frequenscene

[frequenscene]

[one nauseatic morning]

This is one of those things. The sinking couch in the recognizably cramped living room, watching, or more so simply gazing at the film playing aimlessly in front of him on the large screen. It was four o clock in the morning, and it was still night for him. He called it his favorite time of day, usually falling asleep after breakfast, it was an incredibly skewed pattern of living, almost like that of an owl. Beyond the literal, it was as if he wasn't there. The bustle of mornings and afternoons continued with humanity proceeding clockwise whilst he receded into his own personal oblivion of misty mornings drenched in the soil of caffeine wet in the water of the kettle that made him grow the wrong way. His soul was in the swirls of that coffee and the piano drenched wet work of a composition that played in the background. A loner, they say, is usually an observer, a video camera with infinitely more capability than the ones within the crowd; a view from is afar is a thousand times more beautiful, and yet, more downtrodden. More melancholy. More maudlin. I knew he saw the world in gray-scale and yet he saw the world more. He saw the immensity of every vibration and minute detail that crossed him.

I remember, an early January morning when we had left half cups of cold tea on the kitchen counter to frost, so we could walk to the old art gallery, the types you only see old war veterans and new age Polaroid holding hipsters with their immaculately trimmed beards and skinny trousers which halted before their ankles to reveal colorful socks and pseudo intellectual personalities. It was his favorite place to go, or more so, the only place he went, and I had grown quite a fondness myself, after all, there was not much more to do with life then.

[frequenscene]

[this era]

We are an age residing in layers of contaminated residue left behind by those that complain about our virtues, that chose to drop us into the warzone they so unskillfully crafted wary of the disgusting repercussions upon the next to reside within it. This era is a broke glass vase in every sense, a shattered hand-me-down vase with these dead flowers that we desperately maintain because nothing new seems to bloom in this barren age. This era is a pyramid in a desert built upon a hierarchy of ideologies in which a handful maintains residence in the entire pyramid and the rest of us are under the sand. With sand in our mouths and our eyes and the glass that it becomes to dig into our ribs we are diminished in our thought and told to lose life and tighten locks. Life with rust and locks robust. The gates of the rites of passage are triggered with tar and dust to create manhood that is lost in meaningless work; meaningless meaning? That it means nothing at all. Pointless circles, like ouroboros, we are eating ourselves to stay alive, valleys of flying nothingness walking underneath mountains made of pointless achievements and peaks made of pointless goals. Roll calls call the same name every time and each position is answered by the same guy and that is disgusting. Each bogus rebellion demerits the position of the opposer and the control returns with god like force to feed itself into your soul. It's in your food, it's in your ear, it's in your booze, it's in your air. A ruse is not a ruse when it is an outright attack. When the air is already toxic where is the fight in that?

[frequenscene]

[faustian epilogue]

and then she told me- lucy was short for lucille- she wanted me to hold- her hand till she felt- saw the booze of the talker- lost loose in her, amusement spilled- across the bed, in the night time:

the translucence assumes the seducers come out when the tides are rising, brightened moons swoon excited for the wide eyed, white eyed, living in the high lights, highlights of life before death, the music of ambulances, ambiences, the amnesty of the flesh, and she accepts the challenge within the pit in dissent, the givers and livers and lovers and losers, the colder subtext inducing intoxics are cruising- floating- diffusing- impossibly doomed the merry perils of humans, storms brew light as they grow in your fuse… nervous shocks from electric cities, where the quakes are pretty and the stakes are raked in large and green, baked- birthday cakes made of silicon batters that burn with petrol dreams, she holds- honor in the fear and loathing and dreams and smoking of las vegas, audacious cities made from fiends, sitting on performance stages, intent on the hip rotations, the curves and spins of shining strippers named after tornadoes in formations of, these works cursed by the product but imbursed by hells funds, watching while your real self is trapped in the room of counter-production in an endless coma aromas from the hotel of loners beckon the dreamers and hecklers, phobias of living in real worlds have you caught in the paceless gray-scale hearse space, tasteless, raise up worship to the horns of sound where the zenith of the mecca is the tree, under the grounds of the garden of eden where was eve’s loss, this is where they celebrate greed, mockery of the makers by fractal-broken creations, gluttons with a coin toss gamble for where the first man dropped and this world is a product of- a sinners esteem, snakes and deliverers of seeds, grow money on trees, and smoke- the leaves, the unholy killers are in other rooms, rivers of blood is the dividend for the mothers womb, our tea-leaves say, you can see the suffering room, but you can never ever leave since the curious step past the gust of doom, [voices are muffled too] in the levels of the night time we don’t have stairs or ladders and your bladder is full of acid, and you’re floating but never landing, and the coke is over the hand, and the gropers are on the land, her drink down to the coaster keeps flowing over so while stories are told of druggers who abducted girls who were willing to go, the bartender’s slipping the pill in slow, the eyeballs off the track and the steepness is deepened in her heart as she fell, off the back of the cart… awoke on the sidestep, she found her heart in a box in the alley, all of the crates look the same, but alas this is a valley of passive death, where the left behind gatherers collect, and collect, and collect and the ribcages fill with the spirits of false wealth, and the other path that is the mother path only looks ahead till she is turning the wheel for the leader to watch and build the holes to the pit so the speed of the falling is a shift from the floating, this is what she calls a lift for the moment, but this movement is an omen till the hope is extinct, and the lifeless turners left are all the life there is, in sync with the time as it slows and it slows till it turns with the wheel and returns in the spiral back where it started and the circle of nothing is full with the deal.

