logs
Better than rage
I experience a newfound rage. It is thick like toxin and it predates time. I am going to do it. The stars may hint otherwise, but they hint at anything. They are as retard as sarin gas. They spell words differently. But I surpass that. I see my emotion as a cleverly stiff and large grey platform levitating and it is in front of me. I see the object and I feel brute control, a violent tranquility, a sadistic reassurance. It is there and it keeps being there. The room is a dark red, deep crimson maybe. The more I stare at it, the more I am convinced that it's making a sound. But it is imperceptible. It's the kind of sound that is right there until you look at it—until you direct your ears (inner or outer) and focus on it—and when you do, it vanishes. It is a pungent entity. It watches over me, I think. It is timeless and, all things considered, it may be a guardian angel. I can hate as much as I want and this flying stationary mass of who-knows-what stays sober, menacing, final. It looks like finality. Don't let me forget that I hate what resides in the buildings outside. If I ever found them compelling, it was because I secretly hoped people were beating each other inside. A crimson brain floats over it, it rests still and guards this metallic perfect form. Every time I get closer to the gist of sorrow, the seeming organism increases in size. I want it to overtake the whole room and suck me in. It will be metal and brain tissue that will make for my upcoming tales. Pumping blood and silver stench.
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An tale
I have abandoned the ability and I have abandoned the agency. Despite this attitude, I still keep an agenda. My attention attends wounds. My attitude is not great, it indeed has aged. But apart from that, despite that, it should work just anywhere. Anyway.
I am able to attract dead agents. I remain attractive (if you could call this attraction). I like my apartment to look aggressive. I have apologized apps ago. About time.
The audience gasps—ah— as if my lies were absolutes. In August, my shell will become apparent. They come with their aunts so I kill them anyway. It appeals—we agree: the agreement is mutual—. Abroad, more is to come. "Is that so?". Absolutely.
Ahead of appearances. I am ahead of appearances. As an author, I accept the nature of my aim, laid ahead by authorities and international aid. "This is not acceptable", says the academic. Silly boo. An apple fell on your head and you made a cult out of it. It appears we are on the same team: the team of impostors. Autumn, fall on me. Fall ahead.
People need access to accommodation. Some is available, I tell them, but you have to apply for it. First, get an appointment. Avoid being grammatically accurate—I hate that. Wait while your application flies through the air, avoiding pigeons—I hate pigeons. Once I am done, pay the airline, board the aircraft, and pray for an accident—this would save me the trouble that you, ultimately, are. Beast of average perfection.
What awful alarms. My approach to alcohol is that of staying aware, as away as possible from the effect. Is this usage of English accurate? Do you understand all of this, finally? Do you approve? I hope not so much. You account has to read awfully about me. My music album has to steer bad waves. According to common sense, your approval should set off the alarms. Regardless of outcry, my solution is appropriate.
I am not an alcoholic. I am an American acquarium drinker. I achieve approximately zero accuses. On a good day, I get my baby back. I appreciate it if we stay alive. If we do, I give as an award. God not willing, I have to take them to the airport and leave them there—you are now accompanied by all the beautiful forces that I don't care about anymore.
All right, you have achieved to arrive until here. I hope you acknowledge that you have acquired quite a taste. Allow me to present to you my architecture. April, is that your name? That should be your name. Despite my background as an architect, despite my felonious achievements, all this is is either for you or for backwards bacteria. In the end of things, I can't see the difference.
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Wanda make sense challenge
Her heart races idiotically. She wants this, yet the dilemma freezes. "What a beautiful diorama", her father congratulates her. "You are a scientist already". In her head, everything flashes and explodes with meanings of a life destroyed by the incessant want to help others, by the highly sensorial thrill to keep people alive and with as much ability to understand that this is not over. To splash forevers around; what good shady crime, Wanda.
There is a too-a-real diorama, real-life-sized real-life, in front of her: buildings and cars and free coffee on saturdays—to help the children—and on Christmas—to keep them begging—, high-schools and schools shut down, incest and chess tournaments, deadly sins exchanged for Bitcoin, Bob in inside-out giraffe pajamas, birds like organic antennas in electric poles, birds stuck in grease or in mist nets, flesh being burned alive—as if flesh was not an object—, bodily odors from beggars, a huge queue at the local infermiery, an airport that wants to explode, the insolence that your candidate's nemesis sparks on you, Krimson Jones on the wire. And now she has the power to make it over.
She drags her floating hand, it looms over the button, as if the button were the city and her hand the promise of closure. Erasure, you are. Go get what they were lacking. Get the answers you need. Fire. Fire.
She nods, as if she were listening to this. Go say hi to her, dear reader. Tell her how much she means to me, before the damage is cleansed. But she can't get herself to press the damn thing, Wanda I suggest you just drop your hand, that will do the trick. It's no big deal, they did it twice and none fell on Berlin. Grab your pretty smile, this is an act of You. Wanda drop the hand—it is not yours, it is ours. Wanda let it go.
I was a Barça boy but then they began winning.
