Listo H. Bedlam's Journal

Into the mercy seat I climb
My head is shaved, my head is wired
And like a moth that tries
To enter the bright eye
I go shuffling out of life
Just to hide in death awhile
And anyway I never lied.
My kill-hand is called E.V.I.L.
Wears a wedding band that's G.O.O.D.
`Tis a long-suffering shackle
Collaring all that rebel blood.
And the mercy seat is waiting
And I think my head is burning
And in a way I'm yearning
To be done with all this measuring of truth.
An eye for an eye
And a tooth for a tooth
And anyway I told the truth
And I'm not afraid to die.

-Mercy Seat, Nick Cave

If Ya'll haven't heard it, I suggest ya' do. A man in the electric chair and his thoughts. Heard while on mushrooms, but still sounded gggggrrrrreat the next day.
Last day at my job. Yesterday my boss and I went to go piss on our competitions window (drunk as shit) but the owner was sitting inside, in the dark (very surreal) so we continued our walk (wine glasses in hand) to the scotch bar in the alley. Threw our glass onto dumpsters and got completely shit-fucked-face-drunk (look it up in Websters Old World Dictionary). Tonight, I suspect, will be very similar.
May peace be with you, may we all see each other in the electric chairs.

By the way, spell check suggested Jogjakarta as the correct spelling to gggggrrrreat.

So, Jesus can turn water into wine. That's not a miracle, that's a problem. Easy access leads to abuse.

Other than that, my hands smell like onions, thyme and salmon.
Happy new year to my hands.

One last fling, until the next last one
Since i'm going to be unemployed and broke as shit soon, I decided burn the bridge a little faster. Nothing helps motivation like panic. It's the way I just do this shit.
Went to the bar, slept a drunk ass sleep for an hour, went back to bar to buy mushrooms from a dude, got drunk, went to another bar with two of the bartenders (yeah, that's how often I go to the bar; I've been to 5 bartenders houses from 3 different bars), continued to get more drunk, one bartender pulls out a knife and tells us he's going to slit the throat of the tender at the bar we are now at. We manage to get the knife away while he slams it into the table a couple dozen times (nobody noticed, why? i dunno, maybe it's just the lay of the land at these bars.) Drop off the very drunk, crying, psychopathic bartender at his house. The other bartender and I go driving to another bar.
-don't you have a dui case tomorrow?
"Yup."
-right. lets go to the next bar then.
We philosophize over the guys talking to chicks at the next table while kereoke goes on (shitty), and get more drunk. Last call, we go to the Waffle House and try not to get into a fight.
All goes well.
Now it's today. And, by the twitching of my thumb, i think i'll go out and do something dumb. like spend more money i shouldn't and hope someone hires me during those two hours of sobriety while I wake up.
Yay! I am the only true american for miles, man. Support your bars, not your wars!

Firecracker
yay.
Mike Patton looks like he's getting a starring role in Firecracker. This site:
www.dikenga.com/films/firecracker
has the info (it's true, it does, I just looked at it).

The Happy Hour
One, two, three. Then by the dozen, the birds began to die. Came down in soft rain. I looked up and wondered, but saw no reason or blame. Just more birds coming down.
I walked my way with respectful steps between, made my path to the bar. I ask her for a drink and she said that I looked worried. "It's the birds," I say, "They bother me when they fall dead like that." She studies me while I listen to the feather thuds out there.
"No," She decides, "I think you must have looked worried before the falling of the birds. You seem like you've been worried for a long, long time."
She's right. Things for me have been bad. "Maybe I am what's killing all those birds."
The street graves kept on filling, all the way to the window ledge before the end of my first beer. At the closing of my second there weren't many birds left in the air. "I am to blame." So I ordered a third. And, when I left I stumbled across a city feather bed.
Then it began to rain.
I hurried home, as best I could, to listen to the falling of the clouds. Nighttime came, with the clearest sky, with the pounding of the stars. And, when I woke from that falling night, I noticed god laying all about. Bits of this and bits of that, with a sightless void all above.
"I guess that's that." I said, and went my way back to the bar. Drinking down the possibilities of what else would fall. And when I heard a final creak, like the sound of wood that keeps up the world and more, I finished down my beer, and let myself drift off into one more dream.

"If you thought you fucked before, get ready."
- For what?
"Now I got my pants down, bitch. I'm putting the candle stick and spikes away."
- Shit. This time it's real.

