Que Sera, Sera

When Sarah opens her eyes she knows immediately that something is not quite right. For a moment she lays motionless on her back, looking up at the roof from her marriage bed. It's a sight she's quite familiar with, having traced many times with her eyes its lines and squares and corners as her husband snores beside her. She feels tense, like wood, and her breathing is short and succinct. She is acutely aware she cannot raise her left arm. She continues to stare. It is just barely dawn, and sunlight yawns in through the window. Its shadows are light but long.

Sarah sits up. She is nervous, though her breathing remains calm and mechanical. When she pivots and puts her feet on the floor, it is completely automatic; she did not wish to do so, did not make a concious decision to do so. Sarah is trying to remain calm as she feels an animal fear seep into her-- she is straining to move her eyes, to cry out to her husband, to dig her nails into the mattress. She is screaming inside her own head but her body is not responding. After a tortured pause she stands up and begins to walk towards the door.

“...whasdat... where'reyougoin...?” her husband mumbles from the bed, still mostly asleep. Wordlessly she grips the door handle and twists-- it is cold, under her hand, she can feel it, its grainy texture, but she cannot control her motions. Sarah exits the room, and each step is a plodding horror.

Eyes staring straight ahead she walks as in a dream through her house, her home, the life she has built with her husband. Portraits of her family jeer at her from out the corner of her eye, drawings the kids have done pinned up on the wall. Sarah is scared, she does not know what is going on. The smell of the wood and dust is homely and normally comforting and she is afraid of where her body is taking her.

She reaches the top of the stairs. Her hand reaches out and places itself daintily on the railing, and Sarah thinks she hears her husband call out after her again. The kids are asleep. Her head looks down. The stairs stretch out before her, and start to melt into her as she descends. It's warm but goosebumps explode in rivets over her pale skin.

Sunlight ebbs through the red curtains in the living room, and a hundred thousand dust motes hang in air. It is a warm glow.

Finally Sarah reaches the front door, and calmly opens it. The morning breeze hits her, a southerly, as it smells sweet of the ocean. Her avatar hesitates, blinking, Sarah fights, she is fighting it so hard, with every inch of her being straining to remain inside her home, with her family. She feels like this is her last chance to put a stop to this, like the spell will only completely own her if she leaves the sanctity of her home. She knows as well as we do she never had any power to stop this, that the threshold of safety in her house is an illusion, with no protection from evil forces to be had. Sarah is already lost.

She steps outside. She begins to wonder what she did to deserve this, where she went wrong in life. The sad answers are that she doesn't, and nothing. She walks...

Her sleepy town.

The sun already burns bright edging over the horizon. Sarah walks with her back straight and her head up; it's an odd walk, though, one she's not used to. It isn't like her normal walk- her arms are stiff down her sides where she would normally be gesturing grandly, her hips seem to sway more than usual. Her long hair bounces against the small of her back and the breeze plucks at her nightgown. Inside of her mind Sarah screams, and screams, and screams, begging for this nightmare to stop, begging to wake up, to be forgiven. That is Sarah's nature, you see, for even though she is the sweetest wife and most caring mother and dependable friend, she carries on her psyche an immense guilt for her life. She feels so much responsibility and pressure to be good, in herself, in her life and community, that even though she is an upstanding citizen she still does not feel good enough, she still feels like she could do more, she could be more. She could fix the world, she could make it a better place, but hasn't quite yet. And so she assumes she has done something wrong, that she is being punished for some sin. Sarah doesn't quite believe in God but she sure believes in Hell now.

There is much to be heard at dawn. Birds drone repetitively the same snatches of melody, a car starts up in the distance before disappearing from audible range. Sarah is straining to hear something-- her husband calling for her, or a condemning voice from the Angel of Death, an explanation, but all she gets are the sounds of her cosy little village slowly waking up. Staring dead ahead she sees the houses of her friends and neighbours stand on either side of her, motionless, standing to attention like a parade of soldiers, watching her walks. She sees the white of the picket fences, the yellow sunlight, grass sticking through stone. She sees a possum running along a tree branch, she sees birds flit between clouds.

