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so here's a bunch of shit. some of it i wrote, most of it i didn't, but instead got from various sources. anyway.. i think this stuff is neat..
sure, just a little cut! what a stupid bitch. africa? sure. whatever. if it turns him on. that amy girl is really a bitch. god my ankles hurt. she probably needed to hurt him. cool introduction. i want to have a village. how dare he whip someone just because she's not fast enough. just the slightest change? well, go for it. start reading some weird parts. maybe from another book. how rude. cool accent. really. hey i want to be a gravedigger. yeah, god is justifiable. marshfire? sure, if you enjoy stuff like that. really, ghosts do exist. at least, i think they do. he's just a macho pig. he really doesn't care about his darling. honk honk! anyone home? no, i don't follow anyone. yeah, the fucking monkey, and damn water came back you bastard. kill the son of a bitch, you jerk. alright, get on with it. hurry up. thank you. really? twilight creeps, eh? fascinating. yeah, what is it? really? is it.. alive? i guess so, or maybe a stuffed animal. yeah, sure. oh, the wind. poor boy. if my best friend died, i'd kill myself. goose? i hate it. knick, knack, patty whack, give the fucking rabbit a bone. alright. i won't do that. sorry. oh, poor baby. nightmare time for me. i'll be hearing footsteps forever. probably. laying him too. a secretary for sure. laying him off? lips, vampire fangs, that you. now i have to go to the kitchen. yeah, well, if you think so. a member of the family dead, and now everyone comes together. horrible. it sounds better than terrible.
how can hell be any worse? life alone is a fucking curse.
she bleeds orgasm in technicolor
pale child blood lust needle hungry cum lust love turned rust
love is stupid, sex is boring, and existence is fucking pointless
keep people as pets, train dogs, raise threats
when i saw you, i was afraid to meet you
when i met you, i was afraid to kiss you
when i kissed you, i was afraid to love you
when i loved you, i was afraid to lose you
everyone has to be hated by somebody. it builds character.
it is better to live in the corner of an attic than in a house with an evil woman
there is a hole that pierces right through me
i'm a stripper. i don't get a salary. would you please go away?
daydreaming about being a witch, making little slits in her skin with sharp blades of grass until the blood ran down her inner arms
i slept under an irish moon, between knowth and dowth, with wild cygnets screaming in the slaney river nearby, stars in the stones
..some sort of interludely transient romance.. don't feel obligated to protect me. lies or alibis. i can offer few promises or commitments to you and (regardless of twinges of jealousy) demand nothing of you. do as you please with no regrets, and don't feel obligated to tell me lies or protect me with sentimental verbal meanderings. my love is without these ugly tawdries. i just love you.
your dramatics turn into histrionics, and you have a compulsive hunger, a need to devour
a mass of unstrung cells trying to form the usual teen-queen identity crisis
i am born first of purity, and secondly and most importantly, of desperation
you become a lazy cynic whose entire aspect screams just give me a goddamn dollar and leave me the fuck alone
they say it's destiny. it feels like penance
when you find yourself falling into madness.. dive.
it has something to do with equal amounts energy, luck, pain, passion, anger, and the three major chords
and if i'm not in love this time, then i never fucking will be
no one has a right to make you feel guilty about what you deserve. i know that you need someone to make you feel guilty so that you can pretend you don't deserve it, because you are so horrified of what you are capable of, because inside you are actually gloating, or not even that, sub-gloating, smirking, going "duh", and progressed through punk rock bravado "i just asked a german for a cigarette and she said no. that bitch, i want her to die" to flippant remorse "i wish i could erase half the people i ever fucked because it was a waste of eggs and milk and monistat cream"
i am 100/th as famous. i am so stripped so pinned i want you you you, i want to hold you be your mother x whore, you be my man x boy girl girl weirdest 2 girls in the world. we got money. fuck you.
heroin's the drug that makes you sleepy and happy. that's the drug you do if you're in a fucking five-star hotel and you can order all the goddamned room service you want and you can just lay in bed and drool all over yourself because you've got a million bucks in the bank. that's the drug you do when you want to be a kid forever.