Bitch Cow:
I rub my toes
upon your nose
and slide on butter
when it grows
I do not stutter
Nor do I shudder
I simply spray milk
from my udder

then again

Geriatric Love (In Three Parts)
My face is limp from your drooping breasts
They've slapped me about with a violent caress
Now, I tell you, I must confess
I've no time for sex, I need to rest

Your ovaries frightened me last night
They crawled out your ass
and we had a fight
Now, I beg you, noble lass
Cage up your rage
And sew up your ass.

Your evil clit began to split
And you stuck to where you sit
And from the folds of your most lower lip
Began an ooze I would not sip
Most certainly I would not dip
For fear that you would indeed rip
Like pirate sails torn from the tip.

I need a fuckin drink.

Mimicry
"You're crying," She said
"I'm not crying! Men don't cry, don't weep, and we definitely don't sob! We have emotional breek downs. Bouts of madness and insanity."
"Oh, babe." She said, "You are. You're just crying.
I think that made me cry all the more.

The teeth are wounde up and begin their chatter; another mechanical mandible noise. White static framed in plastic red gums. The movement begun, everyone listens. "Is this the voice?", They wonder. Is this the speech. The crowd lifts a hand to their face. Places fingers in cheeks; begins to wind. The clocks are set according to the time, and the crowd begins to chatter.
It's a vast collective of mimicry. A noise of shaking mouths and teeth; it's an orchestration. A round of meaningless applause.
A million eyes look forward, while half a million smiles grow and gnaw at the sublime. Vibrating an echo. A clap of enamel. A joke store ensemble of some turn-key choir.
Winding down, until another cheep voice appears. Mass production of another following.
And, where are we? I raise my hand. I turn the spring in my face. I turn my head for a moment toward you, and our jaws begin to vibrate.
I'm so close to you; lost, in mimicry with the crowd.

Sheol
People who find themselves lost, all alone, on an island often look at the sea in hopes of a ship to come to their rescue. People lost and dead under the ocean often look at the island. Not out of want for the others position; more like one watches a crowd of people and wishes they would all come over and sit at the table.

Under the sea the mermaids sing, they befriend crabs and seagulls and wear designer clam shells over their unmentionables. They live the life of a disney movie, swimming amid castles with towers that look a lot like cock. During their 1 1/2 to 2 hour public life, they never do anything against the script. They just wait, go through the lines, sing their damned songs and fall in love with the hero. All the time thinking in the back of their head, "When those damned credits role, I'm swimmin' right on over to that tower shaped like a cock, and I'm going to suck the ever living fuck out of it." Being on screen is like being in hell. At least for Disney movie animation. Much better to move to Japan where some pen and ink can get some woo-hoos.

Silence: Genisis Part II
You sat in the sun too long. The photo had faded, and you stopped seeing Eden: it was just another park in the city.
You woke up in a familiar bed, but felt lost. What was keeping you here in this bleached beauty? You took up your paints and your brush.
First, you compensated. Using pastels, bright colours, you touched up the painting. It was too bright and rang false with the force-fed adaptation of happiness and light. You retraced it with oils; a little dark and grime will mellow it some. Still unsatisfied, you did a black and white. There was no comfort in these all-too-many shadows.
Finally, you packed up your brushes. Let your picture stay abandoned on the ground. You walked away and noticed how true the scene was when just seen through your personal eyes. How perfect it was just to walk through it and stop describing paradise.

scream
Wanting the silence, you woke up in silence. A wish drained the cup down to the last echo. The lips move in the mirror; the eyes have a tome of words, "Wake the fuck up!". But there is only silence. Restored to Gods making, you're on the day before the first day. Not a peep, little fucker, not a sound in this silence.
Breathing harder and harder, trying to create some distilling chord. In your head you hear a huff-puff-puffing like a porno on full blast. In the world you don't hear damn thing.
Trying to scream, but you forgot what you were screaming. Maybe a little more backbone and meaning would create a sound. But your voice is all lost in the padding.
"I wanted to say something so bad; now that I know what it is, I can't remember how to speak."
So, you're left with a scrawling. Chicken foot writtings that don't convey how you're yelling. Even the refuse in the toilet is louder than you: more pungent, at least.
Now that you've wished it, you want it all back. Just another dream that you don't want anymore.

