General Public

Are offended by the clothes I wear and words expressed from my thoughts. They pay my bills and believe my lies, just because they all want to be like me, without worry or care in their well planned, mediocre, and safe existences. There are times when I wonder about the communication gaps between myself and them, but without family, structure, and direction it should come as no surprise that when the two of us come in contact, very little dialouge can be pieced together. Like a friend of mine said, my life at five is life nine for everyone else. Tough to argue with that kind of logic, still not much time to ponder upon that statement if only to illustrate the divide between, dockers wearing, tucked in shirt, clean cut robots who sell venom, addiction, and death to the masses with the justification that they have a family to feed, passing worms to the brood has never had such dangerous conotation than with this bunch of righteous leeches who would blow up the world if meant that they got a bigger bonus or better yet kill the ill like crack dealers in the ghetto, sell, sell, sell. They need more patients, like convicts in prison, the medical system to keep the rabbits alive, test subjects, data to further the vacations to the Carribean, what does it matter, everyone eventually dies, bring out your dead.

The Outpost

Communication with satellites across the globe typing away in a medevil slumber, can barely make sense of all the people I have effected over the years, not even counting family, who have been casted into exile like myself, either to become stronger or be digested like the wounded, sick, and the elderly. Technology pisses me off most days because it morphs into some prankster who does such idiotic things as erase everything written in the past twenty minutes. No emotion or recollection, even at this moment the damn cursor pad keeps deleting my writing to the point where I will have break my thirtieth laptop in the past five years, turning into something less than recyclable parts. Through all the lost moments of my life, there are people whom I have touched, effected, those who might even care about my well being, which totally blows me away. Team members, fan club attendies, of those whom at times I have given very little thought of while swimming in my own sea of personal disasters, yet they are still out there amongst the 6 billion or so, with their stories, songs, and art, twisting my thoughts, words, and emotions into a sicker, darker, more realistic piece of expression than I could ever hope to create.

Feedback has never been en vogue with me, just for the simple fact that I do not care about anything and have set sail to every human being on this planet like a match stick struck against a box in the night, quick, bright, and fast fading. Desperate entities within me put these words down, as my middle class parasite tries to mute expression, best to me leave to the workforce, long hours, and dulling the mind, who shall win, guess I still write, so the battle continues. Outposts cry in the night all alone, vexed on empty promises from a side show con artist who has only felt the need to serve his own personal desires. I told them all, but no one ever listens, sly smile, seductive nature, and primal lust do all the talking. In my lonliest moments from extreme drug withdrawl, decadent partying or laying half dead in some anonymous country, the will breaks, the thoughts of others give me something to cling to, something to fight for life, a small window in a micro second of escape from cosmic recycling. That's it for this one.

Painted into a Corner

After so many years of auto repeat hangovers, lovers, and blackouts, options can sometimes dwindle down to desperation and blind faith. The single thread that remains in my hands doubles as noose in which I occasionally attempt to hang myself with after explosions from wreckage in the fast lane. Everyone tells me life is meant to be lived, yet due I rarely witness words put into action, no need for judgement cause little does it matter to me whether others care to participate or standby awaiting the cliff notes. If 7 hour layovers, 28 hours on planes, and 3 weeks of self indulgent behavior have not cured me of the desire to implode, guess nothing will. Seeking out the unidentifiable, wandering through desperate wastelands, and blending in amongst the local populations, offer up opportunities to feel life in foreign lands. Dialogue no matter how broken can seem like injecting myself with overdose of LSD, escape the fear, the stress of being so far from self perceived personal safety can wear me down faster than any weekend binger, yet coming to terms with my fears has freed me to go anywhere, talk to anyone, and explore parts of the world, others only see on television. So why stop now.

The Corporate Vortex

Got a small introduction into the enormous scope of politics that exists with large budget television productions, without going into names, a situation arose where due previous existing grudges; a mad scramble was created in order to interview a very high profile person. The person set to interview the guest did want to conduct the interview for personal reasons. Not sure what the beef entailed, yet it was enough to send all of middle and upper management into a near panic mode. Plenty of folks shouting, running in and out of the room swearing under their breath, as the moments drew closer to one on one, still no progress made in finding a replacement. At these times, all I can really do is just wait the storm out as everyone gathers around in a dynamic vortex, aggressively seeking a solution to the new issue at hand. Time passes, co-workers play with their cellphones attempting to look occupied or just leave the room until the hurricane passes over. Someone is yelling at me about the ignorance of a certain interviewer. Okay, I know this person, yeah, they are a bit of a crank, still there is a reason I work Below the Line and not above it; this particular incident would serve as a great example. The end goal here is to deliver superior technical service to the client and maybe interject the occasional suggestion when something looks out of place or does not sound right. But as always in my industry, a solution shall be made, then time to move on, minus all the grief caused by the schism, no problem, throw on a couple of microphones, don the headphones, then get back to work.

