The Daily Fix

little bird’s nest in a gurney
was flutter at all? not a grin.
thereafter altogether journeyed
through it flecks a manhole’s grin.

touch it, such it is as goes
just mete and speak and let.
the little butlers on ice floes
still to gone and there are let.

Well, the problem’s solved for now by just switching to a default template. This is evil bullshit, blog.com. There should probably at least be some kind of email notification.

It says “monthly transfer limit exceeded,” as you can see. This is ugly. I kind of hate it.

Checkered tablecloths don’t always mean Italian restaurants, and neither does this smoky saloon full of murderous dagoes. Help! I need somebody! Help! I need anybody! To pull the checkered tablecloth from out of my mouth where it was acting as a hastily-crafted gag and then call the police on the Italians that have bound me up and even now as I feverishly imagine typing these words dance about me lighting tiny fires with the candles attached to the cuffs of their pant-legs! Heh-eh-elp! This is the point of no return. After being sued into the ground by Surr Paul McCartney for using his timeless, precious lyrics that are a treasure and testament to all humanity, whiskey will come quicker than legal counsel and legal counsel quicker than water. I didn’t type a “q,” and then I didn’t type a “u,” and now it’s saying that didn’t isn’t a word but it is and so is “isn’t,” but it says that’s not a word either which is a terrible quandary to be in for a writer that says so many negative, awful, mean, nasty, disgusting, terrible things like me, because I only say bad things all the time EVER even though when I write the subject matter is usually fairly inoffensive. I guess at face value most of the things I SAY OUT LOUD could offend at people when taken out of context or around the corner be herded Alps. But that’s okay, because only an idiot is earnest, and Ernest is an idiot! Have you seen the one where he goes to prison? The pope. I haven’t spoken of the Pope in a while, although he was one of the villainous Italians that stole my wallet inside the saloon. The thing about the Pope is that he never says hello, and it’s not ever one hundred percent sure that he is or isn’t lying or just trying to make a joke when he shows you the little pope. It always starts the same way. He sits on his chair…

If you tied a bunch of skinned apples together so that they made a rhyming statement about the papacy, it would be a roped pome pope poem.

There’s been a recent outbreak of synaesthesia sweeping the insensate pineal glands of youths, which coerce colors to stir frenziedly against eachother in some type of reproduction of copulative functioning… although certainly there’s no hope of palettes getting it on all groovy-like in the night, while painters sleep. The word “sleep” comes off the fingers like “sheep,” although I do understand there are more than etymological and clerical differences in that of the z’s and the ewe. For one, a sheep must be regularly juiced for its excretions in a gigantic pulping machine, and sleepery must not be attained while this process is self-fulfilling; sheep do not enjoy being overly pulped. Indeed, it’s been often suspected in some circles that sheep look upon being squozen in excess with disdain. Hence, combative efforts are often taken to insulate the pressed-sheep community from the dangers of two-dimensional lifestyles, often taking the form of gigantic skewers. Once the life’s been skewered from their limp little corpses, the sheep behave in exemplary fashion, no matter how hard-pressed they are. I couldn’t even begin to think of how to depict this entire process, however, so you’ll have to come up with some type of mental imagery, reader.

Is it to talk to one’s self if one speaks to one’s toenails as they are being cruelly rendered asunder from their calcified nests? One must wonder this as one babbles at the diminutive flotilla in one’s toilet, pre-vortex.

Where to begin?
 
Compartmentalization has never been so evident than in the places we dwell. Every chamber presents facility of different natures: a purpose unto itself for each need, although these are really empty spaces, unoccupied by the task of self-justification.

This isn’t really the best place to begin; being jumbled with inept phraseology known only to its utterer presents nothing but nothing.

