Peers and Teacher, I address you...

Im giving up on writing. It's what's keeping me sick. All the shit thats in my head should stay there for a while. Im giving nothing a long enough time to stew around, and everything that comes spewing out is udercooked and tastes like shit. I keep coughing up Thanksgiving dinners.
Mental Hiatus.
Cleveland tomorrow.

I give in, up, out.
Good night, and good luck,

Kelly

I am no poet

remember when we all went to that gay bar?

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6 foot queens in 6 inch stilettos
potbellies, latex, tucked parts
undulating
touching
lipstick staining masculine teeth
sweat slicked shoulders far too defined to be considered feminine
unzipped leather
disgust registers as well as lust
followed only, of course, by love
the world throws their gender away
to be picked up in the trash by someone else
who wants it more
we are the throw away generation
pick us up and you will catch your death


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In other news, finally went to Shake It Records. Found a Mount Eerie lp, white vinyl.
This makes my sickness fade into the past.
cough cough. hack hack.

Stoned ramblings of a rumble pack goddess

There is human feces smeared on the outside of our dorms, like pound in cake, and I am starving. Some one stepped in it earlier and I laughed. Yesterday I threw a rotten watermelon out of the window and into the street. We have no milk in our fridge but we have a hunk of brie.
I have three bug bites on my right ankle. Yesterday I stuck papers into envelopes for two hours. I now understand Bukowski. I ordered 70 dollars worth of records. My record player is at my house, along with my good typewriter, and a sewing machine.
I ate a carton of potato salad.
For lunch the other day I had a candy bar, a pop, a bag of chips, and a cigarette. How very American of me.
I have smoked hashish in Marseille, along with Paris, and Ventimiglia Italy. I am waiting for a book in the mail. I have gotten several letters from my friend in Cleveland. In them, she accuses me of forgetting "my roots", of becoming a different person, and of having too much fun.
None of these things are true. I have not written anything back because I need envelopes.
There is blood on my bathroom floor, and I know what it is, but it's not mine.
I go through a 30-pack of Miller Highlife a weekend.
I rarely share.
In high school, I spent three years in the darkroom, now I won't have time to be there.
This is my lost year, our trash can overflows.
We are dirty.
Whenever I smoke, my right eye socket hurts. I am getting a new tattoo, and it is contrived. Some one sandpapered my arm earlier. I rode my bike this weekend, but the one way streets confused me.
So I gave up.
I need medicine. I like to think I write like machines.
All I can see when I look out our windows is brick and a flag.
____________________________________________________________________
These random snippets make up my life. Everything means nothing. Nothing is everything.

No Heroes.

All of my heroes are dead. in a box. all these brains under dirt.

1. Elvis Presley is dead.
2. James Dean is dead.
3. Ed Wood is dead.
4. Andy Warhol is dead.
5. Don Knotts is dead.
6. Diane Arbus is dead.
7. Charles Bronson is dead.
8. Stanley Kubrick is dead.
9. Marilyn Monroe is dead.
10. Hunter S. Thompson is dead.
11. Stiv Bators is dead.
12. The Exploding Hearts are dead.
13. Marc Bolan is dead.
14. Edith Piaf is dead.
15. Fyodor Dostoyevsky is dead.
16. Alfred Hitchcock is dead.
17. Jimi Hendrix is dead.
18. Jim Morrison is dead.
19. Joe Strummer is dead.
20. Charles Bukowski is dead.
21. Allen Ginsberg is dead.
22. William S. Burroughs is dead.
23. Franz Kafka is dead.
24. Henry Miller is dead.
25. My grandmother is dead.
26. Darby Crash is dead.
27. Nick Drake is dead.
28. Tupac is dead.
29. Biggie Smalls is dead.
30. Daniel Johnston might as well be dead.
31. Elliott Smith is dead.
32. Divine is dead.
33. Kurt Vonnegut is dead.
34. Ian Curtis is dead.
35. The Ramones are basically dead.
36. Claude Bessy is dead.
37. Steinbeck is dead.
38. Philip Larkin is dead.
39. Epic Soundtracks is dead.
40. Oscar Wilde is dead.