and then she told me- lucy was short for lucifer- she wanted me to hold- her hand till it bled- saw the ruse of the watcher- lost loose in her, booze was spilled- across the bed, in the night time.

[frequenscene]

[the guernica]

model citizens in the loaded taxis on the side street waiting for their serving now, Oh lord, we are all servants now, 'to ourselves and to others' is the sermon's sound, but the verbal rounds sculpting life in our minds is the earner's town, money is word every sunrise is dime-made, god is in a cupboard with the classics you never liked, hey, contemplation on the bedside table, how the legs grow, heads blow off the left field, but maybe now less so, power lower on the footstool, when you forget to look cool, lost in the nooks and the crannies on the depths of an old sea, living so lowkey feed pain with murderers who don't even kill pain, I was told to not use them for minds so I disguised them as slaves, but this double edged sword disguised as an open slate, is an open grave in an abandoned park and you're in and out then you're dead then found, by breath, you can't get away when they hold you hard, the debt of lack of feeling is real and the reason bends to get you with the tiny treasons, treats without the sweet part, sip the bitter bass from the speaker that is sucking you in, lunging punches at this clothed exposed skin, and I suppose, the time moves in an inwards spiral when it sucks you in, these purple, green, orange brutal blues, half a dose, is now a couple truths, and a subtle fool once explained the harm, nothing will come of it, he said in parts, in parts he sliced, he was on the hard like a double dip taker, off the cards, ultimatum, I was off the bars, like money being slipped to a prison guard, no cards to play, when the bribe is farce and the cage is caving, rage: this is a morphing sanity like, morphine and xanny tea all the trama trauma in this travesty, of bottles and bottles and others upon him, perhaps I shouldn't have the numbness as honest, it personifies the calling telling you how to feel, dealers how the reel turns, the video is released, hands cuffed watching slideshows of yourself in your dreams, can I have another, and can I have another, can I have another, can I have another, can I have another, the pilot OCD that has always flew my driver far, to be honest, I was a bit of a looser laugher, I always said I never felt the thing, I never felt any thing, so I just let it hit walls behind dartboards, you never noticed the holes, I stalled with assault force till I was perched on the soul window and I jumped out of it, with the tabs on the square, since slabs and fungus and the map of the world that changed with every other nap, but I did it for knowing, even though I ended up flew off the flowing, nasal heroics, because it was such a cold cold, but that's a silicon knowing, it melts in the heat. I speak in the cursive puzzles of the mazes inside, because I have to navigate more than I have to hide, the saxophone plays as I enter the judgment and I face myself giving the sermon, what I learned about myself was more than I ever knew, good lord, I sat on the floor face to face with my own in a void, and the mirror showed me the face of myself without grace, or the complex I held for so long at the fore front, lost ego images look worse than a mugshot, civil war in the head is the worst for the causes, volcanoes on cities I built, all demolished, the map in my mind had built it's own planet, and it's split in half where the core has been spilt on the crust like a syrup that burns and fucks up the texture, this was an invention of mine, and it's an invention of yours, I still keep it stored to hold walls when I require, but the image was riveting in it's vision of the lost empire, because the bags got bigger and the eyes more red, and the hair more coarse where the life was held, impossible to grin because the face was held and the neck in place, so the breath was held like a straw to displace, poked holes in skin, and lonesome drinking, bitter voice you could taste when it loads to it's deliverance, the steam sucked out of esteem and the rib cage could be seen with the heart beating fast and the brows arched upwards like a bridge that broke apart and the water that flew through told me things, I am a terrible person, oh how the lonely sing with a one man choir what the groaning brings, self pity does not wallow here it is honesty in causation, and I fought myself to not admit that this was part of my nature, but we are selfish livers, and things about myself are held far lower in my head, we are floating, maybe this is after effects of all the roads into my hood I made with holes: inadequate raincoats all the things I store but never ever disclose and all the things I wrote but never ever disposed and all the things I took and never let them return; withdrawal brings a worser time, mauling over the herbal crimes, I might just be crawling to the other side, I am a liar in every sense, and my walls don't budge, I lost all my trials with every court and every judge, the fortress I made was to trap myself, and I taught myself it was to stop the humans, but what I require is more than i can write, because things I scripted are still entailed to fight since these fingers like to sing and they care what you think. But inside of here I promise to you now, if you landed in, your plane would sink in the first five seconds, because this land is not land and this water is just gas, and this horizon is flat and the sky is a trap as well as this ball of mismanagement that may roll down and crush it. I have stalls set up to sell you dreams, to sell you ideas of personalities, I said end scene I said end scene, but the curtains are all lies. I don't hide in privacy, I'm trapped for show. For demons in my head that watch and grow, but never let myself out of my cage so my troubles never flow, so my troubles are always holed, and I don't doubt that indeed there may be a few others with the traps inside, watching but never moving out of relaxant ice, dry ice condiments burning my tongue, and do I hate myself? Both that and nothing is what I take myself for, what do you take yourself for? I know more than more than and more than myself because the lies I told I believed myself, the egos, and alters and evils I pleaded, and the wall I punched once gave me incentive, I learned with riddance that that was what I wanted in my head, so what I wanted was to not want wanting in my head, I script everything I do and then I lie to myself, may I burn in the fires that I despise but instead, in the ice I may rest for the longest time, I told myself to write this, maybe this is a lie, but I kept going regardless because these confessions are confessed by the confessor in my mind in the terms of metaphors, when it fills with more, so it lets some go, or maybe I don't know, confliction kaleidoscopes. oh, the burning cities under falling gardens in the mind of the lost, the burning in the colder hours, of the night, these are older hours, loner ballads on the honest towers, good lord we are stuck in the basement now, chasing sounds, rotating rounds.

