February
Subj: hurricane
Date: Monday, February 1, 1999 (05:02:16)
From: ?
bubbling laughter spilling over the separating walls SHE kisses softly the
hurricane that eradicates my soul
piss-in-the-wind-antics
you'll get yours someday please put the wrench away cause i'm not sleeping
now, forever, and for nothing bye bye please cry
weepy willow
tears stain on the pillow
guilty life of beer stains i'm trying but not flying
skying
to another island you think it's me?
or the train in my head?
Subj: My friends, I give you my latest work
Date: Friday, February 5, 1999 (09:27:24)
From: harijan
Feb 3
The yolk, frying in a pan of blackened sky Charred somber tones by years of
catching tears Bubbles in it's own white juices merrily I try to be a better
person. I really try.And people, bastards, freaks become my fears And break
my frying pan so thoughtlessly
Feb 3
Years in darkness, living under the shadow of the gargoyle;While I grew
older, stone cold silent rebel through and through,The controllers lived
below me living cheerfully and free;Subjects to the giant ruling book they
placed behind the door
I'm locked on the roof with others kept inside the daily toil.I'm tired of it
and from the rooftop, seeking freedom, flew And brief before I met the
ground, lives through windows I could see.My roommates look over the edge and
themselves hope for more.
Feb 5
Let live the child,
Innocent in the years.
Fortunate to shed tears
Only because of pain,
Not of emotion slain.
Let live the child,
Who with soul pure and clear
The law did not yet hear,
But in life needs no lovely did not yet flaw.
Let live the child,
Do not cause to suffer
By confining under
The rules you need to hide
Yourselves from evil inside
So lives a child,
Ignoring good yet sad,
Suffering from the bad,
To please, in search of love,
The laws from up above.
Subj: jelamamy confines
Date: Saturday, February 6, 1999 (01:49:23)
From: hector
uncircumcised and raw while flapping violently in the waving seagulls
with all the blue and gray steam trains in yellowcondesendingviewholes of
cremation diabolical intodcs to all that lickety splickyshiste and well
formed roocrusted jelowdelt felttippedblue birds of the filth and grime kind
to seek and destroy the incarnated jellyfilleddoughnut and fives stares and
silver moons sexy ass chic baby hot tamale and yet I can't see outside my
i-lid oh darn let maybe it hurts in here where you don't find me attachments
and flirtations sex toys to fitinto an exploding joetoy of precarious
lilfrains and dimscuts please
Subj: lucky teen
Date: Saturday, February 6, 1999 (01:51:00 )
From: brahman
dead eyes
i am secure
i am accepted
i am significant
dead eyes
active reactive
a passive petulant
pest.
Subj: My latest creation
Date: Thursday, February 11, 1999 (09:56:12)
From: harijan
Disclaimer:
The use of profanity in this document is merely to provide rhythmic
coherency to the piece in question. Alternate forms such as poop, (which
sounds infantile and incidentally doesn't rhyme), or crap, (the same), do not
proved the desired comparison for the correct interpretation of the poetic
work. Words such as excretion, remains, expulsion, eject, feces, and stool;
while providing the appropriate image do not mesh with the rhythmic patters
preestablished in the piece. Thus my apologies for the rampant vulgarity of
the following poem. I hope you all enjoy it.
Work my job, get my pay.It doesn't matter anyway.In 50 years they'll tear
me down,An old building in a new downtown.I'm not good for them anymore.I'm
their fucked once used up whore
I saw her: felt like I could fly.She saw me and she passed me by.Why this
shit happens I don't know.If I light up a joint and follow the glow,Follow it
into the breaking dawn If I come back will she know I'd gone?
Days make me want to go to sleep,Hope to God the next day keeps Something
better than today.Life can't suck in every Wolff is what you make of it What
can you make of plain old shit?
Want to die but stay alive.Tomorrow could be the best day of my life.I am
something you can't cure.Tomorrows all I'm living for.It's eating me from
inside out.Shit is all my life's about.
(Of course we all the time and the illusion that it is shitty is cause
merely by the grandeur of someone else's happiness eclipsing our own.)
Subj: jizzjizzjizz
Date: Monday, February 15, 1999 (15:35:42)
From: hector
the ethereal mist has not yet let up
we say we love to live
but in living, life does not give
the pleasure or the joy to fill our cup
that remains forever half-full
we are bored by the lull
in our wanking, cranking dull
lives so-much-so that we say
we are free. .
