Tawdry L.A. Bitter N.Y.
Smog ridden sunshine
Petro chemical saturated rain clouds
A nation with two assholes
One that spits diarrhea
The other excretes constipated, thunder turds.
I shit on both of you.
This is Me
- Bardamu
- I am a deeply unrepentantly vulgar, vain, self-loathing cynical vegan atheist, who is also heterosexual, young, virile and good looking with a penchant for derangement of the senses.
Friday, September 19, 2008
The Gray Road
A Saturday morning
full of spent cigarettes
lying next to cracks
in the pavement.
That grand microcosm
of illusory hopes and
the grandeur of dreams.
Baby, where were you
last night, what did you drink,
who did you fuck?
It sure wasn't me.
You gasp in the most
pathetic lament.
You had the right,
I'm not much of a man,
Just an erasable sketch,
two dimensions of fractured memories.
This quiet dawn of October
mist that clings to cars
in the final moments of birds
making their morning calls before they
fade into the southern horizon.
Dawn is the realm of echoes,
like ripples, like haze, mind
empty and insane,
eyes bleary like tears,
like autumn leaves,
beautiful and about to fall
and tumble down a familiar avenue
that you traversed on the way to
school, to church, flirting, fucking,
stumbling behind the specter
of life's delicate futility.
It's been a long time, man
and it ain't close to
ending but it is viciously short
and disconcerting in an infinite universe.
These mortals, you see, with their
agonies and ecstasies,
their magnamity and their cruelty,
great highs and stinking hangovers of
sad vomit and filthy bile.
Those brief interludes of transcendence,
This cool, austere, October morning.
full of spent cigarettes
lying next to cracks
in the pavement.
That grand microcosm
of illusory hopes and
the grandeur of dreams.
Baby, where were you
last night, what did you drink,
who did you fuck?
It sure wasn't me.
You gasp in the most
pathetic lament.
You had the right,
I'm not much of a man,
Just an erasable sketch,
two dimensions of fractured memories.
This quiet dawn of October
mist that clings to cars
in the final moments of birds
making their morning calls before they
fade into the southern horizon.
Dawn is the realm of echoes,
like ripples, like haze, mind
empty and insane,
eyes bleary like tears,
like autumn leaves,
beautiful and about to fall
and tumble down a familiar avenue
that you traversed on the way to
school, to church, flirting, fucking,
stumbling behind the specter
of life's delicate futility.
It's been a long time, man
and it ain't close to
ending but it is viciously short
and disconcerting in an infinite universe.
These mortals, you see, with their
agonies and ecstasies,
their magnamity and their cruelty,
great highs and stinking hangovers of
sad vomit and filthy bile.
Those brief interludes of transcendence,
This cool, austere, October morning.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Lauding and Loathing Catholicism
Ah my saddest lament. My formative guilt. That ancient institution beset by paternal cirlces. Such an emotional farewell. The only religion arguably sadder than our parents, Judaism and our brother Islam. Shroud of Turin, man emasculated and tortured on a cross in the vein of Roman execution fashion, condemned and sold out by his hypocrite, establishment Jewish brothers. Even as an atheist, I still love Jesus, his role as savior in question, but his role in history and as enlightened individual undeniable. In the grand fashion of the Italian, salute, in the Spanish salud, this brandy, this wine is for your, my brother.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Sober thoughts on the potential of LSD
I believe in the potential of LSD. It has been unjustifiably vilified. It is one of the many avenues to breach areas of the mind that are not so conspiculously available to exploration. Like any other journey into unknown frontiers, it is sometimes wrought by surprise and difficulty, or in the standard vernacular, there exists a capacity for the proverbial "bad trip". I have used the drug on many occasions though all of those were over a decade ago. Yet to this day, I cannot be fascinated by the realm it propelled me into. I think of the man who accidentally discovered the substance in 1938 and subsequently accidentally ingested it in 1943. This man, Albert Hofmann, recently died in 2008 at the age of 102. He seemed like a genuinely kind human being who was fascinated by nature and the potential of humanity to better itself spritually/evolutionarily/altruistically/psychologically, particularly with respect to his "problem child" LSD. Essentially, he and I shared the common belief that LSD had the potential to create a kind, loving species not motivated by exploitation and avarice for personal gain.
