Sunday, September 25, 2011
Mirrors of the very things that keep us docile and at ease. Unfiltered fear and white lies that help us digest our processed breakfasts with hearty smiles. Look up over the bar that will soon open- do you see it? Yes. It's the end of the world. There's blood covered faces. Weeping authorities, fires that blaze where flames were once unthinkable. Nuns drowning themselves with Crucifix in tow. Christ's body slowly diverging from the earthy plain and suffocating in the yellow pollution-coated foam of the Pacific. Elephants running through the metropolitan streets...it's the weirdest thing you've ever tried to witness: but it's real...I guarantee it's fucking real.
Monday, September 12, 2011
Leading looks from friends
Cause inward gazes within
Presumptuous shadows predicting lengthy moves
Proven schematics amongst shrill screams upon asphalt
Rolls and lumps of construction material that make up nothing
Our black remnants undulate against the waves of rock
Torrid language variegated by the sky’s shine
You gleam after every accomplishment
The trademark sparkle on my reflection’s charm
I could watch you forever
I sit in amazement and hope your eyes meet mine
I will keep this seat as warm as I can.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
I can't force "art" from my mind or fingertips. Only warning signs. The latest conversation I found validity in consisted of me being incorrect- not because I was wrong but because I didn't share opinion. In the future, bread will be broken upon secret slurs of martyrs' names. All else will warrant death. I can only relate the relays - the electrical pulses sodomizing my grey matter. I fling the cum in your general direction hoping it blinds you as much as it clogs me. Understand this: my vulgarity comes from anger- and not at you of course...no, no, no- not you you sublime being. You alabaster sculpture you. You're perfect. Maybe if you continue believing these theories- the urban gang rape wont hurt as much. The melting faces of hooded thugs can't bludgeon your memories for decades. The smog filled clouds cease to bother when every fiber of being turns to pulsating pain. All blue veins fill with black hate- torrid fissures expanding throughout your self image. You are nothing because you know it now. Now make something of yourself.
*Bear in Heaven - "Deafening Love"
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Patricia subtlety nibbled her lower lip every time she noticed Cu Chulainn staring at them. They stood across from one another awkwardly leaning against the kitchen counter. Her ankles formed a cross and painted toes laid flat and folded against the cold jade granite. Cucu was infatuated with her poise, her beauty, her voice; he felt himself flustered and re-imagining the arousing imagery even while staring at her.
“What are you thinking about, friend?” She asked with pursed lips. Cucu had to literally shake his head to escape the ape-like train of thought.
“You don’t want to know.”
“I asked didn’t I? I mean that’s the first step to a meaningful- I mean…just tell me what’s on my- on your mind.” She turned her face out of sight, cringed, and mouthed the word, “Wow”. Cu Chulainn could see and feel her anxiety- he related, reached out and put his warm palm upon her clenched fist. Her head whipped back around to gaze at the act of affection. Pat smiled. “Sorry, sometimes I can’t…focus- I get so nervous and then I can’t-“
“Me too.” Cu Chulainn replied warmly. “So what was this all about?” Cucu gazed all around the room, pointing with his nose. Streamers of yellow and green left runny dye stains on the floor. Bottles of half emptied alcohol lined the angles where the counters met the ground, causing amber liquid projections. Strange remnants of food littered every surface of the house and human limbs were sticking out from under tables and overturned cushions.
“It’s my last weekend home.” The answer was sharp as if the idea was cheapened by the obvious repetition. Cu Chulainn was clearly effected by the stranger’s response. He felt antsy and claustrophobic. It was clear the scenery needed to change.
The rustic backyard deck led out to high grass framing the Pacific Ocean. Undulating white and amethyst echoed a waning moon intertwined with the rising sun. “Wow, I’m never up this early- it’s gorgeous.” Patricia whispered with a liquor-drenched rasp.
“Indeed.” Cu Chulain wasn’t looking at the horizon. He was looking at what he’d hoped was a future. His smitten gooey center was being smashed by the apparent theme- time was running out, and infatuation can only go so far. “Where are you going? School?”
“Yeah, planning on hitting a few stops on the way though.”
“I want to see the world. Put myself in harm’s way. I don’t want to be the sheltered Orange County girl everyone steps all over in class. I need to-“ She thought for a moment Cu Chulainn was feigning interest but without missing a beat he replied.