I've walked down the long
corridor of youth, it hasn’t been
as pleasant as i would have liked
it to be. I've lost my rhyme;
lost something else too, somewhere along the line,
and i think it was my mind
we can’t ride the blue bus out of this one. .
who is WE?
We is who?
WE say WE live to love
but our guns say otherwise;
so do our dicks,
for love is not fucking
fucking is not love
(although it is satisfactory every once in a while)
but that is another poem;
another place;
another life.
in closing let ME ask YOU:
have you ever felt even a hint of immortality?
March
Date: Thursday, March 4, 1999
From: hector
the pretty people spinning round the lovely sunset falling down the breezes
kiss without a sound the him
theres brain was lost is found
the daisy downpour on the head
the laughing faces mostly dead
the dreary eyelids made of lead
the morning dewdrops dance instead
the lovely children sit and play
the little mice find a way
the shelve of truelovers made of clay
the mute love seeker finds what to say
the shameful beauty lying low
the dreadful nightmares going slow
the rivers find a stately flow
the lightning sets into mode go
the candied raindrops fall to sea
the waves roll silent blissful glee
the feat that drags him to his knee
the moment makes it's high decree
Subj: I Sit in My Room and Reflect on the Good Life: A Poetry
Date: Saturday, March 6, 1999 (11:18:51)
From: quixote
Rather loud, my evil music plays,
And no one comes to me and says,
“Pearl Jam? I know it’s here, and I’ll find it!”
I sleep in late and eat no breakfast
Yet no one wakes me from my rest,
To say, “Dormed Forevaaaaaaaaah!”
My shower, long and hot, refreshes,
And I need not rape someone else’s
VO5 Apple Jax Shampoo
I step out of the shower to see
Not one vile butt hole raping me.
I dress however the hell I please,
Only cautious of the day’s cold breeze
My bed is clean and free of sand,
And no one asks to wear my pants.
I’m late for class and no one cares.
I fall asleep and never hear,
“Quixote, you need to put your head up.”
My free periods are truly free
As I do whatever pleases me,
Shoot some ball or eat or sleep
There is no Dining Hall shit for me;
I get pizza, or hamburgers with cheese,
And of course there’s always sweet sweet candy.
No boring days watching JV soccer,
Or sitting and waiting for a sucky supper.
No boring nights in “designated places”,
And no D&F list that yields angry faces.
There is no going in at ungodly 8:30
And the beer flows like wine and vodka and whiskey
I make some jizz, and no one rapes it:
Pizza, pie, or plump pretty peaches.
No one calls my woman a whore,
And no one makes my arms feel sore
With, “Bruises!”
No snack clean-up or water boiling hot.
No titty twisters or racking my cock.
(And no one rolling weights in my head)
I stay up late screwing around,
And my innocent cars don’t hear the sound,
“9:30 tomorrow night. . .and the next night.”
I drift to sleep, and there is no rape,
No one’s vile farts keep me awake,
“You know what sucks? My butt hole!”
Amidst all this good jizz and rape
I listen to Counting Crows or Metallica on tape,’
My fan is powerful and doesn’t squeak,
And my room is my own; no one speaks.
MJ on my walls seems to wink
And I can’t help but sometimes stop and think,
“This kind of sucks.”
April
Subj: thoughts
Date: Tuesday, April 27, 1999 (12:25:32)
From: harijan
hello
no more thinking on our own
must move on to more bull shitty things
time is of no value
music is just another way to make money
what else matters?
I am cool
I can mock him and make people laugh
what else matters?
I can fuck her and make them wow
what else matters?
I have a white hat
I have the right shoes
I have the right talk
I have the right friends
what else matters?
I just fucked up some losers life
he had no friends
he deserved that bullet he fed himself
I don't care
he was an asshole
I let him know
I don't care
what else matters?
I am a clone
we think for each other
we don't care
what else matters?
Date: Tuesday, April 27, 1999 (12:25:32)
From: harijan
hello
no more thinking on our own
must move on to more bull shitty things
time is of no value
music is just another way to make money
what else matters?
I am cool
I can mock him and make people laugh
what else matters?