I reflect on my own experiences with LSD and barring two unfortunate experiences, one mental, the other physical (nausea), they were extremely enjoyable and insightful. If I still ran in lysergic circles, I would most certainly take some. With LSD, one feels an extraordinarily enhanced sense of brotherhood with all of humanity, the animals, the universe, there are no enemies, everyone is loved, aggression dissipates and seems obsolete, archaic, barbaric, there is no "us and them", we are all one. The ego is a complete illusion. And I truly believe this is why it is illegal and has been demonized. With all due sincereity, I believe that the establishment views this as a threat to their order of control (a farce per se), they can't let go and don't want others to let go of their petty prejudices of culture, religion, ethnicity, race, gender, sexuality, class, etc. Most of reality is a construct, a fabrication, e.g. money, nationality, religion, gender roles...Just let it go.
Is LSD the only route to this realization? No, but it can certainly faciliate it and I don't believe that is such a bad thing. If the ultimate end is that people will stop killing and hurting each other and loving all of existence, it can't be all that horrible.
I reflect on my own experiences with LSD and barring two unfortunate experiences, one mental, the other physical (nausea), they were extremely enjoyable and insightful. If I still ran in lysergic circles, I would most certainly take some. With LSD, one feels an extraordinarily enhanced sense of brotherhood with all of humanity, the animals, the universe, there are no enemies, everyone is loved, aggression dissipates and seems obsolete, archaic, barbaric, there is no "us and them", we are all one. The ego is a complete illusion. And I truly believe this is why it is illegal and has been demonized. With all due sincereity, I believe that the establishment views this as a threat to their order of control (a farce per se), they can't let go and don't want others to let go of their petty prejudices of culture, religion, ethnicity, race, gender, sexuality, class, etc. Most of reality is a construct, a fabrication, e.g. money, nationality, religion, gender roles...Just let it go.
Is LSD the only route to this realization? No, but it can certainly faciliate it and I don't believe that is such a bad thing. If the ultimate end is that people will stop killing and hurting each other and loving all of existence, it can't be all that horrible.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Sordid Hotel View
These days run away like horses over the hill...In tired, sardonic quarters we all wait on the cross, laughing and loathing it all because that is all you can do in the end. Summer heat will not dismiss itself in this festering swamp outpost on the outskirts of Interstate 10. It is a Monday afternoon and we are cooped up in a hotel room facing a freeway lined endlessly with strip malls and homogeneity.
In a corner of the room, not so much a suite but not exactly a dump hums the cold monotony of the hotel's air conditioning. The curtains are drawn. The room is dark and silent. A half drunk bottle of Spanish brandy sits on the table that houses the television. Sordid thoughts crowd the small living space. The main occupant, a degenerate soul awakes from a nap, his mind is crusty and lethargic. He longs for an encounter with the blonde girl down the hallway. He has just finished one and is not satisfied. She left without saying goodbye, her conscience swellling, her pussy throbbing, her nylons maladjusted. He assesses himself as scum, for a moment he is an unnerved by this realization, then he rethinks that he is nothing worse than any other brute animal and most certainly no different than any other man. He curses the culture that engendered this brief encounter with guilt, it is not he who has the problem with base instincts, it is them and it is a con because they want a monopoly on the pleasure of satisfaction that comes from appeasing one's instincts. "Yeh, fuck them".
Odors of fried food and cigarettes linger from the carpet to the walls. The minority cleaning staff cannot cleanse the vice of the room's assorted guests. Room 211 is violated as is 208 and 217 and probably every other god-damned room in the joint. He considers ordering porno after he eats because he knows that his counterpart ain't coming back and the chances of screwing the blonde down the hall are negligible mostly because she is a good girl with a boyfriend and a deluded sense of monogamous propriety. The hand ain't so bad but there is something to be said for all that is wet and gooshy. "Bunch of suckers", he surmises. "You can get all the dick and cunt you want but it is always the same and you are always looking around even if you are generally content with them as human beings, but it is always the same dick and cunt. Another Puritanical con-job. Cripes, I'm hungry."