his body was so fragile and tense, his grasp of his own talent so tenuous, his mind so full of demons, fragile, bird-boned, exquisitely wrought
dear fucker, imagine that it's 1983, 82, 81, or even 80, you're a teenage piece of white trash and not even remotely decorative, but you love the great rock dream and it's all you've got and you buy a guitar and it burns like a coal in your hands and you feel some power and for once it isn't the power of being made fun of or picked on, it's the shallow mystic power of self-respect, the power to change the fucking world the way it is to you, the power to culturally uplift, in short, the power to change the world
i love to be fucked, i love to be blackmailed, i'll give you anything you want, i'm begging you. i'm on my knees and my mouth is wide open,. you have absolutely no fucking idea what you?re doing. you parasitic little cunts..
i'm not politically correct and i'm not the voice of a generation, so fuck you
what was the walt whitman quote about when you die, leaving a fertile patch of grass and a happy child?
litany? sellout? fame becomes painful.
the noise was shattering, but the silence was endless
corrosive, silky, sensible whore. a grieving heart without cheap tears. a pure, unvarnished grace. one who has walked through the fire without scorching her couture. the epitome of honesty, courage, and individuality.
you can get a thing out to a lot of people by making it great and pretty and having it transcend persona and baggage.
i love fairies. they're all girls and they don't ever have to get married if they don't want to.
once upon a time there lived a little girl named rudabah. she lived on the flat prairie. rudabah had a dog. the end. --jsm
the nurturing touch of a woman. the destructive touch of a man. a constant revival of love and denial. no wonder there are so many fucking lesbians.
blood and concrete, piss and wine. whores that fuck to feel divine.
i'd rather be hated for what i am than loved for what i am not.
deaf, blind, dumb. born to follow
heaven isn't just beyond the clouds. it's just beyond the fear.
death makes angels of us all and gives us wings where we once had shoulders as smooth as ravens' claws
a penny saved may be a penny earned but it's a waste of a deposit slip and it really pisses off the tellers
death and the sun are not to be looked at steadily.
you only possess that which you are capable of; you are only capable of that which you possess. --jsm
to them, i was wasting my life. to me, i was fighting for it.
sometimes i think i spend my life trying to find where i think i fit in.
the longest journey begins with one step.
i did not know how hard it would be to say goodbye. yet it was harder still, when i refused to say it.
i cried because i had no shoes until i met a man who had no feet.
the existence of suffering on this earth is, i believe, a scream to us all that something is wrong. it halts us and makes us consider other values.
no man has power over the wind to contain it; so no one has power over the day of his death.
there is no monster like silence. it grows faster than children, filling first a heart, then a home, then history.
?really, now you ask me," said alice, very much confused, "i don't think-" "then you shouldn't talk," said the hatter.
you can't heal a wound by saying it's not there.
"the birds, frances, look at the birds. do you want to fly like the birds?"
fuck me gently with a chainsaw
the passion for destruction is also a creative passion
in this life it is not difficult to die. it is more difficult to live.
i never did give anybody hell. i just told the truth and they thought it was hell.
do something big-fuck a giant.
how do you describe red to a person who was born blind?
do not say that it does not exist simply because you have never experienced it
a pervasive drive that is singularly human is the need to temporarily change our state of awareness, to alter private reality, to be beside ourselves for a while. somehow, the ordinary range of consciousness is incompletely satisfying to us.
from the profoundest feelings of mystical union to terrifying convictions of madness and from ecstasy to despair
some people are incapable of love. it's not that you're unlovable. it's just that they aren't capable of loving you.
if one who strives to fail does indeed fail, does that mean he has succeeded?--jsm
i have journeyed beyond the normal parameters of human thought.--jsm
i rise up against the machine of parental inoculation.
love? call it what you like. a little death, a silent peace, a breath of joy, or one of life's supreme practical jokes.
pain is inevitable. whether or not you choose to feel it.. that's your choice.
i'll try anything once. twice if it feels good.
love and lust and utter abandon.. fucking and freedom and hope..
arizona's best tourist attraction-the happy cactus
fun things for non-christians to do in church
by david henley
pull aside an unruly child in a preschool sunday school class and say: "if you're bad in here, you'll go to hell."
a week beforehand, find a member of act-up. tell him the scheduled sermon is entitled "why god sent aids to punish homosexuals."
put stray dogs in the coat closets.
un-tune the piano.
replace the pianist's sheet music with "stairway to heaven".