Though her avatar walks at a consistent brisk stroll each step is heavy. Sarah feels like her brain is a seaside cliff, each step is a tremendous wave crashing against her, wearing her down. Sarah's mind is racing, thinking about everything at once. She thinks about her childhood, running between her father's legs, she thinks about her husband, his cinnamon scent, his kind eyes-wrinkled smile. She thinks of her children repeating her phrases back at her. She thinks about escape. She thinks about waking up and discovering this possession as a horrible dream. She thinks about dying, and prays for an explanation in the afterlife, an explanation for this curse, an explanation for the death of her first child, for her school friend's abandonment. She thinks about how the hot pavement is scorching her feet, toughening them-- it is almost a gratifying pain, it is sharp but not overwhelming, an anchor of reality for her to focus on. For a moment her thoughts, as they usually do, distract her from her circumstances and she wonders of prehistoric humans, walking through the wilderness barefoot, stepping on sticks and jutting stones, their feet thick and calloused and dirty, broken toes splayed in strange directions. She imagines the heat and the pain of early life, but is somewhat attracted to it, like it is real life, genuine life, natural life, compared to the luxuries and softness of a modern world. She is still walking.

Through cobblestone back alleys and over white pavements and fields of grass she walks.

She has been walking for some time. She has left town, is walking through brush and hot sand and spikey undergrowth. Sarah is scared but somewhat resigned to her fate; she is waiting and seeing where this is all going to go, conserving her strength for some final battle. She racks her brains thinking of ways to escape, whom to apologise to, as her body continues to walk slowly on. To the right of her she thinks she sees a woman watching her, but she can't make it out clearly enough to be certain. She recognises this as a route to the ocean.

She trundles. She has been ascending for sometime, her avatar bending her knees at right angles, though her breathing remains shallow. Her lips are parted and her forehead is covered in a light film of sweat-- she looks beautiful, “Glowing,” as her husband would say. Sarah is tired, has been fighting for so long with no avail or explanation, her thoughts have become muted and sorrowful.

Finally, she reaches the peak. She walks through a mess of trees, and when she breaks free of them she finds herself on a long, flat grass plateau. She can hear the roar of the ocean and with a biting horror Sarah realises she is at the top of Gena's Face, a tall sheer cliff facing the sea. As her body walks Sarah recoils, so scared she feels sick. Everything in her head is fighting against this, as she takes step after step after step towards the edge, she gets that base fear, that scrambling fear, when your brain stops working and instinct takes over. It is horrible, for Sarah, having only her mind and simultaneously losing it. No no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no, she chants, if she had minor control of her body she would be hugging herself, biting her lips, her eyes would be wide with fright, but outwardly she betrays no such feelings, a plain humble expression remains plastered on her face, her eyebrows relaxing in a plaintive stare.

“Sarah!”

Her husband. Her sweet, sweet husband, has somehow caught up to her, will save her. His voice was strained, questioning, he is a few hundred metres away yet, and the cliffside is so close, and drawing closer with each step.

“Sarah!! What are you doing?!”

I love you! Sarah is screaming inside her head. I love you! I miss you! Help me! Pleaseohgodpleasehelpme! Save me! Fix me! I don't want this! I need you! Help me! She continues walking. Her husband continues shouting, “Sarah! Sarah!” but Sarah already knows he will be too late. She has reached the edge of the cliff and looks down. It seems unreal, in a way, the distance, the waiting rocks below. Far away, like a dream. Sarah can see her toes, hugging the grass, the rocky side of the cliff, and that makes sense, but beyond that, down, down, down, the cliff itself, and the rocks, and the water, and the waves, it looks silly, really, it looks fake. It's too far down. It's too far away to really hurt her.