The sad creature cracks a 16 ounce can of Old Milwuakee's Best and begins to guzzle. His mind is rife with punk rock and desperation. This is the way of the world. It is a path beset by a horrific malaise. He takes another deep gulp. The beer is skunky and grotesque. Cheap and metallic. This is not hyperbole, this is reality. This is suburban cosmology. Thoughts of the blonde traverse his worn, pickled mind.
"Is it any better 2600 miles away in Los Angeles, that terminal point before California descends into the cold, aquatic abyss called the Pacific Ocean? Florida is the land of the expatriated scumbag.
He opens the "Holy Bible" placed by the Gideons and opens it to Genesis 1931 and reads about drunken incest and thinks about biblical justification for both behaviors. Either the author is a drunken pervert or Yahweh is or both. A threesome with pops after imbibing some wine from the plain of Zoar. What the hell do they put in that shit? Is that some crazy cosmic brew batched up by God? This could just as well as be a trailer park in Arkansas or the storyline of a nineteen minute clip of porn on the internet. Hermetic cave sex, now the story of Rustico and Alibech doesn't seem so original. God damn it, even Dante stole from the authors of antiquity.
Turn to a random page and behold "The New Testament of a Our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ". Written in the style of the Queen's English, nice touch, maybe adds a residue of class to the ancient biopic of the radical carpenter and his twelve clams. Laughter is a cheap gag, especially when reading about thorns and blood and Satan and idiots squabbling in ancient sandlots. Compound that with some beer and rock n' roll and you have a hell of a scene.
"Hi, I am in Room 211 and I need a seven o'clock wake up call. Yes sir, we can do that for you, anything else? Yeh, do you know where I can find some hookers around here? Forget that, how about some room service, you guys still open for requests? Uh, yes sir, what would you like? Well a grilled ham and cheese on white with an order of fries would be mighty fine, thanks."
About twenty minutes later he hears a knock at the door hoping that the hotel offers prostitution service free of charge as a perk for frequent travelers instead a middle-aged, medium-sized black man stands in the hall with a cart full of food. He signs the bill and gives the black man a three dollar tip. "Thanks guy", he says. "You're welcome, sir".
The food is under a tan plastic cover. It is hot and greasy. He grabs a beer out of the fridge and orders some porn. The feast begins. The orgy commences. It's typical smut, college sluts gone bananas. He leaves it on for background noise, maybe he'll rub one off later if he's into it or if he's really bored. The sandwich is surprisingly delicious. The yellow of the cheese congeals to the pink of the ham, moist inside, the bread is crispy and buttery. The fries saturated with salt, the beer soaked in grains. He feel his insides burning, a fresh coating of grease slides down the esophagus and fills his stomach. The beer cools it down, the acids do their dirty work, inside it stews and mixes like vomit but god-damn does it taste great.
He ponders all of the two-bit sycophants and ass kissers in the group. How sad, how fucking sad, what a preposterous behavior. What a cowardly behavior. All this in a training seminar. Indeed, it is a seminar with the experienced, the laboriously privileged who have endured insufferable boredom at the hands of institutionalized learning and rotted away under dull fluourescent tubular luminescence for at least a decade. That is too long in a human lifetime. A good eighth of one's life sitting, waiting, hoping, dreaming, fucking, and buying all for the chance of another banal chapter. It ain't much of a living at all, far closer to dying. But how those parasites raise their hands and chime in, feigning interest in organizational policy and legal provisions.
In a corner of the room, not so much a suite but not exactly a dump hums the cold monotony of the hotel's air conditioning. The curtains are drawn. The room is dark and silent. A half drunk bottle of Spanish brandy sits on the table that houses the television. Sordid thoughts crowd the small living space. The main occupant, a degenerate soul awakes from a nap, his mind is crusty and lethargic. He longs for an encounter with the blonde girl down the hallway. He has just finished one and is not satisfied. She left without saying goodbye, her conscience swellling, her pussy throbbing, her nylons maladjusted. He assesses himself as scum, for a moment he is an unnerved by this realization, then he rethinks that he is nothing worse than any other brute animal and most certainly no different than any other man. He curses the culture that engendered this brief encounter with guilt, it is not he who has the problem with base instincts, it is them and it is a con because they want a monopoly on the pleasure of satisfaction that comes from appeasing one's instincts. "Yeh, fuck them".
