freedom

If you saw a thing of incomparable beauty,
would you admire it
look at it with wonder
defile it
make it ugly
make it normal
Make it normal
Make it yours
Simply because you can
It might even be fun

the moon bleeds love

The moon bleeds pink the farms lie on either side welcoming like a thick mattress enveloped in black. Lie down on me envelope you in my moist embrace. The ac makes me sick the driver irritates. The silence could be cut if someone wanted to. The moon hides between black trees. The radio screams the milestone reads 45 The moon bleeds yellow between clouds the highway lies empty the speedometer hits a hundred and twenty. The car reeks of love and comfort. The radio screams… the boil on my butt is fit to burst. The moon is full and white. The milestone reads 17 and I can’t wait to get back home.

crowking

I am the crowking
deserted
I am the crowking
lost my murder

I am the crowking
hands in my pockets
I am the crowking
kingdom empty

I am the crowking
a crown of pigeon bones and rat skin
I am the crowking
alone

I am the crowking
nothing at all
I am the crowking
deserted

Pity me
Despise me
Hate me
Celebrate me

I am the crowking

Nothing

If I was to spin you my tale, you would feel revulsion and hate. I will spare you of these troubled emotions and skip to me as I am now. The crowking. Once proud and mighty. Now alone, standing with my back to my kingdom. The murders have cast me out. A king with no subjects is no king at all. My kingdom once all the sky of the western hemisphere, now a grassy patch of land and a solitary black tree. If a genie could grant me a wish, I would make one. If I had the power to change how things turned out, I would. By snapping my fingers, by magic. Make everything all right again. I could still do it. I could still get off my wings and do it. I could re-unite the murders lost to me. It would even be worth it but for now, I will wallow in self pity and croak my misfortune to the black tree and the grey grass. The black tree is my new palace. A palace for one. The grey grass my new sky. My wings are on my back and yet they are not. The black tree and the grey grass are all I have left. My places of rest, my friends, my dominion. The black tree stands barren. I rest among the hard branches and nest in twigs. The grey grass threatens to swallow me. I speak to them. all the time. The black tree and the grey grass do not speak to me. They hold their silence. Maybe they don’t listen, and so I can hope that they may not judge.

I am the crowking. Hands in my pockets back to the world.

Headrush

Headrush. And just like that, I’ve run out of words. Happy sad happy sad happy happy happy. Watch me dance. I entered the door and came out. A case of one forgotten ingredient. More important than any other. At a loss for words and feeling quite scared about it. Is this what its like to be ? Maybe. Moving on. I’m not, but life is.

The dogs on the street are restless. They haven’t howled in a few days. Or maybe I just didn’t listen hard enough. A productive night after a while. Not so guilty anymore. Tomorrow I might even play football.

Candlemass have re-united. The new self titled album has received uniformly excellent reviews. Seems kind of similar to the hype generated by Tempo Of The Damned or even Dance Of Death. Universally acclaimed in the first couple of months of release and then slowly people realised the songs weren’t all that good after all. Tempo has a few good songs while Dance got old very quickly. Still, it is Candlemass. It is the classic Ancient Dreams line up. I suppose we can hope.

If Napoleon was called Nappy, would diapers be called napoleons ? A friend threw this curve ball in my notebook. What do you think ?

the door

The door looks at me. Inviting me in. A dirty creamy colour with batman and the joker. With scotch tape stains and dust on the edges. The door looks at me and prays for me to enter. The handle is scuffed. Paint giving way to rusty hard iron. Offering myriad possibilities. I like that word. The cold hard feel of the floor inside. The tangy smell of life. Of sweat and soap and stale news. Green and white all bathed in neon. I sit, I stand I recline I dance. I see and I am blind. I laugh I cry I hurl abuse and immerse myself in mood. An attack of noises. Assailing each ear differently. Assailing each ear with sounds so intense as to drown you in them. The door looks at me. Pleading for me to come in. Please! It seems to be saying. Come in. Visiting the abyss on a dare, the walls a brighter shade of light. Traveling without moving ? Something like that. A ten ton hammer on my chest or the feel of blood on my lips. A delicate breeze on my face or a friendly hand on my back. The door opens into a new room every time. This music sucks but will sound so much better when I open the door and step inside. The door looks at me. The door welcomes me in.

today

Pin pricks on my skin
Wet sharp and pleasant
Death on the cards, Happy Ugadi
The devil and the goat
Biryani and blasphemy

The men are now a battered blue
The coffee is a muddy black
Crowley sits in front of us
Benevolent and willing

Red shoes riding evil breeze
Water warnings and coincidences
A buried chariot dust covered dying
Iced teas and drownings

Experiments in chaat
Recon missions in dark light
On the surface of the moon
In a canary yellow box

Whiskey weed and chains
Diving headfirst into the abyss
German steel welded industry
Insomnia and the will to kill

Today,
If the world had a vagina I would fuck it to death

drugs are bad

I don’t remember the last time I went to sleep sober. I tried to remember but I just couldn’t. Memory goes for a toss when you smoke up every fucking day. Or so they say. The last four days I’ve been sober and I’ve never felt so fucking miserable. Escape. I love to escape and marijuana lets me escape. Its just marijuana. Its not cocaine. Its not heroin. I’m addicted to marijuana. I’m turking in my room for marijuana. I’ve made fun of people for this. “How can anybody turk for marijuana ?” I know now. I feel like a wuss. This is my cry for sympathy but I’d be lucky to get a slap on my face. I don’t remember the last time I slept sober. I don’t remember the last time I took a break that I was able to sustain. Yes I do. Just now. My memory isn’t all gone. November – December 2003. I’ve been smoking the weed pretty much non-stop since then. When I roll myself a cigarette and smoke it my brain stops screaming. I can fool myself. I’m not addicted I just like the high. I fool myself.

Now is the time to climb on my soapbox and warn the children of the world about the evils of marijuana. I will not. Just one good marijuana trip outweighs all the evils it might contain. So fuck it. If you've never smoked weed then you have no idea what i'm talking about and you can be ignorant and happy. If you have smoked it, then you know what I'm talking about. So then, back to being a weekend warrior dear diary. Lets see how this goes then.

Napalm

Among The Wierdcong is such a kickass song. Fucking blistering album opener. M-16 makes Code Red look like pussy shit and Code Red wasn’t bad at all. Sodom are just fucking unstoppable.

Interesting Fact # 21642 : FreeRip MP3 jus brushes aside copy controlled OCDs.

People on the outside looking in. Not a cliché. Just a cold hard fact. What you gonna do ? Sister I been trippin’ in your sky.

A sense of apathy, tranquilized in a sea of daisies. Acid Bath mantras for everyone. Violence in my head now all the time. Oppressing the Masses ? My green shirt is not as comfy as it used to be. India lost in Bangalore. What a fun way to spend the weekend. The pretty girl is not here today. The cigarette smoke is.

The woman in the pink sari has a very pretty smile. Few women look good in pink. She looks light and airy, like she could fly away any minute. A gentle summer breeze ? She seems to be dreaming. Watching a spice girls video with a smile on her face. She is going to hate her Latte but smile through it anyway.

More hip hop videos. A techie talking wall street. The reggae man nodding his head. Waiting for the lawyer and eavesdropping.

Classic JC quote “ Doesn’t he feel like slapping himself when he hears his own singing ?” Wyrmboy on Richard Marx. I guess you had to be there. Phil Demell’s joined Machine Head as second guitarist. Violence ? Yes.