Sarah looks up and turns. She can see her husband racing towards her, his face screwed up in fear and confusion and sadness, his mouth opening and closing as he calls her name. Her avatar tilts her head imploringly and lifts her arms up horizontal, as if to embrace him. As he nears her Sarah, with all of her strength, with everything she has, musters a scream loud enough to break through the spell. Just as her husband reaches her Sarah calmly looks him in the eye and says, “Help me,” before falling backwards. Sarah sees her husband's face drift away and the rocks rush up to meet her before her vision plummets ever into darkness.

--

Everything's inevitable.

If You're Reading This; It's For You

I take the call.

Blackness. Sweet, sweet blackness. That's how I see it, anyway. Some people see white. Some people see nothing. Blackness is nothing, to me, so I guess we are all seeing the same thing. You look down and you can't see your feet, like some shooter from the 90's. It's turtles all the way down, except there aren't any turtles. I don't know how else to tell you, man, but it's so fucking sweet. Absence of input, a mayhem of noise, silence, sweet silence. Nothing envelops my being, taking me with it into the abyss-- there was no “me”, there was, just, nothing. How to describe it? Lasting an eternity and yet taking no time at all. I fall.

All too soon my eyes opened and my brain revs up and I start to take stock of where I am. I'd fallen over in the high, it seems, I'm sprawled on the floor of some dark grey closet. Spit stains the side of my mouth and my wrist hurts something awful. The device, shaped like an old telephone, hangs limply from its spindly cable on the wall. Through the high pitched ringing in my ears I could hear someone knocking...

“...time's up ya bum... more than an hour... got customers waiting...”

An hour? A forever. I close my eyes and pinch my temples, trying and failing to grab one last bite of eternity. The ringing in my ears reaches a buzzing crescendo before fading back into that strange familiarity, and one of the voices that I had been escaping whispered in my ear, ...can be yours for only...because you deserve it...

More knocking on the door. “Come on you sprite, you cunt-ass fuckwit. Next in line is here, you want more, you come back when you have the exchange.” I groan in response, and haul myself up to my feet. I slam the pulsating orange button with the flat of my fist, and almost fall through the door as it slid open. Almost immediately a short fat balding face owned by the supplier springs into view.

“Ah, there you are, fairy-ass motherfucker. Who do you think you are?” says Phil rhetorically.

“I've been coming to you for three months now, Titties,” I croak, “You could call me by my dang name, it wouldn't hurt you.”

“Phil! It's Phil! You scumbag junkie you...”

I don't catch the rest of what he says as a voice whispering Bill's Blades, a cut above the rest drowned him out. I trundle home.

Across the dark metropolis...

The city. “A neon fuckfest” is what my old man would say. He was born back in the early 2000's, in a sweet spot where technology and advertisement weren't yet completely synonymous. These days, well-- humanity landed on Mars, and we stamped a fucking logo on it.

“Just where have you been?!” my girlfriend shrieks at me by way of greeting, wrapped in a stained white tank top and throwing a dirty plate at my head, which I duck at the last second. “Out on the event horizon again?! Every goddamn week you're out there, and I'm ecstatic about the way your hair smells, only five more days and we're going to be evicted you dumb shit! Don't you dare roll your eyes at me for your clothes say more about you than words ever could. The new line from my mother, she tells me nobody picks up when she pings! Because we don't have any fucking 'net left you fuck! You fuck, you fucking, god you make me so excited. Enthralled. Enchanted. How will the new Ethernet eZoning leave you, I should have, I should have so long ago... Oh man, what happened to my life...” she breaks down in sob, holding her face in her hands. I take this as a sign to leave and slink into the bedroom, closing the door behind me. I'm pretty sure I hear another plate smash against the door but it's drowned out by a McDonald's spot. I flop onto my bed, scattering half eaten donuts and dirty paintbrushes onto the floor. I regard a painting I was composing before I'd left-- a hideous, twisted man, mouth ajar, limbs slowly contorting into a giant yellow “M”. That's probably what triggered me running off to the Booth, I figure. I turn up my stereo as loud as it will go, all but flattening my skull against the giant UpBeat speakers which were half price at Targét when I got them and it almost A new lease on life. A new love. A new, you!I am scrabbling, through my desk. I am banging the keyboard, on the desk, watching food crumbs and hair and weed and ash fall out, and I get my index finger and I scrape and I get as much green as I can, and I pick the hairs off it and I scrape and I scrape and I look in my cone piece and I have such a meagre amount, I have some wood, some chocolate, obvious lint, ash, a breath of weed, a literal dust mote, an iota of weed, I light it up, I inhale, there is smoke, but I know it's nothing, I smoke, I don't get my buzz, I just get more desperate, my heart is racing, I'm trying not to think about her, so instead I begin this search again, on the floor, in the cracks in the bong, in the, fucking, ashtray, I'm looking in the ashtray, there is literal ash, on my fingers, my fingers are black from ash, just trying to alight anything, inhale anything, consume anything, get my buzz, get my buzz, get my buzz...