Odors of fried food and cigarettes linger from the carpet to the walls. The minority cleaning staff cannot cleanse the vice of the room's assorted guests. Room 211 is violated as is 208 and 217 and probably every other god-damned room in the joint. He considers ordering porno after he eats because he knows that his counterpart ain't coming back and the chances of screwing the blonde down the hall are negligible mostly because she is a good girl with a boyfriend and a deluded sense of monogamous propriety. The hand ain't so bad but there is something to be said for all that is wet and gooshy. "Bunch of suckers", he surmises. "You can get all the dick and cunt you want but it is always the same and you are always looking around even if you are generally content with them as human beings, but it is always the same dick and cunt. Another Puritanical con-job. Cripes, I'm hungry."
The sad creature cracks a 16 ounce can of Old Milwuakee's Best and begins to guzzle. His mind is rife with punk rock and desperation. This is the way of the world. It is a path beset by a horrific malaise. He takes another deep gulp. The beer is skunky and grotesque. Cheap and metallic. This is not hyperbole, this is reality. This is suburban cosmology. Thoughts of the blonde traverse his worn, pickled mind.
"Is it any better 2600 miles away in Los Angeles, that terminal point before California descends into the cold, aquatic abyss called the Pacific Ocean? Florida is the land of the expatriated scumbag.
He opens the "Holy Bible" placed by the Gideons and opens it to Genesis 1931 and reads about drunken incest and thinks about biblical justification for both behaviors. Either the author is a drunken pervert or Yahweh is or both. A threesome with pops after imbibing some wine from the plain of Zoar. What the hell do they put in that shit? Is that some crazy cosmic brew batched up by God? This could just as well as be a trailer park in Arkansas or the storyline of a nineteen minute clip of porn on the internet. Hermetic cave sex, now the story of Rustico and Alibech doesn't seem so original. God damn it, even Dante stole from the authors of antiquity.
Turn to a random page and behold "The New Testament of a Our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ". Written in the style of the Queen's English, nice touch, maybe adds a residue of class to the ancient biopic of the radical carpenter and his twelve clams. Laughter is a cheap gag, especially when reading about thorns and blood and Satan and idiots squabbling in ancient sandlots. Compound that with some beer and rock n' roll and you have a hell of a scene.
"Hi, I am in Room 211 and I need a seven o'clock wake up call. Yes sir, we can do that for you, anything else? Yeh, do you know where I can find some hookers around here? Forget that, how about some room service, you guys still open for requests? Uh, yes sir, what would you like? Well a grilled ham and cheese on white with an order of fries would be mighty fine, thanks."
About twenty minutes later he hears a knock at the door hoping that the hotel offers prostitution service free of charge as a perk for frequent travelers instead a middle-aged, medium-sized black man stands in the hall with a cart full of food. He signs the bill and gives the black man a three dollar tip. "Thanks guy", he says. "You're welcome, sir".
The food is under a tan plastic cover. It is hot and greasy. He grabs a beer out of the fridge and orders some porn. The feast begins. The orgy commences. It's typical smut, college sluts gone bananas. He leaves it on for background noise, maybe he'll rub one off later if he's into it or if he's really bored. The sandwich is surprisingly delicious. The yellow of the cheese congeals to the pink of the ham, moist inside, the bread is crispy and buttery. The fries saturated with salt, the beer soaked in grains. He feel his insides burning, a fresh coating of grease slides down the esophagus and fills his stomach. The beer cools it down, the acids do their dirty work, inside it stews and mixes like vomit but god-damn does it taste great.
He ponders all of the two-bit sycophants and ass kissers in the group. How sad, how fucking sad, what a preposterous behavior. What a cowardly behavior. All this in a training seminar. Indeed, it is a seminar with the experienced, the laboriously privileged who have endured insufferable boredom at the hands of institutionalized learning and rotted away under dull fluourescent tubular luminescence for at least a decade. That is too long in a human lifetime. A good eighth of one's life sitting, waiting, hoping, dreaming, fucking, and buying all for the chance of another banal chapter. It ain't much of a living at all, far closer to dying. But how those parasites raise their hands and chime in, feigning interest in organizational policy and legal provisions.
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