To begin anew. Mitchell’s apartment was ablaze in fiestadom. Gaiety: Mitchell was chopping some type of vegetables, bitter in nature. The scent of peppers and peanuts cloyed sociably as tribal rhythms emanated from speakers positioned across the oblong chamber, rippling the delicious, bitter, salty molecules like spicy buoys of sweat on a breaking heat wave. Like a sensory organ, the scent writhed its way into the stringy african rug haphazardly sprawled across the further half of the room at its leisure, to silently wither there largely unappreciated for weeks. Mitchell scraped his wooden, condensed chopping block with his ginsu knife as though it were a washboard, drinking in his reflection cast at his eyes from the spectacular window that stamped itself upon the lefthand wall. The dishwasher gurgled its approval of the man’s unfailing need for validity. Here was a true gourmand of the soul, a man who slurped hungrily at the bowl of the spoon of good humour and asked for nothing yet agreed heartily with the plenipotentiary characteristics of his llifestyle. Mitchell, you see, was a drug dealer, and quite one at that. In the bathroom, down the hall, cold and blue and motionless lay the garrotted body of a formerly coked-out stripper who’d slipped and fell somewhere near the middle rung of fortune’s ladder: reknowned for her prodigious ability to convey extraordinary pleasure with but a twist of her tongue in every circle seedy enough to require such services yet tasteful and of means enough to discriminate in terms of the felicity and fineness of fellation, and not quite half out of the manhole leading from the sewers of blowing pimps, businessmen and politicians to the glorious daylit golden-paved streets of blowing record and movie producers. Needless to say, this fall proved to snap her emaciated neck like a fine gentleman gingerly cracking in two the wishbone he holds pinched at each end between two tapered, lily-white fingers. Such things are generally distasteful to speak of, though, so the corpse slumping away in Mitchell’s tub will be left to its own devices while other things are spoken of.

Other things? Non, ami mon velour. That is for later.

So, if you are consuming this straight from the glorious teat of my writings (www.dailyfix.blog.com), then it will become evident there have been slight visual changes. Just a few little ones. If you’re reading it somewhere else, you should probably either subscribe to the RSS feed or just fucking kill yourself.

It has, whether I’d like to admit it or not, been a while, the while consisting mostly of things other than that which is posted here. The collective weeping of the peasantry and callous scum that constitute my base of power had reached my ears mere seconds after my previousmost post, but as craven whoresons they deserved not the delectable morsels which I cunningly lay before them in a little trail leading towards a steel cage. The steel cage contains various devices, nay- implements- with which I might exact whatever punishments I see fit. These vile applications of power wrongfully seized are most often less violent than those of other notable sadists, for while their whips and chains (such groaning sounds from myriad dank cellars have been heard! Such rumor has been verified by a horrified interloper coming upon the deviances so catalogued in journals as esteemed as “Forbes For Sadists,” “The Washington Post For Sadists,” “Sadism Monthly For Sadists,” and of course “Cat Fancy”!)  may excoriate some type of demon only exorcised by excessive flagellance, the true device of torture to any man of cruelty worth his salt (for pouring in wounds- see?) is of course that of the literary bent. One may say many things of literature, very few of them complimentary, but a finer method of mental nipple-twisting has ne’er been invented (coincidentally- mental nipples, in addition to being much more sensitive to their corporeal counterparts, are also larger and therefore generate more PPSI [Pain Per Square Inch] than any other mental organ. In fact, one might consider them to be more like gigantic mental clitorises of the chest). Case in point: I have baited the hook oh so very cleverly, by allowing you to dawdle off into your respective “worlds,” mindful only of your own petty tribulations. You do not consider the fact that there might very well never be another blog post by me. No, I am taken for granted. Then, weeks later, I write something and nobody reads it.

Bad Example.

To elucidate my point (I fear until now such vertices- or should a say, “such a vertex,” seeing as there’s only one, really- have been shrouded in a mist of uncertain stupidity, much my own fault for fumbling about upon these surrogate Scrabble (c) tiles and then not erasing them), I introduce a totally and completely new anecdote with which to dazzle you: a phenomenon I have noted that is more the product of human nature than evil conspiracy (one does remember blog.vom’s tryptich, I should hope). The phenomenon of “note” (only so fittingly and punnily called so, by me) would be just that: a note (see?) that is purposefully distributed to many e-contacts via a certain social networking site. Seeing as the blog.vom hashishin robots so lovingly embrace me in their literally steely death-grips, this social networking site shall remain unnamed. But it does exist, I assure you. As corollary (read: not corollary at all), I shall speak of the notes allegedly stored upon this site. Or at least a certain type of them.