When I emerge from my room my girlfriend has calmed down. She has a new skull-shaped headset wrapped around her head, obscuring half her vision. Every time we speak it's a battle-- she always has to decide whether to pay attention to me or to one of her shrill friends or topless six pack cunts she has on the other side, their heads also buried in a mess of metal and wires. She doesn't even look at me when I walk in, just keeps smoking her cigarette and mouthing silently to whoever she has online. I sit down beside her and put my head on her shoulder, tired. I depress into our brown torn couch, settling. I notice her nipples bleeding through her top and grope her breasts. She smells like she hasn't showered in a while. I sink to my knees and hoist her legs apart, biting and kissing her flabby thighs, working my head towards her cunt which I breath warm air on. I lick my lips, and hers, around and around before engulfing her clit in my mouth. As I lap up her juices I fumble with my jeans, take myself out and slowly jerk myself off. I couldn't say if she notices me, and I get up without cleaning my cumstain and walk back into my room.

Phil snarls at me. His words are drowned out by the sound of a thousand feet marching, a Nike ad, I think. I extend my hand, he snatches the money away from me and I enter the chamber and take the call.

This time it's white. Hyperbolic time, the day outside that lasts a year inside. I walk around, on a white that is solid and yet opaque, a heavy gravity weighs down on me. If I squint I think I can see a house way off the distance-- the white is blaring and blinding. The house is all muted greys and reds and browns, cracked plaster, cobwebs, a memory from long ago. Instinctively I walk towards it but it never gets any closer, in fact it seems to recede further into the horizon with every step. I will never reach that house, I realise, I will never have a home, and I sit down to cry. I can hear nothing except the pounding of my blood inside my temples, like I am in space. My limbs feel heavy. The silence is blessed but I can feel the high being reduced. I wonder what the next step is, if there is a stronger fix available. After forever and all too soon my body starts to lift up, up...

Later I'm at the cinema, I'm watching a movie, it's a parody, I think, a Star Wars satire. There's a kid running around as Darth Vader, it's cute, the helmet is just a bit too big for him, too dark and foreboding, silly kid! He is trying to use his Jedi powers to move things, to lift the dog, I'm chuckling it can all be yours for the low low price of and he runs to the garage and he tries to lift the car in it and lo and behold, it raises! You can see his hands unbottle fun shaking in excitement as it lifts off the ground. A parent, female, blonde, all teeth, watches on in pure joy, and the audience shares that laughter, we all of us in the cinema share a unified chuckle. Then the car turns and reveals the Mazda brand and it wasn't a movie the whole time, but an ad, the ad before the movie starts and I didn't know, I didn't realise, and I break out in a cold sweat and everybody else is still chuckling and my nails dig into the side of the chair and I realise I need another hit of the original, truly authentic passion for people.

