They Don't Have a Name for It vol. 1

Burn what's left of the flags for me.

footage of mushroom clouds is soothing right now. feel like every time i sit in this chair sawfly larvae is hatching all across my skin. walked for 2 hours today. until all the disappointment, rage, loss, and revenge dripped over the ridges of my face. a thousand songs played in my head scoring a thousand death scenes, and it all came together like a choir of sex crime victims fisting one another. one isn't coming out and the other doesn't wanna hear from you. you're alone. take a letter out of the word "celibate", duplicate one letter and and in another letter and you have "celebrate". i can take comfort in knowing i've done very little wrong. i suppose being born; but that's not my fault i suppose.

park was empty today. everyone bitching about the heat. it's August you assholes. deal with it. smell like the beatch. had an idea for a Venture Bros. character; a composite of European horror movie villains, transgressive literary figures, and masked vigilantes in hats/trenchcoats/fancy clothes like Rorschach, Fantomas, Darkman, the Question. he'd be called "Nightmare Fuel". He'd be like Rorschach in that the other characters wouldn't know who he was out of costume,but he'd have different outlandish obscure disguises every episode. like one episode he'd be dressed like Crispin Glover's character from Rubin and Ed, or something. i dunno. need connections to get this ideas off the ground. too bad nobody wants anything to do with my obsessivley boring ass.

wrote a fake movie trailer last week or the week before. a grisly torture/slasher/rape film called The House Behind her Body. title is an homage to all the other "House" films; Last House on the Left, House on the Edge of the Park, House by the Cemetary, Last House by the Beach, House on Dead End Street, and so forth. It's 3 1/2 pages of grotesque pervisity. wish i knew how to put this bullshit to film. wish i had the money and patience to do it on my own. probably never happen. who cares anyway? you don't. you aren't even reading this right now. you want more silly pictures, not me making an assclown out of my clownass.

checked out some cool new bands today; MOLOKEN, SUBROSA, CONCEALMENT, IMBROGLIO.

the musk of my own masturbation in especially thick right now. it's like stepping in a shower that's just been bleached... that gentle burning up your nostrils. two shows this weekend. they'll be packed, but not with anyone i see outside of that circle. no one wants to step out of their comfort zones. Just stay around their home towns, go to bars, talk about nothing, and pass out. this is the life they're funding. good for them. you've really got it all, kiddies. fuck me. who am i? one more silent barker, inhaling the wafting fumes of his floorboard spunk. No one there. No one here. the amonia of dying proteins fading to stain are about as rich as things will get tonight.

Dying is about the only positive thing that can come from my existance. I'm certainley doing little good by being alive. violin violin cello.... cello violin.... viola cello viola viola. violin. a shot of Skittles Vodka and foreplay with kitchen knives. if i had any guts at all, it'd be "goodbye, cruel world!", followed by twin middle fingers with a sawed-off chaser, a sign reading "NO FUNERAL" pinned to my chest with thumbtacks. just feed me to some giant lizards or something.

little mood for talking. who needs it. just leads to misunderstanding, explosions, and battering nerves. I'm not one to care enough to be cared for. i can't relate to almost any of you. what do you want? we're the last line. it's all over, fags and fagettes. Not that you should care. not when you can't twitter about it. not when you can't drink it. DNA is just dust that's yet to cake.

Winds pick up sand, revealing more of a hand stiffened from rigor mortis. the fingernails fell off, revealing the sensitive pink that would've taken months of gnawing to share with the world. More wind, more sand picked up, more corpse hands jutting from the desert ground. A baby crow sits perched on a crinkled middle digit. Eventually its weight cause the bone to snap and both the bird and finger comes tumbling to the ground. The crow puts the finger between its beak and flies off, against the sandstorm the hands have started.

420.