swedish, and I PROMISE you cannot find the same.
Also, it's not vegetarian, it's vegan. I'm that for the most contrarian of reasons,
plus I happen to be an expert on the most exemplary of seasons.
Balsamic is nice, my breakfast usually consists of black coffee and rice,
and I like a cape gooseberry for lunch with a cup of water with ice.
If you want my advice, I have plenty to offer.
Almost the exact opposite amount that I can spend through my coffers.
Capitalism is death. A simpleton's quest, a cloth I am not cut from.
In fact, I've started a socialist group through a portion of my trust fund.
It's higher learning I search after, what I have my hands after.
I've read half of Catch 22 and the first chapters of five books by Franz Kafka.
Veneer birch lacquer is my favorite color. Most people don't know that,
but I'm proud to stand for something and withstand the blowback.
Most people lack that, personality is something I've honed.
Irony is my strong suit, and the only one that I own.




Oneitis (w/ Genocide)
Genocide
That happy place, feeling, or whatever you credit it as
Was dedicated to her, and now I only wish death for her ass
Delicate past, fragile, porcelain glass castle where stones would fly
I ain't have a sobre mind, cause she would throw hers while I was smokin' mine
Couldn't cope with lies, that ironically was my fault when fate grew
Cause how you expect to be a failure and her to remain faithful!?!?
Not a day flew by that wasn't a waste, drug flooded mistakes..
That I just wanna go back in time and try to fucking erase
Cause what if takes the rest of my life to get over the thoughts
If I perfected one thing it was the magnum opus of loss
The love was hopeless, a fraud, or maybe real for a minute
Cause I been chasing pussy ever since the fucking feeling was finished
Old gimmicks were the death of my soul, it died so restlessly though
cause when ur used to women, its hard to fuckin sleep in'a bedroom alone
My hard head is a stone that should be bleeding my rhymes blood
So when I look in the mirror, see the reasons my life sucked
Even with eyes shut, cause I know the the whole verse by heart
Chyeah waitin for the world to end, while I tore my own universe apart
Until the surface arched, it left me standing there over the peak
But true soldiers don't leap, gradually we grow into G's

Cake
This can be my ghost. Acting as the refinery for the wine I'd drink.
I'll be the host for the impetus from life's switch into minor key.
I can keep it as a porcelain-haunt, a vacuum in the back of my mind,
and withdraw portions I want back from the passage of time.
Instead of a cross that I'd bear, I'll remember these thoughts I've repaired;
sifting hands through your most auburn of hair in a nightly nostalgia affair.
I can be both lost and aware. I can forget a saga's epilogue and skip "jaded".
Just give me enough time to settle my nerves...if my memory serves, and it's faded,
you had these perfect lines between the curves of your hips, naked,
and those breathes were bated and those rooms were dark
and every moment escalated and it was impossible for us to move apart
and. And we can learn that eventually everything moves apart.
We can learn that 'down the road' ends in the wrong turn at the fork in it,
and how to speak in past tones of our times in terms of "fortunate".
I can learn, and hone, to cheat and enjoy the pain of my heart as it plummets,
and how to react to another man's child leaving stretch marks on your stomach.
These are the lessons we're fraught in. All these years later that I've left and forgotten,
it's so much easier to lessen the tension by ignoring what's so senselessly rotten.
I'll just replay a nightly nostalgia affair. Awed, drunk, and often impaired,
I can be both lost and aware.




Visiting Friends (w/ Matriarch/Angkor)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9STd-67_Ft8

Every track I listen to. All this time, sifting through
torrents, mp3's, files, traces, vinyl, mission fueled
binge. To paint a smile on my face. Switched to new trends.
Miles Davis, Bitches Brew. Guitar string picked 'til it bends.
I Can See For Miles. With my new prescription lens,
thumbing through catalogs. The gray tinted film,
I've frayed and splintered the ends.
Plastic Ono Bands, Californications, nostalgia. I visit friends
on bloodshot hung-over days lost. Dazed, lost.
Led Zeppelin, teenage angst and the delayed cost.
Teenage Dream. Lush, the dream pop.
Phoenix, hipster scene. Crystal Castles, homage.
I Wish You Were Here. Drum kits blast, the barrage.
Baroness whiplash the garage. The Flaming Lips
skipped tracks as collage. College. Another fugue state,
Riff Raff and Minaj. The populists' due weight.
Eddie V picked fast, with guitars, and became God.
I'm hot for teachers. A cappellas and busted speakers.
Riffs from hell. Like the Sleigh Bells album, the front was sneakers,
and their chops are stellar. To be dramatic,
music's been tied close to the struggles.
And every music fan knows 'Repeat', always overrides 'Shuffle'.
I've had...four? iPods. And countless iTunes generations.
The boom bap me new track steez,
to the indie rock aesthetic and Classic veneration.
I wear out wavelengths.
Single song obsession, every interpretation my brain takes.
I eat every snippet I've found. The hisses, the pounds
off drum kicks or bass notes. The hunting of every
trick in it's sound.
Until I can't listen again,
Unless it's to relive. I said, I'm just visiting friends.
I want to visit again.
After another hundred rhymes.
After writing this little gem while gripping this pen.
After listening to Deerhunter's 'Spring Hall Convert' at least a dozen times,
I'll want to visit again.