I'm back in the chamber. It's all white, again, but the house on the horizon seems closer though no more within reach, and colours are bleeding into the sides of my vision in a psychedelic rainbow wash. I'm smiling, I feel content, at peace. I have been here forever, not yet long enough, but a satisfying amount of forever. It is nice. I keep jerking my head, catching snatches of what sounds like the call of water birds, of seagulls. I am thinking about the ocean, seeing it for the first time as a child. How awfully big it was! And small I! I remember the grit of the sand under my feet, and the smell of my mother's skin, sweet, of sunscreen, creamy. Almost like cooked pork. I close my eyes and it is lovely.whispers ofMy eyes fly open, and dart around nervously. I could have sworn I heard something. No. Just seagulls. Just seagulls...the worldMy eyes open and I'm inside that grey closet, on my back. I stumble out bleary eyed, I think Phil spits at my feet. “Heya, Phil,” I say, and look off into the distance for a long moment, carefully planning my next words. “Does... does it ever wear off?”

“You ever done any other psyche, kid? Nothing's never sweet as the first time.”

“Is there... is there anything stronger?”

Phil's gut laugh follows me home “Just the one thing,” he says.

My girlfriend is at to work so now is the time to jerk it. I flip on a porno and I'm lazily stroking myself to this blonde bombshell, mutter Yeah's and Come on's in an effort to rouse myself up. It's a surprisingly tasteful shot, which turns me on more-- she's naked but you can only see down to her shoulder blades, the hint of breasts and nipples teasing me, egging me on. She's telling me how bad she wants it, winking, biting her lips, her hair gold and shimmering. She smiles a great big white smile, a shit-eating grin, and just when I'm expecting her face to be plastered in cum a small hand-held vacuum hovers into view and I realise it's the pre-porno ad I forgot to skip past and as she grins holding the device a voice whispers in my left ear discover great things... I'm holding my limp dick in my hand and I turn the TV off.

The chamber is horrible bringing the world to you to me now. I lose all sense of who I am, what I am, where I am, but I still feel myself exist, in a terribly the place to meet human form. Bound to my physical being, I become all wet tongue and teeth inside my head, gnashing, I become my limbs, flailing, attached to my brain by back by popular demand taut cables. I feel dizzy, sick. When I come around vomit stains the wall yellow, and Titties is yelling at me to leave. I stumble through the streets, a high pitched ringing in my ear, everyone's talking about what could be angels singing. “The wasted potential of it all,” I'm saying to myself, “Everything is potential, wasted. Everything could be so much better, could be so wonderful. Imagine if it was all art. Imagine if all this technology was art...” I'm in dire need of art, of escapism, of release. I would go back in the Chamber if I could fucking afford it. I hold my head and I start to cry and I cannot stop the voices.

I am standing by the river and I am naked the scent of you clings and I have no feelings inside of me any more Zero. Less than zero. I am staring into the water and it is black and terrible and there is no relief, when you need it my mouth tastes of ash and vomit because life should be delicious. I have been staring for hours with tears running down my cheeks and flashes of my life keep replaying through my mind every moment needs a song! though I imagine her yelling more often than not I remember tender times with loved ones can be hard. That's why we're here to look after you kissing her cheek, soft and warm, her laugh, her hand in mine running in rain are you man enough to take the challenge? pictures of my mother, young and healthy at the beach special occasions and I take a step and the water comes up to meet me and no fuss.

FUTURE FOE SCENARIOS

We're in her car... and we're driving somewhere, forever, and we're listening to her music, her music that is our music, and is my music, but is now my music and her music. We're listening to Silversun Pickups (but only Carnavas, we don't like Swoon as much) and Fitness Forever (some French band she likes). We're listening to Yeasayer, and we're listening to Best Coast, and when the song is over we do a little acapella duet together, she's singing in key When I'm with you, I have fun, yeah when I'm with you, I have fun and we're laughing and I'm singing out of key Yeah when I'm with youuuu, I have fuuuuun, yeah when I'm with youuuuuu I have fuuuuuun but I'm drum-drum-drumming away on my knees, keeping time and doing leg-snare rolls when the silences call for it, and we're laughing and it's so much fun and I love her so much.

I look over at her and I lean over and I kiss her cheek, and it's soft and smooth and warm and so I kiss it again, and again, and again, and again, so much that she's laughing, and blushing, and asking what I'm doing, but I just tell her that I Love Her and she says “I love you too,” and I'm happy. And we're listening to The Measure [SA] and Vampire Weekend and the Aladdin Soundtrack (Prince Ali is my favourite) and we listen to Island In The Sun by Weezer over and over on my behest because it makes me happy, and we're listening to Explosions In The Sky and Modest Mouse and the light is blinding, and brilliant, and soft, and beautiful.