The Chameleon

Just spent the early morning walking amidst the hordes of business types heading into the workplace amongst the urban decay of antiquated building soon passed by, then left to erode as the new foundations of the new rich are built somewhere safer. Haunted hearts wander around here like sideshow carnival shows with a narrow minded interest of conning the general public into parting with a few dollars from their pockets. No one bothers or ever turns to acknowledge the presence of some middle aged man with a greying mohawk who stands in the middle of the street juggling butcher knives as the people in traffic transmit inner thoughts of just how soon it will be before this performer nuts out and begin hacking up drivers at red lights. Someone nearby starts to size me up and his allies are not far off in the distance, invisible at the presence time yet all too rapidly to emerge when the fishing line gets a tug. This is the situation all those travel guide books have warned me about, luckily it is the daytime and there about a hundred other tourists walking around these downtown Sao Paolo streets in search of some lost language, written out in the form of a riddle. Complex, disorienting, and at times practically unbelievable; this part of town is a one way exit for most, but for the others in urine, blood, and dirt soaked clothing nothing more than a close circle forming a moat of sewage. The only thing more disturbing to the eye is the visible leprosy dissolving the relic skin of homeless types into a canvas of lesion, sores, and scabbed up patches. Barefoot, drunk on the passion of survival, citizens use the power of ignorance to erase these people from existence and when that does not work; the only thing left to do is beat the shit out of them, starve them, and even kill them anonymously in the night. As darkness approaches, the street sweepers get out their guns, then proceed to take out the trash while everyone else sleeps.

Body Art on City Streets

They just lay there in renaissance like poses asleep or passed out on jagged decaying infrastructures made of concrete, praying to invisible gods who have turned deaf ears on their please to miraculously reawaken a member of the hominal bivouac who step over them in legions while on their way to work. I take pictures in order to make people believe in the desperate nature of adventure seekers from the farmlands who find salvation in drug use, alcohol, and depression, when there is nothing else left to do, the outcasts curl up in a ball like some dog who knows its time has arrived, awaiting a return ticket back to the holy land from where they believe the origin of humanity once began, but no omniscient deity here to offer comfort in the waning hours, just pollution, starvation, and the final hallucination of being grounded down into something less than a human being.

The Walls of the Cave

There is something on my face resembling freedom and when stared upon by others generates a large sense of jealousy and disdain. How could have know I would be chosen to wander the ends of the earth if for no larger reason than it seemed like quite an entertaining sort of idea. So after a trip, I have to re-don the skin of liquid bubble to insulate humanity from my weird reasoning. Why does it seem stupid to drop everything and take off to Munich for Oktoberfest this year? How can someone have the luxury of living so spontaneously, what gives that person the right to skirt the urban professional lifestyle, so full of VIP tables with over priced liquor menus and legions of flesh bots who gradually sicken with the quicksand slowly working itself up their legs. It is the invisible drowning of witnessing graphic suffocation, eyeballs start to swell and their faces take on a joker like appearance. The caravan will end, then what shall be left, where is the soft landing all these beautiful people have been promised, it is the birth right of the beautiful to demand entitlement in all facets of life, a get out of jail card free for eternity.

So being amongst the masses I find an interesting pleasure in watching them come together en masse, as the luxury sedans begin to file into the valet, no one could ever be to over dressed here, dark wrap around shades adorn every face. I feel like the janitor whenever I go into high end nightclub, usually due to the fact that some my friends DJ at these super clubs, whatever the term, I am not sure what is so super about them. These new mega clubs have warnings about drugs possession and usage. The signs are in the bathroom, the hallways, nailed to the VIP tables; I remember when all the old clubs did everything to encourage self indulgent drug use, shit some of these places had to be in on the action, because I can remember watching deals going down in public view. No one hid anything back then, people would just toss the stuff out on the table and honk away, what did it matter; everyone else in the club was doing the same thing or melting their brains out on the dance floor high on ecstasy.

Something changed or someone changed, now flesh bots line the floor tonight; the last of them zipping up their black go go boots, when just minutes before they were all walking around in little pajama like furry slippers. I felt for them, having to walk around for six or seven hours in those things like a sexy black leather spiders, looking to nearly walk over the customers as if on a pair of velvet stilts. Bearing down on the crowd like junkie with the serious case of withdrawls, quite a terrible sight indeed; spent the past half an hour pretending to be working while flirting with some woman who set off something that makes my eyes glaze over and dumb down to that everyday run of the mill fairly uninterested in education kind of guy, just give me a fucking beer and some hallucination of my perverse imagination to come to life. So there she appears before me, from England, has the accent, hypnotizing looks, almost teetering into creeper mode, but some how pull it together enough make a few amusing comments to get the interest rolling.

