|Split Infinity Radio
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|Author:||Defnot [ Thu Sep 13, 2012 9:48 pm ]|
|Post subject:||Moleskine Excerpts|
I work for the devil. He told me to make him some eggs, and I asked how he wanted them, which is when he set me on fire for even trying.
Four teenage girls sit in a semi-circle outside his aparemtne building giggling and laughing at the top of their lungs. He moves to his window facing them and slides the window open casually.
"Hey!" he shouts.
"What?" the quickest replies
"Because you're loud and its bothering me."
"So I am paying to live here. You are sitting there for free. Need I say more?"
Jake sits quietly in the retro-styled boxcar diner. Cautious of consumerist commercialism, it's still difficult to turn down a chili burger with fries on an empty stomach. Most of the booths are occupied; he sits at the bar alone.
A toddler wails softly as more adult tones dominate the field of conversation. A strikingly beautiful woman with child at the fore enters the diner and immediately her eyes brighten at the sight of a friend. The cook wears a black knit cap with a small white corporate swoosh. He focuses intently on his hot work, cooking and plating simultaneously.
I like I humor like I like my gin. Dry and cheap.
The linus & lucy medley playing on the radio reminds me of my time on the piano...I should like to return to it, but I lack an instrument of my own.
He moves quietly to the kitchen and there, hidden from sight, withdraws an eight inch chef's knife with rounded tip and smooth, wooden handle. The would-be lovers caress in hushed tones on the lime-green corduroy sofa in the living room on the other side of the kitchen wall. He rests his hand on the counter and waits for his moment, adjusting his grip on the blade, not wanting things to become butter-fingered at the crucial moment. Soft rustling and wet lip sounds creep around the corner.
Leading with the knife, he steps into the open, fingers curled tightly around the weapon's handle.
They step upon sight of him. Her eyes flood with false guilt, a lie written squarely on her face. The other man lowers his eyes to the blade and gulps instinctively.
Weaponize my mind.
Weaponize my memories.
I was born to destroy.
I was born to love,
And I was born to feel,
But my ambitions were turn against me
And now I live to kill.
Adults err less often than children, but when they do, their mistakes tend to be very similar.
Uncertainty. The strange limbo wherein head and heart collide.
Get out of my head
My love, razorblade
I want you here
She will set me free
She will shine the light
Someday she will find me
Until that day, I'm here
Someday she will find me
Someday, I won't care
Maybe I should find myself
Then we can find each other.
My fingers remember the sensation
Electrifying, blinding me
She will shine the light.
"We just had so much salmon! I was starting to get tired of it!" First. World. Problems.
As it tumbled to the ground
And hurt itself in its confusion
I watched, & I'll admit...
I got something I need & Somethin' I dont & it doesn't matter which is which.
When someday we meet in Utopos.
The affairs of men are an interesting thing to behold. The subtleties of physical action and carriage convey volumes more than mere superficial surface conversation.
In an ice cream shop, a friend to a middle-aged couple, a man of similar esteem, caught in the vulnerable position of having just brandished his pocket book, responds to their salutations with appropriate intimacy, engaging in a one-armed side hug with the wife. At this exact moment, the husband leans away & fixes his eyes on the menu, return to an upright posture in rhythm, reaching his hand out, fingers together, thumb extended. The friend removes his arm & in the next motion, places his hand firmly in his friend's.
They meet eyes only for an instant, then break hands and eyes imultaneously, as all three turn at once to their visual common ground, an object of mutual interest, the menu at this ice cream shop.
My love, razorblade.
Moving freely through my body & mind
My thoughts bleed, my mind is
skewered, a bloody wet mess - organs piled upon organs
functioning with intent
My love, razor blade.
She will be my razor blade.
The weapon with with which I will cut this reality, tearing through space & time with dangerous, grisly ease. No friction, no gravity, no force but our own, slicing throug lies, through bitterness, through hate, through tears. She will be my razor blade. My lovely razorblade. My razorblade.
The mind is a weapon
Two heads greater than one.
So if my brain is a gun
And your brain is a blade
It seems we go together.
There once was a girl names Sabrina
Who from the court received a subpoena
They say that her farts could blow you to parts
It turns out she created Katrina
The great men of history all wrote letters, many to a beautiful woman in distant country. I find myself in a similar position and daydream inconsequentially, pleasantly, of one day becoming a man of history myself.
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