----

From a year ago.

23/11

And it's the thinking man that has to carry the weight of the world on his brow. Always, always, always, life is staving off the evil thoughts, the bad thoughts, the depression, the Big. Black. Dog. On your shoulders, on your forehead. I watched bees play among flowers in a sunlit glade, I watched the skinny limbs of small children as they bounced balls and laughed, my eyes followed the legs of some girl in short shorts up, up, up. Death comes, oh yes, and what is life in the meantime? Life is harsh, life is mean time. The sun shines and the bees collect pollen regardless, flying as if on puppet strings, hovering forever in frozen moments. My brain hurts, my heart yearns, my dick aches. Every girl is the same and everyone is special. I laugh, often, at my own pathetic nature, my typical mammalian behaviour and thought patterns. It only ends once, I suppose. In the meantime, there are books, and video games and music and all that good jazz. Life! How bizzarre and strange. I have said this before and I'll say it again. Life!

why won't I stop... why can't I stop........

Mulan Poop

''Stray Cat in the Australian Spring''

stray cat in the australian spring
on gentle tides the cat does sing

Uncollared
A lithe, mercurial dream
Leaps and bounds
and calming sounds
your life is better than mine it seems

but stray cat wallows in pity
and swallows herself silly
juiced in the carcass moon
awaiting a friend so soon

unfettered
no stress no rules but no roof
purr for me
what do you see
claw and tooth fearsome but so aloof

in fight or flight outstretched claws
dangling
in the spring sunrise
and dark
singing to screaming barks

thin skin
all bones
jump the fence
to be alone

cat rat
teeth bared
slink away
never scared

With melody she bites
and tender teeth
windy nights

so let it be
springy cat
walk alone
down life's
tuna path

kiss me baby
bite my neck
kiss me baby
with tuna breath
stroke my fur
make me purr
you're my pussy
I'm your Sir

So, stray cat
when worlds collide
think of me
and don’t hide
your hide

Oh stray cat
the life you lead
strange to me
you don't feed
my need

- Angelo & Lloyd

YTP - Guano 1 & 2

Twilight, Twilight

the fleeting, spattering of teardrops
on the window
endlessly and pointlessly racing towards their doom
inevitability

a brick wall of a deal--
the kind that's too small to climb over
but too big to jump over...

the last stop the tram shudders into
bells a-wailin'
the tracks are redgrey and warped
a spring not quite sprung

winter ends with a sigh
the credits roll
and the names are all but ignored
phrases only half remembered when spoken

we walk on the graves
of all of us

the music of art
leaps into the mind complete
a fairy. Finished blueprints, perhaps?
A map? An archive
of things to come or of the now?

What is art if not a snapshot of the now
what is life, but now?

Defeated, repleted
and never repeated.

We mutter to ourselves, blank faces giving away naught
enscribe and etch poems into
cloud tablets

and we frown at those who when alone
can stand to speak aloud

Alone, alone
with not a home

something into nothing into something into
learning life lessons from grinning unlions
and unlions over again...

real in every way but the 'real' one
are we not, then, the less real ones?
to exist in but one and call THAT real?
real...

-----

This is just a depressed stream-of-conciousness rant. It's got some good parts, but sometimes you just gotta write some crap, if you see what I mean.

swagswagswag

Look

People still are so boring to me
conversation's rife with banality
mediocrity, and always that hidden insecurity
and I think

Why look
if there's nothing for me to see?
Why look
if there's nothing for me to see?

And after all these years I still hate myself
scared of the ghosts of my books not yet on my shelf.
The future draws nearer
I avoid my mirror
and I think

Why look
if there's nothing for me to see?
Why look
if there's nothing for me to see?
Why look
if there's nothing for me to see?

