Vivid iKid

"I need a catalyst to rekindle the flame that once burned within these fists, but...defeat remains."
-The night I lost the will to fight : Cursive : off Domestica

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Pissed as fuck drunk at work last night. Luckily I only broke one beer bottle and covered my ass pretty fucking good before anyone took notice. Boss says: "I know you're drinking your beer and whatever but I'm gonna need you to take all those empties down to the main floor. Just stack them outside the elevator." I ask what to do about the beer in my hand, which at this point is still basically full. He says: "Just drink it while moving them." Chyea. So there I was hauling beer boxes three at a time on and off the elevator, beer in hand -- swigging when necessary, trying not to spill any liquid, dead tired after 10 hours of work, drunk as fuck, and trying to look all suave and shit at the same time. Pretty fucking cool.

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666 -- The Number of the Beast -- Today's date
Since such a fine opportunity to engage in some quality devil worship only comes along only once a century, I thought I'd make a list of the "Top 5" evil things I could think of.
Check 'em out:
5. A golden bible with ivory pages.
4. A giant vat of phlegm.
3. A firestorm of maggoty rotten tomatoes.
2. Yuppies jerking off to a pic of their boss.
1. A legion of tri-breasted she-males. (make that tri-breasted she-males with red-hot tritons...whoa ha ha ha ha).
I hope your day has been evil and destructive enough for ya. Mine's been pretty disappointing. Well, there's still 40 minutes of ugly goodness left...ya never know what could happen.

Do you miss the sweet smell of the rainforest streaking down the hillside, branches dripping with juices in the canopy of green, Jonathan?
Do you ever regret trading it in for a gasoline heartland, Jonathan?
Does their apathy towards your home and the people you know there drive a stake into your year, Jonathan?
Do you remember building traps in the midwest, Jonathan?
Do you remember climing palm trees in the day-earlier timezone, Jonathan?
And did the north country remind you of hope, Jonathan? Did it? Does it?

It happened Monday April 11, 2005. It's not an event or a turning point. No one will remember that date. Nothing of importance happened. But for me, within a few seconds, a feeling appeared and was crystallized into memory. As I experienced this, "Star Guitar" by the Chemical Brothers flooded my mind (in music video format). I've written songs based on the moment. And new songs I hear harken back the morning rays and distant towers. Listen to "Back to the Vibe" by DJ Marky and Bungle and see if you can figure out what I mean. I choose employment based on those seconds. I don't know why exactly, but I went to a place there that opened up futures. It was as if I snuck through some portal to another universe for a few passing moments. Anyways, see what you can make of it:

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I'm getting sick of staying up for sunrise.

I get so tired I see shit. I keep thinking I see a mouse.

This morning (i.e. yesterday morning) I woke up with a queasy stomach after the vivid dream I had: A religious performer climbed the scaffolding to the platform furiously. When he reached the top he slid forward on his knees with his hands in the air in sheer delight. But he overshot the platform. He slid right off the edge. It was too late -- there was nothing he could do to stop his trajectory. As his face hit the stage, one of the fireworks attached to his head for the show's pyrotecnic effects, exploded, instantly deflating his head and ending his life. No one saw it coming.

It was all so clear and I don't know why.

-Maniak pumping her palm.

-Fused the as-of-yet sparse crowd into a hive of reckless energy/wasps with a quasi-trance intro slipped oh-so-subtly smack in the centre of her pounding set.

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Don your own mask -- first.

Out the ovular window the wrinkled ground below stretches out into mist in shades of lavender -- like frozen lava or healing wounds.
Dimpled and vericose.
Roadways set boundaries. Reach out to hoard this. To contain. To probe. To own?

8 after 3 (or 1/4 after 1?):
That's the time it is, according to the crop circle below us, guiding us, warning us. Circular eggs hatch underneath the clockface like a family tree.
I'm not sure what that means. I don't know what I'm supposed to make of it. But I know it's significant. You can only see it from my perspective.

The cloverleaf blushes with her 4 golden earing looking so pretty on the snowfields.

The sleek vertical bowl on our powerful cylinder in turn on our omnicient tube devours that marbled terrain and spits it out behind. And we find it completely intact.

The red sprays up from the horizon behind us -- shooting out in a fountain, singing on like a refrain.

+++++++

Now to the smoking magma, flowing hot in the south.

+++++++

Now out the same ovular window his jew-encrusted armour below stretches out into black in shades of amber -- it's the tubing to run a mechanical monster.
Reptilian patterns draw bluprints for the seabed of scattered mazes.
The orange bloodcells pump through thick-walled veins.

Welcome to the circus lights. Don't miss the saphire throughs.

Can you beat this beast? Is it even worth trying? This reconnaissance is almost an "inside" view.

And: In the distance, accross the obscure waters, the glimmer of an the enemy's outpost rises like smoke.

Visited the bullshit bar of my high school hometown.

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If I come up with something good enough I'll continue the poem later. I scribbled a few lines on a flimsy napkin scrap while spinning side to side in my chair. Here they are:
Altrecations gunfights. Police eggbeater lights.
Wizz under the trophy case towers.
They're free and they're strong. They persist -- right or wrong.
In a sense they're perpetual flowers.
Such juicy fruits hang there. Transparent roots somewhere
Form webbed network links providing our breath.