[frequenscene]

[mellow instrumental of loneliness]

glass clatter on the window side, mellow instrumental playing from the jukebox beige walls, brown floor with a grey sky, intoxicate my, life, he softens and says I die, do you know the feeling of waking up and feeling nothing something is releasing inside of him, he's losing his mind, wood table, oak swirls, eggs, toast, the coffee hurts, less sugar, less milk, less fills, an addiction to emptiness, an addiction to lone living giving up on hope, people are hell, people are hell, what is here anyway, he cannot look at himself, dreary, dark circles are out of control, late nights doing nothing but repeating the same tone on papers in words to himself, trying to understand the problem of the world for himself, it doesn't work, you see the patterns scattered across the mind, valiance, fallen, flat lining across the ride, there are no thrills, intertwining fractals all end up doing the same thing and feeling is an old vibe he despises he doesn't know why are we rising out of this stone life, he hopes he can grow a plant to give him color is he distinct from living he sees far too clearly to have mystery or have thinking the quicker the solutions the less eventful your life and when he predicts people he keeps getting it right, using, refusing, getting rid of his friendships, not losing just never reappearing again, just disappearing into city ends on other sides where none of the people he know stay just to watch suns set behind architecture so he can admire the numbers and the methods and the archaic moods of the masses moving to the weather and the night time, pathetic people, fusing with the rules, do you never feel like questioning what you do? motion, emotion, eroding, devotion to nothing, selfish but uncaring about oneself so he does not place his worry anywhere else, ease for advantage, he would prefer to remove himself all together or stay here for years watching colours and lovers and living alone better cities in his own mind, an architect of his own life, the knowledge is the greed asking for knowing at every speed, he would like to live in feeling but he's indifferent to indifference and he isn't waiting for anyone, he isn't raising any hopes, but sometimes he loses touch with himself and mindlessly falls into a temporal hell, loss of tranquil, play solitude against red velvet curtains on oak tables with the sunlight dimmed, he tosses the cards, he wants to know hurt, he wants to feel art, he feels too removed from his mind, too removed from the life derivative of his own time, losing himself, departing from robotic and entering the whiteness, writhing, against himself, desperation, he never even knew he felt like this, the senses have lifted away, he's created a rift in his game amidst his own name, a list of disdain to him, nothing feels real to him, he hopes, he does not feel his own touch and there's nothing to look forward to in the world where to go, where to be, so much to say, it's too simple to deem, and people, well, people need too much time for afterthoughts and common sense they just want farce and common trends and go too far to understand simplicity he cannot wait, this wave carries him on the side tide to another feeling of nothing he cannot wait, he does not want to not care, he's so tired of that, he does not want to lose his head, he's lost it and got it back, what is there left to do, and where am I meant to go, tell me, I'm desperate, this is me asking myself, how insane have I gotten inside my own head, I feel less lonely when I am alone, I enjoy my own company more than anyone and everybody has lost their touch, give me something, give me something, give me something, give me something