All the mantras I chanted in high school
are still so right it hurts
like "Everybody is so fucking stupid".
I'm not saying I'm smarter than everyone- or anyone
I'm saying
WHY IS EVERYONE SO FUCKING DUMB

But despite all this...

I still love you and I still love me
and I only wish everybody to be happy
hopefully.
So...

I look
and I'm happy that I can see
I look
it's good that there's anything to see
I look
maybe someone will look at me
I look
and I'm happy that I can see.

Dark Souls and the Virtue of Patience

First published piece! Super pumped.

www.gatheryourparty.com/articles/2012/06/14/dark-souls-and-the-virtue-of-patience/

funkenstein_scrapped.png

Too big, too many pixels- too complex. Need to scale things down, he's three times bigger than he needs to be. Like the pose though, and the sloppily grafted white arm on him lol

Lets Grow - Disease of Modern Times LP Review

Lets Grow were a Serbian hardcore punk band active from 2001-2010, releasing their last and most fully formed LP Disease of Modern Times in 2009 through Know Records.
Disease of Modern Times explodes straight off the bat with first song Lost and from there fires burst after burst of a hardcore punk/thrash hybrid straight down your throat. Lets Grow plays a noise reminiscent of genre-pioneering bands such as Municipal Waste and S.O.D. and yet manages to bring their own unique energy to the sound. At thirteen songs to eighteen minutes, Disease of Modern Times' songs averages to about a minute and a half per piece so they never outstay their welcome, with each piece sounding more fresh and invigorated than the last. The band synergises well, with no one instrument outdoing the other in terms of volume or technicality. Each instrument, including the vocals, knows its place and they come together to create the dynamite sound they want. Nothing really hogs the spotlight, everything rotates in equal parts.

Disease mostly abstains from guitar solos more than ten seconds long until a long rock bridge in the second last song Immortal Death where the lead guitarist rocks a bluesy minor pentatonic solo, building up his speed as he goes.The band seems to greatly understand the dynamic of hardcore, never playing fast for the sake of it but when it is appropriate. The drummer follows the band (or perhaps the other way around) through a variety of beats instead of hammering out the usual bass-snare-bass-snare hardcore most punk bands play circa post-NOFX. The band balances out slower (relatively) rockier parts with forays into grindcore-esque parts, which keeps the momentum moving forward without exhausting the listener. They walk punk's razor edge of playing incredibly tight without sounding too refined and nail it perfectly.

Singer Dario has a barking shout which is never whiney and always aggressive, particularly on Man Is The Measure Of All Things when they add a layer of distortion to his voice that makes it sound all the more angry. He fronts the entire thing himself, there are none of your usual shouted backup vocals and minimal use of group chants, where even then it sounds like he's doing it all himself. He shouts the lyrics so fast that he doesn't have time to expel every word of every sentence, so it can be hard to understand what he's saying unless you're reading the lyrics along with him. When you do, you find a pleasantly competent amateur poetry, one that echoes the desolate cover picture of a young man in a hoodie staring into his computer screen, with the crushing words NO NEW MESSAGES staring back at him. He condemns modern life, the “zombie scene” he feels lost and alone in, and yearns for happy moments and meaningful connections. In Shit Goes Around he screams: My world has captured me / I can't move in a small cage / Agony and frustration / I wanna touch the light, turn the page / I wanna catch this moment of joy! He wants people to take responsibility for their lives and their world. Some of the rhymes and sentiments are obvious and cliché, but overall it's a nice and good cynical look at everyday modern life, and a viewpoint worth thinking about.

Talking about “the production” on a punk album is always iffy, but it must be said that the mix in Disease is actually pretty good, the bass is never drowned out and nothing is lost in the chaos of the music. The somewhat simplistic pan-this-instrument-here-and-leave-it-for-the-whole-song is indicative of the genre, so don't expect any flashy studio techniques. What you see is what you get.Disease of Modern Times is available online for free download (as is their entire discography) and is overall an amazing record, one highly recommended whether you are into hardcore or just wanting to listen to something heavier. 8/10 would bang

---

Typed this up in a half hour for some /mu/tant throwing together a 'zine. Props to Angie for introducing me to the band, and for helping me out with the writing.