We are alive. Funny how shit works out.

"Hey you... yeah you! Punk rock!"

there are Maggots in our garbage
little squirming grains of rice
dancing on plastic
signs of the City and it's inhabitants are everywhere
hapless Men down on their luck
piss themselves as they walk past my windows
people gather on the curb always wanting to Bum somthing
loose change, a smoke, a FUTURE
no luck Man i've got none either
i feel closer to THEM than i to YOU
we are hermit children not of this world
broken busted beaten
Discarded
traipsing through black on two lame feet
Nature cant fight back here
she has no place in cement
we don't want Her
i spend late days on firescapes
scanning Alleys for nothing
dreaming of dreaming
dizzy from synthetic thoughts and artificial bodies
Bad Bodies Bending Backwards
the Leaders of Men need not
help us? they feed on Despair
and leave us
broken busted beaten
Discarded


"Feel it closing in. Day in, day out, day in, day out, day in, day out."
-Joy Division

You could charm the shit out of an ass

We are sitting in a corner table falling out. Someone orders food. You choke on a mouthful of saliva. WE ARE THE DESOLATE FREEDOM FIGHTERS. Our nostrils, eyes, and mouths crust over. It would take a hammer to make us feel whole again.
1 part of a thousandth
3 parts of a whole
Quickly now, my heart is constricting. My body is acting as a vacuum for all this shit on my mind.
Ketchup dries and coagulates on Formica. I stab it with a fork, and out pops some thick, nasty, almost-solid-liquid. A fluid.
We count the cracks on the wall and realize they all run together. It's one giant hole. I light a cigarette and tobacco falls into my water. Oh well, I wasn't planning on drinking that anyway.
YOU FUEL THE INFERNAL FIRE. internal fire.
That old sack of skin turned around to tell you that hearts run on gasoline. You told him he was wrong. Our bodies shaking, like fists unchanging.
WE HAVE BECOME A SINGLE CELLED ORGANISM. The coffees cold and tastes like eggshells. Fuck a tip, I'll leave them our energy.

"I don't need friends, I just want drugs."

NASTI NATI VS. THE LAKE
ROUND 1 PART 1

This city makes me feel like I have a constant fever.
All the noise and dirt and grime and gutters get inside of me.
Raising my temperature.
Circulating and pumping into my head.
Constant heartache.
Slammed doors and burnt rubber.
Reverberating up and down my spine.
This city makes me feel like I’ll never be well again.
Some dull aching feeling in my skull.
Makes me want to tear apart every person I’ve ever met.
No Help, No Light, No Life

LOSE SOME SLEEP AND SAY YOU TRIED

Is anyone else here already sick of art? I know I am. I like to pretend that I think art is bullshit.
I know I don’t believe that. Maybe it’s just because I can’t stand people taking it so seriously.
I don’t want to take anything seriously. I don’t necessarily want to do anything. I thought maybe this class would be a short break from art. Something that allows us to breathe in different, less stale air. Allows us to exhale. Wrong again. I guess I should have realized these things by the name of this class, but my mind never works the way it’s supposed to.
I don’t want to write about art. I want to write about tons of other shit. I want to cleanse my mind. Exhale Exhale Exhale. Wrong again.
No one should take themselves seriously. We’re all just mimicking some one else, taking some one else’s ideas and ripping them off. Don’t believe yourself to be original. We rip and steal and plunder and use everyone else’s minds as a template. I do it all the time. So do you. In fact, I’m sure of it.
I always got compared to different photographers; Annie Leibowitz, Joel-Peter Witkin, Diane Arbus. I hated it. Until I realized the comparisons were correct. I was looking at their work and thinking I had a brilliant new idea but really it was always just a recycled one. Still dirty and unclean.

I want a burrito and sleep and a cigarette