[frequenscene]

[morning interaction]

Same hole. Again. Same hole. Every time. I'm watching myself, presumably, I'm sitting on one of the tables on the left side with an entirely blank look on my face. It's more than blank, I would say it's kind of dark, it looks like its locked to stop people from coming anywhere near it. There's a tiredness behind it. I look bored of the world. I look down at my book, I look up and around, so dramatically un-alive. I fear attention, I really hope it doesn't come. That's probably why I look, besides the fact that I do like to observe, I like to look around, watch faces and movements and estimate a lot of things about people, look for patterns in the groups I see and premonitions in their interactions. But I really desperately don't want to interact, I look back down. There's a nervousness to looking up again, I don't want to see anybody that I know for fear of having to make asinine small talk and carry their empty social wills. I've gone through this quite a few fucking times now, somebody comes and sits across from me, they know me vaguely, I speak for a good fifteen seconds, and then I reside back into a faked busyness, and they get bored, pretend to involve themselves and leave me alone. But thats not good enough you see, I don't want even that to happen, from the moment there is a presence that comes to interact with me, my morning has become ruined. I want my solitude too much, I want my time. My morning becomes ruined because every time this happens, I feel an urge to converse, I'm still not over my old social premonitions entirely, I tell myself I'm being stupid, the stomach churning still continues. This is because now I feel like I'm being interpreted, looked at, paid attention to, a perception of me is being formed, but I don't want this. What I want is to not exist. Not literally, I'm not suicidal or anything along those lines, not yet anyway. I'm not even sad, I just want to become the background. I never had an interest in the foreground, it's always painted afterwards, and those that pain the background around the foreground are missing an essential concept. They cannot move any of the objects they place, for behind them will be nothing, and movement will create an impossibility, a waste of time, a need to match colours again and recreate. I started this year with the mindset of staying alone, I completely removed myself from people. I kept acquaintances for appearances, and kept everything at a safe distance from my space. I resided there alone, I learnt about myself, I understood a lot of things. I was developing analyses of self and of people from my sitting point, and my creative output was at its peak, it was thriving. And I felt a lot less lonely, I still felt lonely, but when I was around people maintaining fake closeness, I felt dangerously alone, and that wasn't safe. It couldn't be.

[frequenscene]

[an ode to soul]

I wrote, from a plane, it twisted over time and moved to level with your mind, heaven, how the wormhole exploited the sky and slipped the walls of reason to destine time so that my confines morphed into your inside, we are from the same room, brought me the same insane groove I saw in the mirror, the loose draw, long straw, there is no end, my antennae receive your waves and the tide takes me out the fall, the tide has me rising to the moon, it pulls me closer and then falls, as it comes on the planet and falls on to the ground and crushes the dark cities underground, lets the skies fall above over your soul, your mind is the horizon, swirling on the plane, my world, I turn, mood lights inside clouds, and your room is my house, cherry blossom, inside the room, put everything in the room, all climates falling on us in the centre, this is blooming season, raining season, sunlight season, your monsoon, tomorrow, I love your hue, tinted windows in a spiral I fell in love with your roses, I suppose you don't know you arose from the moon and grew threw the sky through the roof of my room to underneath my nose at the point I awoke, your head is a grove, to explore, and I know it's been burnt before, but I will sit in between, watch the rain, let your dreams, I like my hair wet and it's not cold, I smell rain, let me grow, that is you