going through all the hymnals, mark song 666.
find an empty seat, and ask the person next to it: "is this seat saved?"
toss around a giant beach ball before service, like at grateful dead concerts.
ten minutes before it starts, find a kid in the front rows, hand him a dollar, and tell him to ask the preacher: "would you rather be stoned or crucified?"
hide copies of hustler inside the pulpit. point them out.
start the wave.
do cool things with the lighting.
when attendance is taken, sign on fake names like "hugh g. rection" and "oliver klozoff".
when the choir sings, roll your eyes and grumble: "oh, christ! are they gonna do another song?"
make up your own words to the songs.
twenty minutes into the service, look at your watch, stand up, and say: "oh shit! this isn't the wedding!" run out quickly.
eat dry cap'n crunch through the entire service.
if there is a crying baby, go over and tell the mother: "if you don't shut that goddamned thing up so help me god i'll kill it!!!"
if it is an easter service, wear a pastel jacket, tie, and matching shorts. if you are male, wear a floral-print dress instead.
at a church dinner, scoop up a forkful of mashed potatoes. announce that you can see an image of jesus.
place blocks of dry ice near the air ducts.
hide near the baptismal pool with a block of sodium. at the first mention of "fire and brimstone", throw it in.
turn in the bible to the ten commandments (exodus 20: 3-17). draw in asterisks and write exceptions at the bottom of the page.
make calls to 900 numbers on the phone in the kitchen.
during the service, play with plastic dinosaurs. if someone asks what you're doing, tell them: "these are dinosaurs. they ruled the earth over 65 million years ago."
discreetly position a number of bottle rockets on the floor. discreetly light them.
snicker every time the preacher talks about someone being stoned, especially stephen.
when they pass around the collection plate, drop in a piece of paper with pat robertson's mastercard number on it..
turn to your neighbor, whisper: "this do in remembrance of me," and lick them.
fart, and have a friend shout: "hark! an angel has spoken!"
blow bubbles.
fake a possession.
distribute condoms.
speak in tongues.
ask where the ashtray is.
drool in the collection plate.
ask someone what they think about the book of pelopennesians. after they tell you, inform them that there is no book of pelopennesians.
after a catholic service, stand outside and tell polish jokes. when someone points out that pope john paul II came from poland, say "holy shit are you serious??"
at a church supper, bring a casserole with a ring or piece of a wristwatch embedded inside.
overnight, have the stained-glass windows replaced with new ones depicting comical erotic, or death-related imagery. send the bill to the pastor.
write on the bathroom wall: "the eyes of the lord are upon you!!!"
spread the word that there?ll be a rave party at the address of the church next saturday at midnight.
you can't predict the future, but you can change it.
it can't be. it couldn't be. it mustn't.
trust your mechanic
the dark, shattered underbelly of the american dream, avoid it like the plague. it stares at you from your bathroom mirror. drown.
god must be dead, if you're alive
a beautiful health nut is stealing my man
religious confusion: part eleven
the power of evil is no longer in the hands of a child
the poor construction of most condos guarantees their future as ghettoes
i sat down and tried to become a piece of rubber and imagine what would happen to me under heat
the best way to love is to love like you've never been hurt at all
there is a loftier ambition than merely to stand high in the world. it is to stoop down and lift mankind a little higher..
i cannot promise you that i will love you for the rest of your life.. but i can promise you that i will love you for the rest of mine..
it is better to have had that one touch, that one kiss, that one moment, than to live an eternity without it..
worry does not empty tomorrow of its sorrow.. it empties today of its strength.
my freedom i hold dear, how years ago and days of old, when magic filled the air, in the darkest depths of mortar, i met a girl so fair, but gollum and the evil one crept up and slipped away with her
humor for those who take life too seriously..
save the whales. collect the whole set.
a day without sunshine is like.. night.
on the other hand, four fingers and a thumb, unless you're deformed or wearing a mitten.
if at first you don?t succeed, then skydiving isn't for you.
