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My fingers tremble upon the keyboard, unable to decide which letters to press. My muse is busy dancing to The Kinks. I have been staring at a blank page on the monitor screen longer than I should. Death would be a miracle.

The blinking cursor is mocking me in binary. One, zero, one, zero, one, zero...

I close my eyes and I see her name like a black and white movie title card. Marzana. By her name, I build her physical details, my muse is othermother crafting Coraline. She is a silhouette slowly emerging from the fog. A beautiful creature designed to make sinners out of men. Wearing the world's shortest tightest wedding gown. Her hair is long and perfect for slow-motion wind. On one hand, she holds a wineglass filled with blood. On the other, a masamune.

"Hello," she says. Her voice is music from Mozart's dreams. "My name is Marzana."

I know.

"What is your name?"

I have no name.

"Hello?"

Why do you assume that because I do not answer I cannot hear you?

"Aren't you going to speak to me?"

Speak? It is useless.

"Are you deaf? Mute?" She gestures to her absoluteness. A whole planet orgasms in a parallel galaxy and creates a black hole. "BLIND?!"

Everything is true. Everything. And nothing.

"Out of my way then."

Her eyes sparkle like martensitic crystals in pearlite matrix. Her hips undulate hypnosis. In rapid liquid motion, her sword is raised in the air and my head is on the ground, looking up her skirt, her legs porcelain highways to heaven.

Wow.

I open my eyes and begin to write...

dimension y

you and i are lovecraftian creatures trapped within an ephemeral limbo in the intersection of mayhem and make-believe.

we speak in silence, through glyphs of poetry and saffron orbs that convey your faceless expressions. i am seethed by the minutia of your mind and paralyzed by your orgasmic reveries.

this is our total perspective vortex.

this is the moebius conduit of our arguments, the black hole sepulcher of our insecurities.

here, we dance with our demons in the pale liquid crystal light until we are severed from the parareal knot to return to our vessels of flesh and hair as mere mortals in hiding.

i miss you my monstress inamorata. my loins ache for your odylic aura.

arise and mutilate my senses.

david carradine

you may know him as bill but i remember him best in death race 2000 passing through a hospital to rack up points by killing the old people plus the nurses and doctors that lined them up there. i've always wanted to have an f shirt like his.

r.i.p. frankenstein.

the villagers

in the middle of nowhere and the edges of everywhere lies a village, much like any other village you've seen yet not quite. here, the sun never goes out, only dims a little, and changes color depending on the mood of the person who is looking at it. the village is built in such a way that all houses are facing each other and at the front door, anybody could see everybody. from outside, the houses differ in shape, size and color but within each one are the same kinds of rooms: for cooking and eating, for sitting and talking, for sleeping and fucking. no one has ever left since the day they came and lived here.

there is one house made of sticks and stones. in it lives an ogre who likes to sing girly songs. he has been practicing yoga so that he can self-fellate his microcock. he wears branded clothes even though they could never hide the fact that he is an ogre. nobody can tell the difference between the sound of his grunt and his fart.

there is one house made of stiletto heels that were glued together with the wax used to remove leg hair. it is called the house of smoke and mirrors because there is always smoke coming out of the chimney and all the walls inside are made of mirrors. in it lives a woman who, when not talking to herself, is always either puffing on a cigarette and sucking a cock or two. she thinks she is the most beautiful woman in the village, but of course, just like the name of her house, it is merely an illusion.

there is one house made of recycled paper. in it is a man who does not have anything that he did not steal from someone. this thief takes the other villagers' belongings and proclaims them as his own. but his favorite things to plunder are words and ideas, which he likes to combine and make senseless paragraphs in futile attempts to sound wise. with no money from his unpublished works of plagiarism, he survives by eating his own shit.

there is one house made of chocolate. in it lives a bunch of kids who play video games all day. they have every console and every game ever made. none of the kids come out for fear of growing up. the oldest of the kids is actually 240 years old and has played and finished all the games at least twice. he scores perfect in all levels of guitar hero on expert mode using his toes, eyes closed. he is the uncredited discoverer of the konami cheat code but he doesn't care.