So, the angel looked around heaven, and said "Ah, but it's lovely. Can I stay."
Paradise was granted, but at the cost that next time the angel looked around, it saw fire and more fire. When it tried to scream, it only puked and did so quietly. St. Peter stands, grinning, outside the gates. There will be no disturbing this dream. There will be no taking-back.

pay per view
The TV is boiling with static; but you try and look closer. Too sure that your image is laying behind all those racings of black and of white.
-Behind all that chaos, there's a mirror of me. Some poor portrayal, but still close enough to me.
Clink through the dials, shove the atennas. Nothing works.
You just know that you're out there, and hope someone else's TV works.

blather
"A dead man had paid out the few drops of sperm that are the usual cost of a child."
The Words, Jean-Paul Sartre
This books like a blow job that ends long after the pages have closed, and begins again once you reach to open it.
I should write reviews for some big time paper.
"James Joyce reads like the ass intrusion you never new you wanted. Slap me, big pappa"
"Harlan Ellison is the wonderful mixture of pig abortions and high brow society circle jerks. Three cocks up."
"Franz Kafka is all the rave; and why shouldn't he be. He fucked my dad in every hole while speaking random thoughts to my mother, all the time keeping his eyes averted - due to manners - and kept track of the clock on the wall."
Merry Christmas, Easter, Halloween and good party time.
Halloween
Here's my ass, give me a treat
I've got enough tricks
From the bags in the street
I'm dressed like you
I'm you're headtotoe
You're dressed like your mom
So give me a blow

right. i'm spent

Pictures in the head while I sat at the church
Lower the cost of daily expenses; kill yourself.

The old couple sits, remind each other of what they have done, and what they have seen together. "Remember the name you gave to that beast?"
-Remember the name you gave to that bird?
They laugh at their jokes. And think about the garden. "I'm so happy we moved, honey."
-Yes, that place was nice; but it certainly wasn't for us.
"That snake was nice, though. I do miss the snake."
-And the rivers. The rivers were nice.
"But life was so boring. I like it much better here in New York."
They sit back in there chairs, look out the window at the jungle of concrete and steel. An apple cobbler cools on the plates infront of them.
"You know, Adam...God was the worst landlord we ever had."
-Yes, Eve. He was a bit of a jew.
"I'm surprised someone rented to us after the eviction."
-To hell with the suburbs, babe. We're city people at heart.

Clash of the Tightasses
"I think we ought to read only the kind of books that wound and stab us ... we need the books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide."
- Journals of Franz Kafka.

Not only books, perhaps. Maybe all of our life, at least for a time, should take on a the shape of sharpened key; something to cut with - ones self or other - and something to shift the lock with.

Little Girl, miss goth

She has her kitchen; a perfect order! The arrangement of utensils and the alignment of the plates. She wakes in the morning, and the ritual begins.
First she makes eggs. Goddamnit! she loves 'em. burns her hands on the stove, perhaps. no worry. She holds in her scream of pain. Looks up at the poster of Trent and pushes out between clenched teeth, "I wanted to feel something."
She returns her attention to the eggs. Salt and pepper (black of course). She pours on tabasco. "Black and red..." she sobs away.
She puts on a Smiths album, or maybe just some Manson. She sips her tea with a delicate trembling lip, so as not to disturb the songs.
Her parents have tried, and to no avail, to find her some respite from the gloom. They announce one day, "It's just the thing! We're sending you off to school!"
Some poor sap of a town folk is walking home after a long day drinking. He passes the art building of the campus of the local college - perhaps a smoke hangs limp from his mouth - and he notices...
Could it be? Did I drink myself to see images of This sort?! there is more gravy than there is grave to you, old ghost.
No. From out the front of the art building comes a far too sober young lady. Dressed all in black; red and black hair extensions; crotch-high, top of the line, imitation leather boots; a marylin manson button too.
"Holy Shit!" he cries, the cig falling to ground like a dying star. "I thought I left all you stupid bitches back in Seattle! What the hell are you doing here. oh god, oh god."

not that he's one to talk. He wears grey, black and white, for the most part. Reads Sartre in coffee shops and thinks he's real smart. but...this is just a story, and he doesn't really exist. And he would, honest be true now, try to get her in bed.
But, it's Fiction. of course.
fuck. more wine.

Postcards from a cage
Maudlin - adj. Maudeleyen, (Mary)
1. Foolishly and tearfully or weakly sentimental.
2. Tearfully sentimental from too much liquor.

Let's see what's behind door number two please, Alex.