Wanda's hardcore
You can’t even feel your own sadness. You can’t even make your own vowels. You scream from a place that mocks and rejects your laments, you long for a place you never belonged to. You think I don’t know? You run away from flying, and you call it virtue. You stupid fucking cunt, you filthy idiot angel. A bag of fat begging to be exploded as many times. No matter what Sylvia says, there are better ways to end it, honey. This may be the greatest.
This is foregone. I will talk about something else. I think Wayne Rooney is cool. I see him all the time on TikTok. Maybe I should uninstall the app, that would make of me a better being. Better than distilled water. Better than peanut butter. Maybe they should ban TikTok, this would make us better beings. Maybe they should prohibit bombings, this would make everyone happy. Maybe hunger should be illegal, this would satiate everyone’s bellies. It almost feels like human wishes ultimately lead to fucking silence. At last, we agree. Drop the bomb, Wanda.
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Truth is a peasant
"Niggers kill indians
kill indians kill niggers".
It is said the world fits in a can.
In a can of soda. Cunt, cunt, cunt.
Nigger makes an easy war.
Easy going, inner like a sword.
In method writing we are album
cracked like oyster 'n' fury tales.
Remember that forgetfulness is God.
Whether you sought wine or remedy,
whether I called raw or police,
the spirit enemy is wrapped in eyes.
Cunt: faggot now retard.
You behave like a GPT.
If John says it, dicks out.
Hate simple things, for they bread
everything that put us here.
Foster contempt for angels, for they—.
Angels are chaos understood.
They are futily fully grasped,
fertilized rage they are.
They sweat rainbow and dark matter;
deep sex cuts and brute loathing.
Despair is stuffed in their brains,
ready to burst and play.
She is a he and they are sweet,
He she be as dim as sick.
I long for the furthest
of monsters. The deadliest
earthquake is dressed as kitty.
I want to shit endlessly
while reading manuals
on how to make skin rust.
Darlene shouts stuff,
Orlando shouts stuff,
Zendeya shouts stuff.
Suzanne letterbombs;
I xerox her.
Xerox, xerox, xerox.
Xoxoxo, ball of fire.
Earth in its simplest form
resembles my will to live.
I love her to crunches.
Her endless holes
dissapear her completely.
Fuck solipsism:
we are in this together,
like rats and like dust.
Inhale some tenderness
and lose yourself into fire;
we might ascend thereafter.
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Snuff
The wind is sour, under attack of night spikes. Within a few miles I'll enhance my motorsport. Through the roof, I mumble, through the roof of this sierra, through the ousting of this gleaming Drive. I'll enhance my motorsport, crash into your living room, suck the living out of it.
Il digitale terrestre risuona in queste strade, anche essi terrestri. Il loro momento, però, è abbastanza digitale, sottile nei dintorni, con la predisposizione ad abbatersi da solo, a cedere e diventare cenere. Il loro motorsport sa di menzogna, più curata che la sabbia dei teologi o della nebbia mia. Eppure il risultato c'è: i loro missili scattano i dintorni che avrei dovuto far sparire prima che la storia di sempre—quella vera, quella tutta forte—ritornassi da me. Ma io di scenografie non me ne intendo, non di solito. Di bugia e miopia—che tanto sono la stessa cosa, muoia quel che muoia—me ne frego poco. Anche delle loro qualità, me ne sfotto.
Non dovrebbe quindi, it should come as breaking news, non dovrebbe rompere qualcosa—magari ogni cosa—questa mia macchina, questo mio motorsport. È favoloso lo stare fermi, it is remarkable, I like to seal things, e adesso vado avanti e cado—vado avanti e cado—, con la consapevolezza di non essere mai stato più di quello che i miei desideri m'avrebbero potuto far credere. Right into the shining path of certainty that things locked will remain locked. Always. I have always loved you. My brain is a drain of doodles by you. I might have to buy your things before you burn them with yourself in them. I might have to speak to your guards in their language. I might have to stop casting spells on your legacy. Svanirai una volta ed io ti riscatterò tante altre.
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Untitled
The world is full of tetris, of axiom and colic. I swear, spit and slur: nothing changes. Day shines like a dripping honey, like elsewhere. Hate the idioms they have made, off them please. Oxenfree, now, Ollie. "I am grinding in agony, you stupid twat". Whether this came to be, I ought to go.
Five o'clock. I never do this. They ask from the benches, the boys in white. I wrestle with thought and desire. The climate, the weathersponge, it drools on us.
Six, oh no. The sky tears dank light back at window, like my wrist does with chimney. My bones turn into blooming cotton, expand and scrape muscle tissue, it makes me wonder if my pain has been reserved. I become a ball and start swimming on my own illness. The boys are staring at my self-referencing system. I speak coordinates of truth but bubbles come instead, as if I evaporate, and I wonder whether my is curse is transmisible by air.
Seven o'clock. Oh lord, the wings are swinging. They are audible many times past what I can bear.