This is how I spent the majority of the evening, attempting to gain her favor, how dumb does that sound, almost mid-evil but not in that demonic sort of brimstone and hellfire manner, but more like the knights of the round table comes to my mind, yet why care really at all, except the fact that my humanity always catches me off guard, just because it sort just decides when it wants to come out and go into weird high school love mode, those emotional years of riding the rollercoaster of teen romance. Do not miss those crazy years, except for the intense caring of another person, I feel like such piece stone in this age, almost afraid to offer an real feeling for fear of compromising some other component in the process, time to wrap this up, just weird thoughts tonight after another round of the corporate free booze after party, but usually we would be twice as hammered at this kind of event, where the main sponsor happens to be a liquor maker, what are the odds, against all odds, damn windfall here, nothing like sanctioned alcoholism to take the edge of a long day the office, just does not seem fair to all the other stiffs out there who have to actually grind out a living and at times I can sort of feel the old Vegas flow through my veins that no limit, take everything, and live it aura seems more like a film than reality, when I can drink into a blackout mode, who can't get behind that kind of throw down.

People would be lining up around the block for their chances to get a piece of the action, run with that junkie narcotic of complete bliss, regardless of how short that high lasts. Ghosts of that lifestyle still haunt me, then occasionally possess me, manipulating me into spending way too much money on booze I can buy at a liquor store for at least a tenth of the cost, but it is all the flesh bots, the bright lights, and sonic wavelengths coming from the audio speakers that everyone in this super club are paying for tonight, just for a brief moment, a total recreation of that decadent uber-rich Miami Beach party scene. It is where the word no does not exist, everything and everyone has a price, I just sit down and watch the night unfold then try to bring it back to you.

The Streets of Prostitution

Fleshbots, you know them well, as middle Euro sex tourists take advantage of the exchange rate to get as much pussy as humanly possible. There is no disguising their carnal nature of power, abuse, and domination. Attempting to cure that primitive need to expel cum from their cocks, as old as time itself, spawning the human race as we know it, what an accomplishment. I have watched fifteen year girls be offered 50 US to be some would be serial killer's sex slave, right off into the ditch of some nearby river channel. There are kids to be fed, mothers to support, and some male being off in the distance standing by to collect all the earning before the money can be put to good use. You can't see the knives or the guns, but I can feel them, while standing at a bar with a beer thinking about how teenage hookers can learn the english language with such ease and I barely know portuguese. Motivation is the key, the belief that someone can escape their fate, their terminal life sentence in a personal hell of birthed sperm that have over populated every corner of this tropical whore house called Copacabana Beach. Murder, addiction, and pregnancy are the only solutions around here, everything else, a tv mini series of the week, no happy endings, just cocks and more cocks with hairy bodies pressing against their flesh, their hips, in hopes infecting them with the hate of the world, from long across the seas, like the conquistadors before them, but only bringing disease, the disease of hope.

Afterbirth

There is anger on the streets tonight with the death stare conviction of Rio De Janiero favala youth who press naive tourists into hidden alleyways to be mugged. Flash floods wash the filth of the Las Vegas strip onto the door steps of suburbia, porches lined in mounds of plastic trash, furniture, and human excrement. No salvation tonight, the music is loud, intense, and unforgiving; everyone is in a hurry for sex, mainlining, and self mutilation. No time for fear right now as anonymous asshole drivers ride my bumper, seeking a personal audience of physical conflict, only to speed away when I slow down and pull over to the side of the road. Conscious knowledge consumes as the masses lay in a trap, a circular wall stretching into the furthest depths of the universe. Those who walk home on midnight streets with Norteno music jamming into their headphones contemplating what to watch when they get home later live amongst exit less walls. There is no freedom for these people. No trips around the world or the mental toughness to go out into enemy territory with nothing more than a pen and a notebook.

Let the world come at us, the stronger my violence, the faster they run, turn a quick eye, and others cast me off as some malcontent who has obviously been abused as a child. Well, either way, none shall stand in front of me. I will offer up horrors more appalling than the most perverse taboo snuff style b movies. Mirror, mirror on the wall, deliver the beast in us all, rip away the dark shell and slow motion illusions. Language can be a barricade or a battering ram depending on how it is used. Culprits come clean, face the chargers, serve out the conviction, blood acid bath rain, so cute, so chic to rub elbows with the world leader pretenders who make small talk with other con artists to legitimize their constant buffonary. Hate swells in ocean meters, causing invisible banks of sanity to overflow into the neighborhood streets. Bodies move through the currents like possessed souls on their way to hell. A fast track to work tomorrow morning while I sit around with the blinds up watching the masses down some more cocktails, puff up their chests, and spin yarns of global business endeavors with alien species in a fit of unlimited capital. Rio Beach hooker cock rot, give me your money or give me your life.