Last night I went to lunch with Kafka. Then dinner with Sartre. Left the bar - the poison wasn't touching me, I just pissed it right out - and sat in front of a church under the moon. I took my book and walked a bit. Found two foxes strolling through the city.
My date began.
The table lay out across the city. I stopped two yards from one of the foxes; we looked at each other. Minutes passed, and we walked on toward the entree.
In front of another church, we told our prayers, then sat down to lunch on what was in our pockets or in gardens. Then we moved on to the sorbet.
I sang some Tom Waits (I wish I was in New Orleans) to them, then we went to the soccer field. One fox on this side of the fence, one on the other.
I opened all the gates; I hate to see a couple parted. We walked to another church and said goodnight.
No one blew out the moon. No one cleaned off the table cloth. We'd had our date. Now the table could return to being a town. And I could be single once again.

I wrote 50 poems in my head - a sacrificial tome - didn't write down a thing. Now all I have left is an aftermath. Verses of bombed buildings. Footprints of soldiers who passed through my head, never put in ink. Blowtorch marks and refugees of odes. Every poem is war. I let most of today be a forgotten soldier.
Drank wine in a courtyard. Read some, smoked some. Sat at another church (for an atheist, I am very devout) and watched 5 layers of clouds spindle their fingers over the buttress. Sang my own choir. And felt correct at being alone.
I walked, and must admit, I felt very jaunty. Then caught my reflection in a store window; I looked like a funeral march.
Incorrect observations? I don't know. I've been alone for only two weeks, and I feel myself sliding toward what I wanted.
I am fascinated by it.
I am loving this fall; I hope it puts me where I wanted. Or, at least, close enough to pack up my bags, and walk to the oasis I thought I saw.
Maudlin Lake, Colorado. Sent care of another slave of emotion. It's a solemn occasion, with incorrect laughter and plenty of beer.

Ode to your anus
Who wants to dance with a
Hoop-Sock monkey?
Perverted nuns?
or an underage junkie?
Who wants to sing
on the edge of a ship
while the captain and
the crew take a
congregational shit?

"Hey, man...I want to
Start a band!"
Then look at the above
mentioned
I don't give a damn.

When the muse comes, it cums all over. And here, i let my talents slide by. oh, sigh.

Fuck off
The quote on my bio is still one of my favorite bits of writting. It also explains my Fuck You mood today. Every one should die, burn, suffer, be aborted (no matter the age) and be stuffed up each others asses, like those fuckin russian dolls where they just get smaller and smaller, each one you fuckin open.
Fuck.
Okay, why not? Fuck the homeless and their fuckin breathing, walking, eating and shitting asses.
"Hey, hey...hey, brother!"
I've got my headphones on for a reason you fuck.
-what?
"Got some change? or a smoke?
-no.
I think my "no" sounded a bit brutal. This isn't ego talkin' here. I think a bit of the Satan Extract was included in this recipe for No.
Still love this town. I should be fine and dandy with the amount of homeless fuck heads out there. I've need help soooooooo many fuckin times and something or someone has always come to the rescue.
But these fucks...just today, the rest of the year they can do what the fuck ever they want..just today they should find that little door to the soup kitchen of hell, eat the flesh off one another so they can for real and true share what they have in their little Share and share alike commune of a street, while they toss spare change and lit cigs into one anothers sexual organs, which spurt cum and juice onto the eyeballs of each other, so they can't see - just feel - every thing that happens to them.
Use your head for a fucking toilet you worthless fucking shit. "you're cute." your fuckin homeless, yeah, I'm cute. I bathe you fuckin cunt! no shit. Buy me a beer. NO! Get a job and buy yourself a fuckin beer! and this one. this fuckin one
"God bless you, sir."
GIVE ME MY FUCKING CHANGE BACK! I don't care if your drinking with it, shooting up on it, getting coffee or paying for an abortion with it. DON'T bless me you fucking fuck!
p.s. i love humanity. can't you fuckin tell.
Beer time!