“Let the world leave it’s mark?”
“Yeah. Eloquently put, Cucu. You’re pretty charming there, Mr. black-sheep-stranger-guy.” She slapped the palm of her hand in his as they shuffled through sand; he caught it quickly and didn’t let go. He thought to himself he’d never let go.
“You’re not so bad yourself, mermaid.”
“Mermaid? C’mon you can do better than- no, no, no!” Cu Chulainn couldn’t control himself; he swooped her up in his arms in one motion and ran toward the glistening sea. Her screams turned into guttural laughter. With every hurried step closer to the water, Patricia wanted to yell less. She found herself anticipating the cold water slipping up her slinky dress and causing the chills to sweep through her thighs and chest. Her eyes transfixed onto Cu Chulainn’s profile and she became silent. Cucu’s feet treaded water high and fast- kicking beads of froth and crystalline fragments into slow motion. The first wave hit them- coating both in freezing morning tide. They came up gasping; waiting to be shocked by the rising sun. Cu chulainn gently brought her jaw to his and usurped her mouth into his. Pat’s hands gave way- shooting up to the back of Cu chulainn’s neck- his hair tufting through her clenched fingers. Together their eyes closed tight; the grey and black muffle of lids turned to a poppy-orange glow. In unison they witnessed the sun rise over the horizon- shooting a blinding pillar of splintered light across their side of the world. Pat turned to Cucu and grinned wide. “I don’t think I can trust you.” She laughed.
“Well I thought I’d leave my mark.”
“Oh yeah?” She followed the remark with small kisses to his chin.
“Because if I didn’t run you over here in time…while the Sun was coming up, I could have fucked the whole thing up.” Another wave came to end his sentence with a gob of salty water.
“Fine line between assault and romanticism, huh?” She became adorably impish and sarcastic.
“You like it.”
“Shut up” She kissed him again.
“Okay. Hey, Pat?”
“Can we do this again sometime?” Cu chulainn asked coyly.
“What time were you thinking?”
She took no breaks from kissing him back as they paddled their feet together- bobbing along the sea. “Shut up, Cucu.”
Friday, June 17, 2011
Everything seems to crumble, when you expect it all to strengthen. Although bleak, I feel that statement to ring pitch perfect. I have been x-rayed and prodded, and the doctors have found pneumonia in my lungs, or rather- the tail end of it. I’ve had it for two weeks and I never went to get it surveyed because of the process involved: just like everything else in the military- designed to make you look like a complete pussy unless you ignore it. Not that I gave in to that regimen- I just knew it would be a huge hassle and not worth the effort. That sentiment eventually rang the bell of truth as well; as I got the S.I.Q. chit (Sick in Quarters: an allowance to leave work due to illness) I needed but perhaps too late. They (my own slovenly bitch of a boss in fact) put me on the 16-24 watch on Sunday a few hours after my chit expires. I still feel like hot garbage but the cough and mucus is beginning to subside. As soon as my S.I.Q. chit is up I go back to work sick or not. Don’t you just love that shit? The room inspections don’t stop. I keep getting notes to stop using the other side of the room as it is reserved for my “prospective” roommate. Which makes me subconsciously dry my towel out on the spare bed and hang my cold wash/no dry clothes in the spare closet. Fuck them. They’re only getting a few more months of my time and then I’m out to do some damage in the real world. For all of those who don’t know: The military is a place to hide; a nook that provides the utterly useless with entitlement and authority. Don’t come here, it’s a dark and miserable place. Let’s hope I make it out unscathed.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
My face hurts. That damned dentist numbed me up with his weaker-than-water needle poison. Pumped it right into my gums and told me to expect pressure. I expected torture and that’s what I got. My face fucking hurts. I feel as if a walrus head-butted me and I can’t feel it yet because the impact caused me to use a jelly fish as a pillow. Very nautacal I know, but what's a Seaman going to do. The sting will come sooner or later. This is so pathetic. This paragraph or two is merely self-pity (if you couldn’t tell) my conscience is beating me over the head for not writing not sharing my thoughts and feelings with the world. As if I’m fucking special…yeah right. What a misnomer, why the fuck do humans think so highly of themselves? It’s a ruse to keep us busy- a goddamned poison. They’ll put it in the water soon. Then every white trash piece of shit will think they can sing, write, draw, entertain; then again, look at fucking television, anyone can be entertaining, even a coked up junky with botox lips. Ouch that made my face hurt. Goddamned dentist, and his needles that belong in a fucking Kubrick film. Refracting light into my eyes and causing immediate sweaty fear. My face hurts. I hope your fucking eyes hurt.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
"Sure, I guess." He said coldly. She wasn't vapid- oh no, not this one. She was drunk. Which tends to accelerate vapidity- the perfect excuse for anything above the belt.
