The Holidays are here at last and even the snow smells commercial.

It's Back

last.fm

I wake each morning with my ribs aching like the hull of an ancient galleon, lost amidst the swells of the Northern seas. I remember loving winter so much more as a child, now everything just tastes ugly and grey.

   Manhattan is cold in the winter.

- 4am(mp3)

Review

Wizardzz -Hidden City of Taurmond- LOAD 080 CD

To be released simultaneously with the Barkley's Barnyard Critters "A Mystery Tail" DVD. If the Sponge Bob generation ever knew what that bitter almond taste was in their food, they would gladly stop drinking from the spout of diluted Bush tainted death juice. Simple stories

 expanded into hallucinagenic realities not seen since your last trip into the dark chambers of the devolutionary isolation tank.

Track Listing

1. Disembark
2. Sailship
3. Whispers From Wallface [MP3!]
4. Glimpse of the Hidden City
5. Jelipper-Lilly Field
6. "Do Come In" (tea and chulliwigs)
7. Sea Battle at Orkusk
8. Diamond Mirror
9. Chasing Our Shadows
10. Ambushed by Time Quagga
11. the Bubiliad Woods of Taurmond
12. Ladydragons
13. Rest at the Gate
14. Mimi Vivian Sunrise (live)

Rapid Eye Movement

I've been dreaming about empty cities lately. Desolate, haunted and lonely, begging to be explored. My thoughts are traveling a billion different directions right now like technicolor rays cast upon a wall through a crystalline prism. 

I used to dread sleeping at night because I was afraid to dream. Lately it's not so bad.  

Little to speak of

Everything smells like smoke and winter.

Crocodiles "Hollow Hollow Eyes" from Yours Truly on Vimeo.

a hell of a town.

My keys jingle like shackles as I pass through the golden frame of the front doors. The constant mechanical roar of the concrete jungle pounding into my equilibrium like so many war drums. I'm conscious of every step I take, the ground is so much harder here, hard like exterior of all of the lost souls who have crawled along it toward their broken homes and picked themselves up off it so many cold mornings. Their exterior seeming hard to some, still fragile to me. The electricity hums through the pavement in an endless tide of miniature seismic waves and courses into my body, as I exhale a twisting, dancing cloud of smoke into the already polluted night air.

All around me hot steel machines barrel down the avenues, desperate to make it one extra block only to stop and wait within the grid again. Everyone here is waiting, maybe without even realizing it but still waiting, waiting for something, the tension is thick enough to cut through with the black hilted butterfly knife in my back pocket. Everyone moves in forward procession like a mechanical funeral march. No one stops to look at the sky above them, where there are no visible stars and the smog and dust gathers with the electricity as it continues to hum its lonely tune of amperage. Here and there, a tree struggles to grow and flowers wilt. Sirens blare and horns blast in constant continuum, trying to part the sea of vehicles clogging the tarmac like an audial Moses. A fruitless effort every single time. A few hundred blocks away someone dies in an ambulance from a gunshot wound and a baby is born in a hospital. Gotham takes no mercy upon it's inhabitants, of which I am now one.

On every street the buildings rise up in rows like tombstones, a constant reminder of what little time each bypassing body has left. In the center, the Empire State Building rises like a florescent yellow funeral pyre, drawing all of the sleep-deprived moths from miles away toward it's electric flame. Beneath the streets the steel coffins roar through the darkness, sweaty bodies crammed in amongst one other, each with one intention, to just go home. With so many people trying to get home, I can't help but wonder why I am leaving my cold safe little room. What is it that draws me away from all of my electronic links to the rest of the world at large? With no direction and no flashlight, I venture forth into the black sea of night air. Into the dark belly of the city that never sleeps, where the only light source is commercial, available to the hordes of craving consumers for ten thirty even fifty percent off, as the economy slowly dies like wounded flies hovering a dumpster. Tonight as I walk amongst the funeral parade, unlike the rest of the mourners, I look towards the sky.

Rx

The house was quiet and the world was calm. 

The reader became the book; and summer night 

Was like the conscious being of the book

The house was quiet and the world was calm.

The words were spoken as if there was no book, 

Except that the reader leaned above the page, 

Wanted to lean, wanted much most to be 

The scholar to whom his book is true, to whom 

The summer night is like a perfection of thought. 

The house was quiet because it had to be. 

The quiet was part of the meaning, part of the mind: 

The access of perfection to the page. 

And the world was calm. The truth in a calm world, 

In which there is no other meaning, itself 

Is calm, itself is summer and night, itself 

Is the reader leaning late and reading there. 

"Sleep Deprivation-related Hypnagogic Hallucinations" 

The physician spoke the words as if they were something to fear, as if within them existed a dark and foreign world one should know nothing of. A world where every color leads into one another, creating one swirling plethora of nothingness, a non-existent representation of the time passing.  

Point A leads to point B and green means go. 

It is difficult to understand the purpose of paying money, for a potential diagnoses. Especially since one is then expected to pay for a synthetic sleep aid that costs even more. No one should have to pay for one of the most natural and essential of bodily functions

Early to bed, early to rise. For whom doth the term still apply, if one were to both sleep and wake after one, but before five a.m? 

Hypnagogic Hallucinations.

As if two words, one uncommon the other less-so, could intimidate one who feels so little. Is it not plausible for one whom faintly dreams while still awake, to be experiencing something so simple, as a daydream? 

Exactly when does a thought become a dream, if both remain within the confines of the mind? 

As if one could be expected to sleep at all, with so much to ponder.