I can fuck her and make them wow
what else matters?
I have a white hat
I have the right shoes
I have the right talk
I have the right friends
what else matters?
I just fucked up some losers life
he had no friends
he deserved that bullet he fed himself
I don't care
he was an asshole
I let him know
I don't care
what else matters?
I am a clone
we think for each other
we don't care
what else matters?
October
Date: Friday, October 15, 1999 (12:07:32)
From: harijan
We won.what did we win?
did they lose?
I don't think so.
If they didn't lose,
then how can we have really won?
We survived they didn't win we didn't lose
Nobody won, we just stopped fighting.
If peace is the goal then we won
(but only for us, not for everybody)
The war still rages but we aren't soldiers anymore.
Do you miss the war?
Do you need to be a soldier?
Or are you happy to be a civilian with nothing to fight for?
May the rule book, (whichever one you are under), show you mercy.
Subj: Children of the American Dream
Date: Tuesday, October 19, 1999 (9:37:45)
From: buffalo soldier
we won, I say, they say. We won what? A half imagined freedom? A half
imagined home? We won our freedom from a rock full of power hungry fools to
a rock full of selfish idiots. Did they lose? No. The war still rages, the
soldiers over there still fight, still fall, we just escaped the madness. Do
you miss the soldiers life, the soldiers purpose and easy morality? Over
there we all had a reason, over there we all knew who our friends were and
what was worth fighting for. And now the soldiers find themselves in a world
we thought we were fighting for, and we find something oh so different.
Because the truth of the matter is that the dream we fought for all those
years, the dream we survived for, was just a dream. Our America died 200
years ago, because it never really began. We created for ourselves an
America that should have been, the America that was supposed to be real, we
thought we had put it all together. But we forgot to add reality into the
equation. We based a war upon the supposed morals and laws of a nation that
never really was to cling to a semblance of sanity. We created a thousand
America's in our heads and hearts, until finally, they created us. This
fucked up world is full of perfect dreams that are twisted into hideous
shadows of their former selves in the portal of reality
But I think we did win, with all the hardships, all the broken
motivations, all the shattered moralities and futures, we won. We went
through hell, and even though it's an impossible thing, we deserve the world
we wanted this to be.
Subj: disease-laden rats
Date: Saturday, October 23, 1999 (6:20:26)
From: banush
Indeed, the War is over (for us at least) and we are now
free. I think we all fell victims to one of many oldest problems, and that is to
dream that a Utopia exists on the other side of the river. In some ways for
me, Africa was more free than here. In Africa, you can cross the road where
you jolly well please, you can piss wherever your johnson feels like
unloading. I realize that there is nowhere that I would feel totally at
home, because I've never lived anywhere long enough, but Africa was as close
to a home as I'll ever have.
But so what? I often need to remind myself to make the best of whatever
situation I'm in. The way I'm living now, I can't really call that living.
I wake up, go to work, come back to eat supper, go to bed. All this for
what? So that I can continue living for the same routine? I don't know, but
it is imperative that I make the best of it.
Despite all this, there has never been a time, not one second, in which I've
said <<I wish I were back at ICA>>. I'm glad to be out of there. True, I've
had many fun times there with all the buddy-bungs, and the memories remain,
but it's a part of my life that has passed, and I look forward to more good
memories with you boys, only in a different setting. If there's one thing
that I regret from our past, it's not having more adventures the times I just
sat around in my room like a boner. I don't regret anything I've done, for
they'll make great memories and stories. It was all worth it. take care,
have fun, and don't let the bastards grind you down.
Subj: Mind your Money
Date: Monday, October 25, 1999 (8:01:39)
From: buffalo soldier
They ask me if I'm happy here: What can I say? I spend every day
wishing I was 3000 miles away, children are starving in the desert and they
are concerned about my happiness? An airliner crashes and everyone cries
about JFK Jr., what sort of world have we found my friends? I can't figure
it out. . .
November
Date: Thursday, November 4, 1999 (7:22:45)
From: betterman
exiled from hell. . .thought i had escaped. . .thought i was free. . .but
fuck, they found a way into my mind. . .little fucking staff crawling around,
picking at every neuron, telling me i'm exiled from hell. . .if i was
burning, could i find a reliable extinguisher? . .is this a fake frustration?