At eight, I wake up. What good avoidance, what good colors. Did you knew that right in those pitch-black space spots there are intermittent flashes, the unending and sublime, violent reality-washing flashes of faith and honor—wash away, wash away—, you slumpy goo, you silly bee, you pesky mistress of me.
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Hellscape (at will, off land)
Bold! He wanted to cut them off, true image like hurricane. "I despise these pesky bees, I wish I could swallow them, at night, by river, at large, at large!", why such reach? Enrico is missing brain limbs. "Let my vomit turn into dust worms. Be my hellscape". Be my hellscape. Back to it, "Wish you were a three-story building. Reject teles, uninstall portals, I can't shut them down, I lack the ability, my will has worn out. Make a fire and I'll firefight. You pyro, fire beast, deadly sin, sick sorrow, you fetish".
"These cities got nerves! These transports are full of colour, yikes!", what do you seek exactly? What is this pulse, where is this fear? "Many bombs and false alarms. You monkey, you twat, expired can of Coke". Every once in a while, it's good to make sense. "Fuck their nationalities, poison their healers, get them into a jail, compress the jail, I wanna use them as darts, use them for night hunting". Sure, pathetic, how fun, what story, hot stuff, not controversial enough: loss of likes, sudden plunge, free Assagne, no? But ban of this, ha! God, give me my pillows. "I can only; at will, I'll".
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These streets are now police
There was this indian youth—seventeen-ish, would be blond (could be, sure)—and Kennell threw a punch, a slow one with repulsive elegance, and then grabbed his still-standing body, actually his collar, and beat him three times, in the nose he did. Red nose now, bleeding, and Kennell grabbed a broken piece of wood, infected with urine and dogshit and his will, and slammed it in his cheek. The force was strong as magnets are strong and as you and I were whenever I had you in my pocket. This poor indian youth, nameless and neckless, was brought up from the ground, like dead people are from the dead, cuz Kennell grabbed him by his shiny chinese necklace and once India was in knees (couldn’t get balance needed to stand in two feet), he pulled a fucking silver blade, a freaking toxic knife, and began playing with them on him, time and again his chest spelled metal band names that only I could have deciphered, and maybe I would have had you tattoo some of them, for some of them were really nice, and I am really above myself, I count employing syrian numbers and minuscule dots of atom, my holy grail has been stamped on your face, I swear I could not comprehend, I call myself an overseer, a watcher, a semicolon, a contraband. Kennell catches my eye, I wish he did. His blade is boiling red hot and his artwork, standing on the street, says I really want to be your friend.
He stops a yellow car (it resembles a taxi, American), and he declares to the car’s front, “I hate these arabic messes, I hate these indian slums, these noises can’t even become proper black, these are impostors of their own sickness, off motion they should be put, off motion, like you—“, it seems that during his words, he spotted the driver’s skin color, “You are an abomination and should be killed, I say, should be put off, I hate you”, this is getting out of hand, ridiculous, this can’t be my friend, “Fuck indian people and the hatred they have put on me, I loath Gandhi and whatever. I swear, the British can’t make a proper job, any job properly now”. Should I shoot him? The cops in their white-and-cyan cars (real, American), storm the streets and I am left wondering.
From time to time, it should be said, one stops becoming and starts being. I sure as hell knew of Kennell’s inclinations, just barely. I never liked edgy jokes or incorrect politics, I never did, so I brushed it off when Kennall started having these parties of hate at his house. They had Gandhi's face in pieces on the wall, like when someone tears your favourite poster and you are left to put the pieces together. But every face piece was far from the other. It was an exploding Gandhi, what they had. He called me last week to explain the importance of this encounter. “And you shall shoot”. But I didn’t understand. I never ever do. God, I truly never did. So the police are storming the streets, these streets that sang joy—what was the saying—, they held us together, watched us grow, cultivated our civic duty and mating preferences. These streets were now police. I kid you not, I shot him in the face and the very next day I woke up in heaven.
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We don't want to work with you anymore
It has come to us
that you are trash.
It has come to the mass,
as fast and as rough,
alas.
We unsubscribe
from what we could have
been subscribed.
We abhor,
we kindly forget
an evening with Jones.
Her dire wrath still
(still)
stands uncorrected.
With care and vision,
we will find you
at the collision of
what you made occur.
His wholesome dread
will put you away
for millennia.
There is truth in
any fucking thing.
It has come to us.
These papers read
like life in digress,
like little walkers
on fire, on fire.
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La
Do you understand my idiom,
or are you just so illiterate
that you see the same gibberish
as I do (actually, I don't speak English.
I never did)
I never did
Can I make you into a monster?
I am a doppelgänger of myself
Can I turn you in, my doppelgänger?
Deep copy
My sentience is shallow
Every day, now
I misremember my day and age
I miss the rage
Most of my originality comes from misuse of my senses
The other half is my coolness in delay
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What is a kubernete?
Where is my Daniel?
Leaf
Four letters; hyphen and coax
My trade comes from misreading, mishearing. Misfeeling
I forget things on the spot
I am oblivious of my age. Every time, now
Carbon
Life is written in crayon
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