"Sorry, I'm kinda drunk." She slurred as she curled a lock of hair behind her ear and took a sip of what smelt like Ouzo. "So, like- you're the only one I don't know- and it's my house...I think I deserve more than just a cold shoulder." She clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, feigning a cricket. Cu Chulainn gave no response other than a quick smirk and an intentional nasal exhalation. She looked over CuCu's cold shoulder and saw a stone covered in what looked to be paisley bandannas. "What's that?" Patricia asked innocently enough.
"Rag-na-rock." He giggled, met eyes with her longer than he wanted to, and returned to his terrible joke of a drawing. He shook his head. He had seen what a pretty girl she was. Big mistake. Now she knew she could continue. She could continue with her ruse, she was in control- "give 'em that look and you give it all up." he thought.
"What's your name?" She bit her index fingernail, yet she wasn't a biter: a sign she was a bit histrionic. Cu Chulainn slapped the paper pad against his knees- he knew...time to give the princess what she wanted.
"My parents...they named me after the Irish Achilles..." CuCu was tired of the story and always ended it the same way, "...but you can call me CuCu." He cringed at what came next: typically a shrill squeal and a "that's so adorable!"
"Cool. Hound of Ulster, right?" She sipped at her libation proudly.
"Did you just say that? Or am I truly that fucked?" He stared at her black and lustrous eyelashes, at her porcelain mocha skin and deep brown eyes. He had now noticed that which previously begged for attention. That which now had Cu Chulainn in the form of surprised and smitten lust.
"No. There's more to me than a big stupid house. My name is Patricia by the way." They shook hands.
"Is that Ouzo you're drinking, Patricia?"
"Good nose. Have you been to Greece?"
"No. My nanny was a bartender." They both laughed hysterically. "But seriously, is it time to go or something?" She was disappointed by the query and wanted to know why this boy seemed so uneasy.
"How did you end up here?"
"Um- my friends kind of left me here. I'm pretty sure I have no way to get home until...like six or something."
"Holy shit! Some friends! By what names do these fiends proclaim?"
"Brian, Mike, and Andy." He fidgeted.
"Andy is a friend...wow, I can't believe they left you...then again...Brian, Mike, Andy and...Cu Chulainn? I think you're the black sheep where ever you go!" She laughed until promptly embarrassing herself quiet with a few snorts.
"Now that's cute! I bet you snort at all the boys!" More snorts came as well as a friendly slap to the chest. Sociology and psychology were CuCu's majors. He knew what he was in for: a long early morning of fresh tales told by full pink lips he was allowed to stare at.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Thursday, March 17, 2011
What a strange time to be a human being in the world today. War, strife, death and irresponsible leadership on all fronts. It feels like we live in the dark ages. Although this time around we have heat seeking-infrared-dick-filleting warheads that can sizzle a nation to ash. So, here I sit with a Glenlivet on the rocks; it's St. Patty's day narrated by Titus Andronicus, and as I tap my gunboats to the beat I'm hoping their show in New York with The Pogues is going as well as it kicks off in my day dreams. Cheers everyone! Here's to love found and love lost- and of course to a very delusional and righteous fellow by the name of Pátraic: the Apostle of Ireland. Drink up me babbers!
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
A lame one at that. Why do I have to challenge myself to become productive?
Because I'm a schizophrenic & competitive nob-end, that's why.
I plan on being more creative and less wasteful: hence the name of my blog. By the end of 2011 I hope to be able to play jazz on the trumpet, finish editing my motion picture scripts, write a hefty piece of my novel (of which my lazy ass has written seven fucking pages), and produce an amateur ambient/alternative album. Here you will find the writings, suggestions, opinions, music, photographs and general musings of Conn Donato Cianci-McGraw. Thank you.