[frequenscene]

streaming consciousness to the intersteller soundtrack.

what is time to a mind that does not mind outside minds? the side is out of time, the walls rise around the moment what is time to a mind that does not mind outside minds? the side is out of time, the walls rise around the moment to preserve and console it, control it like controller button motion, mother never holds it, slip the floor under the rug, so the feeling of floating restores to zoning on the ground, but the rocket fuel is not enough so the stock is up and he lost his touch so the capsule surfs to the surface of the top to the blue light seen off the lock while he never died in the locks, supplies arrive from the red, uncharted, disheartened relived and he isn't human, he isn't living, he isn't losing, you confused audiences when talking, you confused the sonics with the solstice and lost the moment when you had it and your mind was a mattress, delve into delphic dali wormholes, neo will never find the pill that he served in the cafe on the side walls of the milky way as I ride raw railings on the city on the star, conserved in the glass bowl, you thought you would burn here the fire is cool, the fire is freezing, and this sun is so cold you can't step into the flame because frostbite will leave marks so stay inside the glass and water the plants gloss green black cars, stack hearts with arteries tied around the parts around the star around the wormhole spinning in a circle that emits light to your town inside the round bowl of half human half losing far cruising left overs after the time was swept over and maybe he is the only one that still steps over the feeling of robots in context sober in modesty lost with regret over knowledge he doesn't have the mother stabs him in the heart but he has another in his stack and replaces it with his hand, slices his orange mother with the purple crab and swallows her, apologies for see saw dust on the seaweed swimming outside the glass asking if you can see him but they move forward the few of them that are still alive to skew their heads otherwise a billion who make no motion but still have not slept but are under command of the pharoah, felt the surreal leg of the hurting hell blurting time language in space instead as if it had no vowels but expected you to underwhelm itself with overwhelming helms like a sentence melt onto the cheese what have I meant as I scream count in roman numerals in greek mountains of orchestras with conductors covered in sustenance never robots but butler's sons commanding from pyramids with master blocks the pastor rocks himself to sleep because the boys are dead and the toys have lost themselves they all talked in reality conform to the constituency but governing bodies have no genitals in this field, eminence of the sixth shield fielding the fire so he climbs with the wire and moves into the spiral the light for the glass bowl shines from the wormholes outer dimensional beings sending table lamp curves through the hole unknowingly providing a world with itself so you know the servitude is consent to a leader or a master of the people who isn't aware enough of his invention of the region, immense so he climbs minds tension is a spine's side, who are you to climb skies, they ask as he dives, purple green orange circle scene sorbet frivolous murder scene like yellow and black taped hell rings and halos of melting interspacial escape boats on the largest tides ever seen spiralling around with emphasis to drown in and flush your medicine, menace for a drug trip that was reality, imagine conforming to the majesty instead you scepticise about the cavalry of the marching band without faces or the spaghetti monster who was always real to the metal heads who were made of tin but the tin men from oz who rode oxes through the worming sky swirling out the curving mind you're spiralling out of control on the satellite of the meta, cogs and metaphysics turning rocks like hell on linen, silk intertwined you swim through the river that flows magenta across the sky dimembered like limbs into cracks those are the joints of your planets that you conjoin with growing demands sowing your hands to the storm to spin around tornadoes in the eyeballs of wind in coat sinking hope your coldest winters don't snow your warmest summers are cold and the black hole approaches as he gets sucked in the locus of fractal focals disposing himself of hope he doesn't know where he is but he has been here before, seen the scene of the fear felt the floor sink under the flaw under the wall over the sky between the tall faceless spire of the hope on the tide I wrote my mind the locust spawns kids on the rotor and he falls through to the other bay wake up on the ocean

[frequenscene]

anonymous archive of creative output [writings, art, paintings, thoughts etc.] 

-minder