Sunday, September 25, 2011

I'm scared- are you?

Time is ticking away with a menacing beat. The clatter of ignorance. Shrugs from the wealthy. Always one second closer to an ending. What that closure will be is the question that kills me. I want to know that this...Earth...will survive. That I'm not a witness to the utterly preventable apocalypse. Why can't we be the surveyors of change? Oh, that's right. The American people have become just that: Monitors.

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's the weirdest thing you've ever tried to witness: but it's real...I guarantee it's fucking real.

Monday, September 12, 2011

Loony Yoony

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

There's a dark alley for all

Surrounded by cascading dirt slopes. The only tangible hold is made of ethereal grime. Plumes of earth burst between my fingertips. My eyelids only well up with salt instead of clearing the air- uprooting the cause. Torn and ripped of my bedside manner. Though my bedfellows reside elsewhere. They no longer leave a warm residue. I feel only cold linen- worn cotton. Perhaps I am poor of heart- no change to be had...I beg and yet receive spittle- my own of course. Tracing it's way to the concrete, collecting into a reflection I can't abide. I don't feel sorry for myself anymore- I'm no "rape-child". Quite the contrary: I am the product of "deafening love"*- a mother and father who saw no consequence to their parallel or their separation. Happiness alludes me. I try to find it in my so called peers. But the aforementioned parallels rear ugly heads as if only mirrors resided before them. Causing diamond shaped apparitions showing only multiple sides of the same surface- letting these fools believe in ill-fated multifaceted personalities. Look no further my children. For you are perfection. Click away at meta keyed buttons- creating jealousy, conducting melodious manipulations- always awaiting your 99 cent tones of timeless church bells to ring out- alerting you to the damage done. I'm finished. I know not what to do. There is no crescendo to my generation...other than the silence following this world's imminent destruction- the ultimate "I told you so".

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, 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

pat & cucu part II

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.”

“Okay, mermaid.”

Friday, June 17, 2011

To the people out there, about the man in here

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

Only blaming myself

Clichés can’t save me here. Nothing can cushion my fall at this point. I’m juggling too much too slowly. I am respected by people who by no means should. I’m a fraud- a fake, my words are just ooze from a swamp of lies. I’m at a loss as of late, and know no remedy. The rubber faces of co-workers that stretch high and long make me sick. They aren’t real, no one is that happy about being here. I read my acquaintances’ accounts of war and murder as I pick scabs or blow my snot into a napkin. I am nowhere near that...I never wanted to be. But I feel like maybe the experience would open up and swallow my time if I was out murdering or patching up the wounded. At least I’d feel like my job had some worth. Like I could stab the world in the heart and get a medal for it. I can’t even call myself a writer…I don’t write and when I do I can’t stand the sight of it. No rhyme or reason. No pre-writes or treatments written and I feel like the readers know it. So sad. If you could crawl in my brain space it would toss you like a broken rollercoaster, you’d vomit and catch your breath, look up at me- the grinning carnie of it all- and say, “What the fuck is the matter with you?”

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

What current flows straight and true?

The powers that be are "we". Many theories exist concerning the human species being linked by electricity and "energy". I don't see it as much as I want to. I know it to be true, but it's not a common belief; connectivity and shared conscience is no Christianity, therefore it must be a liberal mirage. You can see the arcs bursting in children: the way they learn and behave, how pure of heart they can seem before our jaded and sometimes cruel society crashes down upon them. I wish it wasn't gloom and doom most of the time, but it is. Our crippling insecurities crush us down into what we believe to be shining diamonds, yet LED equipped billboards turn bedroom windows into televisions. The amplified guilty pleasures of a chimpanzee strapped to a chair attempt to negate good parenting, safe choices, and even the way we dress. Eventually ad agencies will fight over who will tag the moon with their species-deprecating slogan. The term brainwashed comes to mind...though it isn't correct; we buy into it, we want it, we want it to crawl inside our frontal lobe and fuck the crease. All that ails us as a society and a generation is a welcomed enemy; it stands in front of us with the biggest gun we've ever seen. That weapon is money. Every starved child cadaver we see, every fucking vagrant in a pool of piss, every screaming mother, every child molester, every coke addled prostitute with three kids sleeping on a soiled mattress, every rapist, and every cornered human being with one breath left in it's lungs that lives inside every one of us exists due to a monetary influence somewhere along the life line. Avarice is made tangible by a monetary system. Goods and services are in turn hoarded, our fear of loss and insecurities are then bolstered by our unquenchable want for new and better lives. The majority of this planet has no thirst for knowledge, because the majority of this populace is dead. Famine, diseases, rampant viruses, are all killing us and research can only be conducted when there is enough funding or public interest. We are only concerned with populating this planet and using it for archaic "good ol' fashioned" symbiotic habitation. That's our message to the infinite universe, "WE DON'T GIVE A FUCK!". There are days when I can't conceive of the human race being any better than a viral bacteria. Numerous accidents had to occur in order for water to even get here. We then crawled out of the water and decided more of us must exist in order to stay alive, thus creating the cyclic behavior of survival. We are a cancer, as many inhuman silver screen villains decree. We will eat it all up, until it's all gone; everything else we do in the meantime only exponentially perpetuates our extinction. I look up in the dark abyss and see nothing. I literally see nothing. Every bright star is already dead, and anything else that lives in the universe needs to avoid what they see here. If we find them they will be raped, interrogated, killed and sold to the highest bidder. We must reconnect the circuitry. Our resources on this planet must be completely compiled, tallied and shared. We must reverse this behavior. By the time our leaders do something it will be because our option of being symbiotic leeches has inevitably failed. Quite obviously by that time we will have also failed ourselves as living creatures and marked the human in the history books as the most ignorant and selfish beast in the universe. But already knew that, didn't you?

Tuesday, March 22, 2011

Pat & CuCu - Part I

Doodling on watercolor paper was the best Cu Chulainn could do. The stumbling hostess just about cracked her tailbone in half getting the materials (a Bic pen and said paper) as there were various brown fluids in patterns of Nike and flip-flop soles on the green granite floor. She sat next to the boy nick-named CuCu in one movement- the signature of a person who's had one too many. She gave a facetious gander around the vacuous entryway of her parent's home, and then back to CuCu with a shimmering grin. The house was a typical three-story Orange County wasteland, with plastic-like- seemingly varnished- banisters leading to empty white rooms with empty white walls. Her guests had all gone home or passed out where they stood. The time was 3:30 am. Cu Chulainn scribbled with vigor, hence the last girl standing had the nerve to ask his most loathed question. "So, you draw huh?" Her eyes boldly fixed on his brow, but they met no other set. CuCu was convergent; eyes on the pad of paper; ideas were swimming, flowing and merging. His thoughts melted together and the girl named Patricia was merely...there.
"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.
"Cu Chulainn."
"I'm sorry?"
"Me too."
"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 six or something."
"Holy shit! Some friends! By what names do these fiends proclaim?"
"Brian, Mike, and Andy." He fidgeted.
"Andy is a, 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

Mana Rebirth

So I'm bringing back the ol' "Radio Mana" the podcast where I give listeners an ear full of what I consider to be great music and a bit o' commentary. You can find it here or listen below. Not much else to say, just an update- going to practice trumpet now and enjoy my day off. Love you all.

Thursday, March 17, 2011

St. Patrick

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

The beginning is only the beginning.

This is a test.

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.