Creme Fool-A. The idiot gets more good luck.
Well, well, well;
All of the "Good luck to ya's and 'prost' stuff" ya'all posted to me musta worked.
I got off the library internet, turned mah phone back on, and...Wham! I got a job. Prep-cook, dishwasher, host, swiss-army knife.
oooh yeah.
Haven't had one of this in 2? months. Part time, that's fine. Would you like to try our catch of the day, sir? yes?
I'd place it as a 4 (1,2,3,FOUR) star restaurant. I show up for first night. Say howdy-do. Me and another new guy get the ropes shown unto us, then we help get a meal for five cooked.
then we eat it.
then they give me a glass of red wine; that's, before working.
Lamb, venison, and beef cuts. All free range meat. An apple soup (i raised an eyebrow, it rocked), rice, a sample of the 3 main sauces; a champagne white sauce, a game sauce with juniper berry, and a brown sauce that had a neat name I can't remember.
"We'll feed you like this every day you work. If you don't work that day, you get great discounts."
are my pants sticky? yes, yes they are.
Toward the end of the shift, boss man says, "Like a beer?"
sure.
He brings me a bottle of German beer, and we wash up plates and he tells me how to cook some shit. Explains and makes extra, for sampling, of Everything. "I want you to know what we're cooking. So, eat some of this extra we made."
Had my interview at Starbucks today; I believe it went very well. We'll see. Was supposed to have an interview at a bar yesterday...i wrote down the wrong fuckin' time, thought i got there early. Nope. 1 1/2 hours late.
"Like to call the boss to schedule another one?"
-No. that's okay. gotta be going now. fuck.
Other than that, bartenders know what I drink at 3 bars, and I started reading, "The Life and Opinions of the Tomcat Murr", by E.T.A. Hoffmann. Funny as shit. Our staff pick!
Thank you all for saying Bully That.

How Not to move
Day 3.
sounds spooky, like it should be written in white chalky letters on a black background, projected onto the movie screen of a horror movie.
Day 3.
Well, and why not,
Got to the plane late (no, i am not angry with mr. Kl8n), waited 3 hours for the next flight over a few greyhounds. Got to Denver and found The Smoking Lounge and Bar as fast as my tar stained lungs could wheeze me along. Drank two more double greyhounds. Got on the next plane, had a bloody marie (why the fuck not) and arrived Home a half an hour later.
Home. Sounds very nice.
Night time, 35 - 40 lbs of crap on my back (I should have given away more stuff, it adds up sooooo fuckin fast) and settled for the nearest hotel I could find, nobody knew of any others within 3 or 4 miles, I was tired...and I got a real real expensive room. Very. Ouch. but, i like nice things. Went to the bars, 3 of em, and went to bed.
Woke up at six! how impressive. hit the snooze button a lot. yes, woke up at seven, still not bad. Walked untill 9 pm. legs...still...hurt....
fuck all the rest.
day 3: I now have a phone (yup, got a cell phone. The sales guy laughed at me many times. "Wow! I didn't know they could do That!" I don't get technology.) Have an apartment. And, a very cozy, cute, university student type one. All the old main downtown is crammed with victorian houses converted into student style housing. Most buildings built around the mid 1800's. I like.
Brave landlord, renting to a person who had been in town 32 hours, no job, two backpacks, and who has a slight smell of...could it be? a greyhound or 3? Never! it was 4, not 3.
Paying a bit much, $425 a month, electric with averages $18 a month, smokes $2.99 a pack at 7-11, two blocks away from so many cool bars, 2 pabst blue ribbon pints for $2.25. I hope I can deal with it.
2 interviews set up of friday (wish me luck).
I hope this works out well. The more people who tell me that the way I am going about moving to a new town is insane, the more I wonder if they are right. What the hell do they know.
Final note: Reading Nausea may not be the best thing to re-read upon getting settled in a new place, but it makes it that much more...exotic. har-har.
Hope you are all doing well.
"Shall I awake in a few months, in a few years, broken, deceived, in the midst of new ruins? I would like to see the truth clearly before its too late."
Nausea, Jean-Paul Sartre.

The game is entow.
"Another smoke and I'll be ready."
-the story of his life, Byh O'Graphy

Procrastination has been renamed "The tentative date" as by the powers of my calender. Makes me feel like I've got a plan; it's just numbers keepin' this white boy down. The clock is tickin' a jumpy little tune called T-minus And Counting.
I'm tapping my toes, and a wait'n.

Other than that...well. It looks like the stars are still spinning. Birds still sing a poor version of some lost jazz tune. People still crowd all the more when they see a crowd. And traffic still gathers on the biggest roads.
Still; I'd like to think, somewhere, that Sherlock is stooping way down. His back is haunched over; a magnifying glass in one hand, and the other down among the dirt of the ground.
"I say, old chap." And he almost turns. "I believe we have found a clue."
Never excited, the bastard. Never, "A clue! Watson, great god shit! A fuckin clue, old bean!"
just another day.
Still, there is a bit of joy beyond his words, knowing he's got that much closer.

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