. . .or am i actually unhappy? . . .(land of the free. . .whoever told you
that was your enemy!!!-zac) am i ever unhappy. . .i seem to happy-go-lucky. .
.swimming in the fascist fashion. . .surrounded by "i-wish-i-was" assholes.
wannabes of wannabes. am i just like them? for some fucking reason (most
likely human nature), . . .fuck. hope not. but i think so. i see deeper. i
look deeper. exterior means jack shit to me. to the average teenybopper,
exterior is the motherfucker. . .nothing else matters. . .i was skimming
through a magazine the other day - "in style". every page surrounds the same
pissdamn topic: fashion. . .one page explains in detail how to dress and
look like jennifer aniston, the other page - gwyneth paltrow, the next: ben
affleck. .what the fuckingshit is wrong with America. media assholes trying
to depict how the common, average, blue collar motherfucker dresses, ganking
a style that another ordinary person (movie star) has perhaps created for
themselves, and making that style the norm, the trend, the fucking fad. it's
impossible to be happy in this world. besides, if we were perpetually happy,
what would we bitch about? it'd be no fun.
....it's all money and greed's fault....
keep on rocking in the free world
Subj: why does poop float?
Date: Thursday, November 4, 1999 (11:34:30)
From: harijan
we have to think we are good because then we feel good. 50% of Americans
are below average. It's simple math. but the ones below average just think
they are getting screwed somehow. What is life for? we realize that maybe
we aren't talented or gifted in any way. we have things we can enjoy and
think we are good at. I like to think that I'm a good writer. Am i?
compared to some. Am I smart? compared to some. am I worth anything as a
person. yeah. but not because of anything I can do or can create. I'm cool
because I live. That is the point of existence. Life. being alive. that
is the only thing that isn't comparative. you can't be more alive than
somebody, or more dead. everyone is alive. and that's what we have to be
happy about and where we should derive joy. Wake up and say: "fuck yeah I'm
alive" cause you could die the next day. nothing matters but being alive.
your work, your abilities, it's all nothing. because it just makes you happy
if you think you are better. you delude yourself into joy and then it's a
false joy. Joy can only be from being alive, since we are all alive. It
seems simple and retarded but if you aren't happy being alive then you can't
be happy anywhere else. But I hate my life sometimes. so that make me wrong.
Subj: which address do you go by?
Date: Thursday, November 4, 1999 (2:58:49)
From: banush
A young fuzzy squirrel walks along the narrow tightrope,
balancing with his tail as the autumn leaves flutter to the ground. Little does he
know......it's a power line........#*$!@#&*%!! ZAP!!!! his singed body falls
to the pavement as a speeding car runs over him, crushing every tiny bone and
flattening his body into a Persian rug. The crows and ravens swoop down to
feast on hi charred, crushed remains and fight over small strips of carrion.
Night falls, and any little pieces of flesh and bone or fur remaining are
devoured by the night stalker next door named Snowflake. Snowflake has just
finished licking her lips when Sparky happens to get loose from his leash.
Snowflake disappears in a cloud of fur, claws and blood, while Sparky trots
off with a few scratches and a full stomach.
A few block away, at the same time of night a tall bony girl of about 21
yrs old sits behind the counter in a video store. The clock reads 2:14 AM,
and she wonders if there is more to life than working the graveyard shift
just to acquire enough money to feed her 5 yr old daughter. A middle-aged
man walks in to rent a porno and walks out. Nothing happens this time of
night. The radio is airing some cheesy show with trendy music. She lights
up a cigarette automatically. She wishes she could go back in time and never
start that costly habit. As the hours drag by, her vision almost seems to
fade to black and white. A dim ray of light penetrates through the window.
The sun is rising....she must have fallen asleep....Tim will be in any minute
to take her place. He walks in, and they unceremoniously exchange
greetings. She gets into her rusty car and drives home to get some sleep.
One block down from where she was parked, a van drives through the city.
Inside sits Jerry, wishing the trip was through. It's now been 11 hours
since they started driving and Jerry looks across at his lifelong buddy and
guitarist Frank. His eyes tell the same story of long hours of driving just
to play a 60 min. show and move on the next morning. So far, they had been
lucky to make a few extra bucks playing shows, but fame is fickle and they
never knew how long they could live off the money before the public eye
shifted to a newer and catcher focus. Little did they know that a few miles
ahead they would be rammed off the road by a driver talking on a cell phone
and that their drummer would break his arm.