;

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lhFnOAwr96o
digital fixtures - mixed of vintage volume ensnared
captivating! Janis played with prim euphoric impaired
we shared a truth at seventeen: Love belong to the fair
beauty queens. music scene. proms and bonding affair
pondering where - this juxtaposition will take us
fully aware - that luck's a fucking glitch in the matrix
Simple and basic. Design of a conspicuous crazed bitch
rhythm’s abrasive - inventing villains in veiled pitch ..
of high notes, connoting violent twisted descent
momma asked me “where are you?”
.
.
told her “I’m visiting friends..”.
To the bitterest entropy - it’s the sweetest revenge
hello darkness, my old buddy, pleased to meet you again.
It’s 60’s peace and pretense. deep in weeds and free sex.
at sixteen, we walked the valley just to pique an interest.
dissecting dim dichotomy between figments and friends
Friday night’s charades of youth - sometimes it’s fun to pretend
Function? Defense; Entertaining plight of a soloist
who’s lack in social grace-fully fight just to fit into trends
spirits of greatness - playlists are bricks in the wall
Pink and purple rain drops - my drizzled dictions of Fall
constricting richest - appalled! detecting deep disturbance
rotten. soiled. problems boil down beneath the surface
Heeding words of Ms Ian : “music is captured perspective”
not just 'aesthetic' per se, but more as gathered objective.
Such as laughters and sentiments
trapped in a pessimistic chapter that never ends
i’m visiting friends
enter da stage take a Bowie - ‘Oh i’ll see you again!’
Maybe a hotel on a dark desert highway?
Or Hell House of the fall of Usher - Going My way?
Led poison Zeppelin left without a Quarter for fair
A choice. The stare. listen, we'll talk when I'm there
I'm at the club for 50 cents...
Sometimes it's fun to pretend.
Momma asked "Where are you?"
Told her "I'm visiting friends".

PancakeBrah
01-15-2014, 08:28 PM
Ferris Wheel
He loved that bench. Right next to the ferris wheel.

He wore a big coat, leather hung at his knees,
in Summer time, with a sweater tucked underneath.
At Coney Island, plucking his teeth and sucking a lime.
A former veteran, sunk in his seat. "What a wonderful time."
he said to himself to the ire of passerby's,
but with the sun at it's peak he never grew tired of batted eyes,
"I've seen your type a hundred times," he laughed and sighed.
He wore boots strapped and tied, both marked
with white graffiti of his own pen and type of thought,
next to a guitar case, with a Stratocaster, wires taught,
and one bottle of gin from his own private stock.
It was Hendricks, he preferred the bottle's aesthetics,
and it's produced mental fog begetted a loss of all he regretted.
Today he kept the cap virgin, unbroken and fine,
because nowadays fair goers never provoke enough for his mind.
There was a forgone time he'd drink, strumming a string,
every visit, and even to skeptics it was something to see.
He preferred Hendrix. Not for the flash, but the meaning,
the soul and the skill, spoke to his inside's caterwaul screaming.
Making close to fifty dollars a day, he was fine and carefree,
on a bench with a six string, carrying melodies,
with no problem searching a barren well to find canaries.
But now he mostly sits, with a greying beard of homely wisps.
Sixty years of life will make motion quit, and his bones are stiff.
"This night is setting slow." The bench's birch agrees,
"I should be heading home." To theses new strangers,
these are just senseless words to heed.
But it's their loss, to be the cause of a dream's end.
Honestly they don't deserve to see the way he makes strings bend.

Darth Yoda
01-15-2014, 10:50 PM
why

Red glare
01-16-2014, 01:16 AM
danielson; hell of a victory

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Js3246pnw1E

Split
01-16-2014, 06:49 AM
Matriarch= Angkor = Lexicon = North ?!?!??!

my mind is cornwater

idk how I didn't see