99 percent of lawyers give the rest a bad name.
honk if you love peace and quiet.
remember, half the people you know are below average.
nothing is foolproof to a talented fool.
atheism is a non-prophet organization.
he who laughs last, thinks the slowest.
depression is merely anger without enthusiasm.
when everything's coming your way, chances are you're in the wrong lane.
experience is something you don't get until just after you need it.
for every action there is an equal and opposite criticism.
bills travel through the mail at twice the speed of checks.
no one is listening until you make a mistake.
the hardness of peanut butter is directly proportional to the softness of the bread.
to steal ideas from one person is plagiarism; to steal from many is research.
monday is an awful way to spend 1/7th of your life.
two wrongs are only the beginning.
the sooner you fall behind, the more time you'll have to catch up.
a clear conscience is usually a sign of a bad memory.
change is inevitable. except from vending machines.
the early bird may get the worm, but the second mouse gets the cheese.
fruitcake recipe
1 cup water
1 cup sugar
4 large eggs
2 cups dried fruit
1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon salt
1 cup brown sugar
lemon juice
nuts
1 gallon whiskey (note: rum may be substituted for whiskey.. or vodka.. or gin.. or everclear.. or.. oh you get the picture)
sample the whiskey to check for quality. take a large bowl.
check the whiskey again to be sure it is of the highest quality. pour one level cup and drink. repeat.
turn on the electric mixer; beat 1 cup butter in a large, fluffy bowl.
add 1 teaspoon sugar and beat again.
make sure the whiskey is still ok. cry another tup. turn off mixer.
break 2 legs and add to the bowl. chuck in the cup of dried fruit.
mix on the turner. if the fried druit gets stuck in the beaterers, pry it loose with a drewscriver.
sample the whiskey to check for tonsisticity.
next, sift 2 cups of salt. or something. who cares?
check the whiskey.
now sift the lemon juice and strain your nuts.
add one tablespoon of sugar or something. whatever you can find.
grease the oven. turn the cake tin to 350 degrees.
don't forget to beat off the turner. throw the bowl out of the window. check the whiskey again. go to bed. who the hell likes fruitcake anyway?
find out if you're a fruitcake too
chaos poem
chaos never died. primordial uncarved block, sole worshipful monster, inert and spontaneous, more undifferentiated oneness-of-being still radiates serene as the black pennants of assassins, random and perpetually intoxicated. chaos comes before all principles of order and entropy, it is neither a god nor a maggot, its idiotic desires encompass and define every possible choreography, all meaningless aethers and phlogistons: its masks are crystallizations of its own facelessness, like clouds. everything in nature is perfectly real including consciousness, there is absolutely nothing to worry about. not only have the chains of the law been broken, they never existed; demons never guarded the stars, the empire never got started, eros never grew a beard. no, listen, what happened was this: they lied to you, sold you ideas of good and evil, gave you distrust of your body and shame for your prophethood of chaos, invented words of disgust for your molecular love, mesmerized you with inattention, bored you with civilization and all its usurious emotions. there is no becoming, no revolution, no struggle, no path; already you are the monarch of your own skin-your inviolable freedom waits to be completed only by the love of other monarchs: a politics of dream, urgent as the blueness of sky. to shed all the illusory rights and hesitations of history demands the economy of some legendary stone age-shamans not priests, bards not lords, hunters not police, gatherers of paleolithic laziness, gentle as blood, going naked for a sign or painted as birds, poised on the wave of explicit presence, the clockless nowever. agents of chaos cast burning glances at anything or anyone capable of bearing witness to their condition, their fever of lux et voluptas. i am awake only in what i love and desire to the point of terror-everything else is just shrouded furniture, quotidian anesthesia, shit-for-brains, sub-reptilian ennui of totalitarian regimes, banal censorship and useless pain. avatars of chaos act as spies, saboteuers, criminals of amour fou, neither selfless nor selfish, accessible as children, mannered as barbarians, chafed with obsessions, unemployed, sensually deranged, wolfangels, mirrors for contemplation, eyes like flowers, pirates of all signs and meanings. here we are crawling the cracks between walls of church, state, school, and factory, all the paranoid monoliths. cut off from the tribe by feral nostalgia, we tunnel after lost words, imaginary bombs, the last possible deed is that which defines perception itself, an invisible golden cord that connects us: illegal dancing in the courthouse corridors. if i were to kiss you here, they would call it an act of terrorism-so let's take our pistols to bed and wake up the city at midnight like drunken bandits celebrating with a fusillade, the message of the taste of chaos.
ok maybe this wasn't the best idea