Subj: non est vivre, sed valere vita est
Date: Tuesday, November 9, 1999 (4:20:38)
From: banush
Welton was never accepted by the other kids. He was always
talking to himself and hand crafting bizarre structures in his 2nd grade art class.
But somehow, all the kids were afraid to mock him. They never knew why, but
it was just something about him that made it so that they knew not to tease
him. But they still never accepted him. And that seemed just fine with
Welton. He had always been his own best friend anyway. He was always
collecting odd bits and pieces of trash and junk. Bent spoons, bottle caps,
paper clips, popsicle sticks, and safety pins were just a few of the things
that went into his pocket. One day he fell asleep in class and he vanished
in a puff of steam, leaving behind a vortex of collected junk swirling over
his desk. The teacher and students were all petrified, not knowing what to
do or say. The vortex began to wander around the room, picking up pencils,
erasers, ect, building in size and strength. Eventually the whole class was
sucked into the vortex. There were no witnesses, no one was able to explain
what happened to the police. The incident left the rest of the school on the
edge. Class after class began disappearing, and parents began to pull their
kids out of school. Within a few weeks, the school was shut down and the
building deserted. All that remains of the building nowadays is a brick
structure covered in vines. Eleven years after the incident, a group of kids
were fooling around in the building and found a small clay sculpture in one
of the old classrooms, and they noticed it looked like a exact miniature
replica of what was left of the building, down the the small details of the
vines. Etched in the bottom of the sculpture read: <<Welton Banks, March
1988>>.
Poor Welton, his parents never recovered from that. I know them. Every
once in a while his mom starts bawling suddenly without any reason. His dads
only 32 and he's completely gray-haired now. It's a tragic story.
December
Date: Wednesday, December 8, 1999 (02:01:20)
From: quixote
Where's the light to brighten my night,
Defeat the evil and tame the fright?
Where's the darkness to take my sight,
To free my mind from the cursed spite?
Where's the pill to ease my pain,
To dull my senses, make me whole again?
Where's the bottle to drown the sorrow,
To lose my feelings until tomorrow?
Where's the devil to fill my head,
With twisted thoughts, wish I was dead.
Where is God the Savior, the Living Word?
Save me now from this tormented world.
Where's the sun, the moon, the stars,
All the love that once was ours?
Where are my dogs, the ones I need,
Companions to drink and blaze the weed
Friends with whom to sit and speak
Of good times gone and yet to be.
Where's the girl who'll take me home,
The one that won't leave me alone,
The only girl who's never gone,
When I need someone to be my one.
Where's the love, and where's the hate?
Where's the peace, and where's the rage?
Where's the music of the soul,
That which will fill all the holes
Left by loss of love and life,
And the burden of our endless strife.
Where's the emptiness that should be left?
Not even that fills my aching chest.
I long for fullness and eternal rest,
For one true love and complete happiness.
Where is all this, will it ever be found?
Someday, somewhere, by someone, it's bound.
Subj: poem of death #235
Date: Monday, December 13, 1999 (02:37:47)
From: quixote
What do you do when the one you love leaves?
When the heart aches and the soul grieves
The loss of one so close and dear,
For whom all you want is to be near.
Alone you lie in the darkness, made blind
By the thoughts that fill your lonely mind
Thoughts of past, of present and future,
Of love and life, and of you and her
The emptiness once again closes in,
Taking everything except the sin.
The mind is a black hole of sadness and pain,
Never again to hold the thoughts that are sane.
But then the light comes shining through.
It chases the evil and makes all things new.
She has come to chase the evil away.
If you make it through the night, there's a brighter day
She's here now to make you feel alive,
But will she be here the next time you cry?
When she's near, you feel like you fly,
High above what is perceived by the eye.
She reveals the truth to you,
Makes you understand what you want to do.
She is your world, both heaven and hell,
It's great when she's close; when gone it's unbearable.
She is what makes the earth spin around.
She is what make illogic seem sound.
She is the sun and the artificial light too.
She is all that means anything to you.
It is this feeling that makes life worth living.
The love for that one who is always forgiving
Of foolish choices and past mistakes.
You can just hope that things turn out OK.