They consist mainly of mawkish poetry, and though I’d love to stretch myself for a stupid rhyme and call it more than mawkish, perhaps even Macaqueish, it would be a disservice to the many Macaques I know whom aspire to scribble at slates with their scaly claws as these mere infants do online. Indeed, such poetry is only redeemable because its bilious pomp and pretension renders it finitely humourous to such a pedantic misanthrope that would find it finitely humourous (making sense here, are we? good.). This type of filler wouldn’t even be fit to wrap fish in, because it’s not printed on newspaper or really anything at all, and you can’t wrap a fish in nothing or it’ll be naked and won’t be able to go to the ball where all the other fish, in their gaiety and costumes, shall surely mock it for its astringent grasp of fashionable to-dos. This is a tragedy, resplendent in the shimmering blues and greens of the naval where was I oh yes the writing is awful and they take themselves seriously and believe they have a whit of sensibility and weldschmerz that makes them so knowledgeable on all things, and isn’t it lovely that they’re there and have everything figured out and all the world’s going to echo with cries once they find somebody, anybody, who will indulge their child-like fantasy that there might be somebody as ignorant as them? Well, everybody’s as ignorant as each other, but that’s an introverted ignorance that sits in the corner by itself in its crinoline hosiery, not quite sure of its ability to revel and bask in its own crass stupidity with all the other band geeks who are perhaps a bit more well-acquainted. The redolence of a phase is overwhelming; indeed, this powerful stench is like ten thousand rotting logs basking in the Ibiza sun, waiting for hobos to carry them off to be burnt. And burnt  they shall be, by the callused, weather-beaten hobos of time and misfortune, until every last one of the little sons and daughters of bitches have been cudgeled into the ground with such brute impunity that it is almost enough to make a completely objective and not bitter at all bystander to cry out some phrase smacking of equality and reverence for a truly leveled playing field. But at that point there will be a whole new generation of spoiled rotten little shits who hold the plastic key that came with their My Little Pony-brand diary who’ve become addled enough by the advertisements to think that they’re really the keys to understanding the world. So these whelps on the cusp of maturity will instead veer off onto a fertile plain not unlike whack-a-mole, where societal forces unbeknownst to anybody under 30 will hammer down upon them until they have all become adherent to ism. The aforementioned cliff that I never actually verbatim mentioned is certainly never inviting, and indeed I suspect that one must be pushed off of it at that age to truly know that it was there at all. Still. That does not make any of this less true.

By the way, the social networking site is Facebook. Don’t kill me, Blog.com-bot! I’m your friend!

I have come directly from confidence.
Kicked myself off of its tile walls and careened into the scraped mewlings again.
Quaver and glisten. The convex pressures on the lobes don’t fail to deliver.
Something like an animal that’s eaten its leash.
It’s raining.
Gag on the fiber. Intestine isn’t master’s hand.
Retain peristaltic control. Inferior.
Dwell on the word and its null.
The evidence of people all around. No quick escape.
The smell of fresh dirt and wet.
Sopping flowers like cardboard in the downpour. Why does it always rain?
Already halfway into next year.
Numb feet. Temporary lapse of empathetic nodes.
Suddenly on the wire looking at the ones after the crumbs.
In the dirt.
On the grass.
By the stones.
Surely left a window open. The rain gets in.
Paper flying everywhere. Turmoil.

And in slow motion, the handfuls of sod while some weepy bastard makes his way from a studio straight to the slow-churned loins of every worn emotional receptacle. Receptacles, that’s what they are. Try not to smile, though. It really wouldn’t look right.

There’s nothing in auto-sadism that stings quite like neurotic nurses nurturing niggling nativity. There’s a kid behind me sobbing into a microphone about how terrible education is, but it evokes nothing but the time going on and changing into a lament for tent life. O. Henry seemed to be of the mind that a gasoline lantern and a few inches of solid oak were the best solutions to this young man’s quandaries, but loss is too much to question. The only beast which unquestionably holds court over men is loss, and as tyrants are wont to do it heckles frightfully and makes fit for puddles to turn into cenotes. But Aztec drowning-holes are simply superfluous artifacts sentenced to centuries of siliceous stillness, cenotaphs for long-extinct loss, like the disintegrating Venusian mounts of a Hollywood divorcee taking her rest in a coffin. These surely cannot be beauty.  Beauty, we would be told, is subcutaneous.