there is one house that looks like a normal house but the doors and windows are not real, just painted on. in it is a hairless creature with sharp teeth and each day, it gives birth to a replica of itself, eats it and grows bigger...

there is one house made of diamonds and velvet. in it lives the woman whose voice can calm storms and bloom flowers. she is the true most beautiful woman in the village according to a survey conducted telepathically. whenever she smiles, a demon dies. she hosts a party every day and guests find her house by following the vapor trail of her heavenly perfume. she serves the most delicious food and the finest drinks and doesn't end the party until she has talked to everybody. she sleeps dreaming of her next party.

there is one house made of bones and painted with blood. in it lives a man with no face and a million brains. and yet, just like everybody else, he has one heart and it belongs to the most beautiful woman in the village. because he cannot speak, he only writes and the only things he writes are love letters and suicide notes.

(work in progress. the end for now.)

p.s. i didnt know what the point of this was either but i wrote it anyway.

stripe

i trace with my tongue
the length of your spine
and swoon at the sound of your moans

strands of your hair
my pillow collected
get stuck on my face when i wake

ANGELS & DEMONS by jaiskizzy

apercu: the pope dies and just as the vatican dudes are about to choose the next one, an enemy from the past, the illuminati, abducts the candidates and hides an antimatter bomb somewhere in the holy city set to go off at midnight and delete the world's smallest country from google earth. with no pope and no hope, they turn to a swimming tom hanks for help, who thankfully doesnt stay in his trunks for the rest of the movie.

the da vinci code was bad. you would expect that all those bad reviews of that movie would immensely affect the plans for the sequel and make the planners double their efforts to produce a better film. but i guess they just didnt care and went ahead with shooting tom hanks snap into lectures about history in the same annoying way the paperclip pops up in microsoft office and uncover the dumbest mystery ever by following clues that are so dumb the perpetrators could have just left those sticker footprints you find in malls and it wouldn't have made a difference. seriously, there are way better scooby-doo and 1960s batman vs. riddler episodes than this movie. here is a rough example of the audience brain cell murdering of angels and demons: tom hanks and the gang arrive at the scene. they look for an angel sculpture. it has to be an angel for reasons i didnt pay attention to. they find the statue. it's pointing to somewhere. west, i think. they look at a map for churches in the west for the next clue. there it is. a church with an italian name that in english means castle of angels. ayfkm?!? (are you fucking kidding me question mark exclamation point question mark)

the dialogue was quite terrible. there were attempts at humor but failed. the action scenes didnt get any reaction from me. the ending was unsurprising because, with such a small of well-knowns, you know it had to be one of them. i cant wait for a movie where the one behind all the evildoings was an extra who was always somewhere in the background. the only aspect of the film that was watchable was obi-wan, as my beloved jeej refers to him. to me, ewan mcgregor will always be mark renton and it's pretty amazing that the same guy who dived into a toilet to retrieve suppositories just to get a fix is a priest in this movie. when he did the speech with the cardinals, i was expecting him to seque into the choose life monolgue.

don't know about the book but this movie ought to be condemned for its sin of crappiness. for the lost souls out to find cinematic pleasure, allow me to spread the word: thou shalt not waste thy moolah on this. if there is a hell, it could probably be looped screenings of this movie.

the good: the science versus religion thing and the ewan mcgregor thing.
the bad: the every thing else.
the ugly: tom hanks' "facial"
the verdict: 4 smoking cardinals



the illuminaughty.
or
angers and dream-ons

happy first anniversary, last woman in my life.

jeej,

try as i may, i can not surpass the awesomeness of your post. but what im thinking of right now is this: tomorrow would be a nice day for someone to ask me that question ive always hated being asked because i found it hard to answer until now.

the question: where do you see yourself 15 years from now?

my answer: with jeean, greeting her "happy 16th love anniversary!"

i love you, love. more often than always and longer than forever.

yours only,
jaj.

the spark never dies.