Chapter 1 - The End

You wake to white, to white,
a most wondrous sight,
an abyss stretched out eternal.
"Please don't fear, my dear,
you've already been here,"
this place is an Eden, not infernal.

"Must be a dream, a dream,
a nightmare it seems,"
you wonder aloud as you walk.
I portend, my friend,
that this plane has no end,
move quickly, don't idle, daydream or talk.

Off you wander, wander,
forever yonder,
and find no close to your journey.
For the snow, it goes
on forever you know-
though this blizzard is yours it's quite lonely.

It's been a day, two days,
a year? You can't say,
time here crawls as honey down cake.
"Don't panic! Damnit!
In this place I'm stranded!
How much of this nothing am I to take?"

But for one spot you spot
a little black dot,
the horizon lies unbroken.
"A landmark! At last!"
You start running quite fast,
voices echo unbidden, unspoken.

You find a throne, a throne,
which for years unknown,
no King has sat down upon it.
With no heir, the chair
now has dust left to spare,
and a kingdom; nobody to run it.

And so you sit, you sit,
it feels like you fit,
like you have found your rightful place-
but soon find your mind's
left your body behind,
as your vision soars upward into space.

Now in a hall, a hall,
door litter the walls,
you contemplate where to go next.
Sigh, "Oh dear! How queer!
Now how did I get here?"
Without answers you remain quite perplexed.

So at random, random,
w/reckless abandon,
you throw open the nearest door.
Took one step, and leapt!
There are secrets yet kepts!
You couldn't resist adventure's allure.

scrapped_franken_musician.jpg

Kinda lost the plot with this one. Wanna keep the overall design, ie, black vest purple torn suit, only do it better. He's supposed to be holding drumsticks as he is a drummer/zombie/corpse/thing, but I think it's not communicated well. I'm thinking he should actually have a drum to bang or something, and he can spin/throw his sticks as an attack.

Pixel_Self_Portrait.png 2&3

Pixel_Self_Portrait_1.png

Janus_idle.gif and Janus_Vampire_idle.gif First Drafts

Hang 'em High (Hang 'em High, Hang 'em High)

Stare at the clock's flat face
within a crock rat race
do you see what I see
perceive the villainy?

Of subliminal career
criminals who make us hear
unoriginal theme songs
ascended to memes.

Can't maintain soul is drained
branded, seared trademarked names
the sky, walls, billboards, pavements
they all look the fuckin' same.

It makes me wanna kill 'em
'cause I've had my fillin'
feel them pills distillin' deep
within thin villains, makin' a fat fuckin' killin'

Hang 'em high hang 'em high hang 'em high
hang 'em high hang 'em high hang 'em high
when their smile never reaches their eyes
Hang 'em high hang 'em high hang 'em high.

WAKEUPFAGGOT

I'm at a party, and I'm drunk, and I remember being seventeen, and being straight edge, because I hated everyone but my best friend, who was straight edge, and obsessed with Minor Threat. I'm stumbling, I'm, I'm all blurry, I'm not sure what's going on. I'm drunk. I'm living in the moment, there is no past, there is no future, no future, I'm laughing but I'm not telling people why, so they think I am crazy. I am trying to help you, I am trying to help you, I'm slurring, I'm grabbing people by their collars, bringing them in close, my eyes unfocused, they're recoiling from the smell of the vodka and cheese pizza and vomit on my breath. I'm trying to look them in the eye, but I can't, I look, sometimes for whole seconds at a time, before I can feel them looking back, staring, judging, piercing my soul, I can't take it. I look at their shirt, their shoes, my shoes, the cigarettes and broken glass on the grass, caked in alcohol and vomit and blood. There is blood on my shirt, some of it's mine. I've grabbed someone, I'm screaming 666 GOLF WANG BITCH SUCK DICK before shaking my head going Nononono, sorry, sorry, wrong thing, uh... I mean, uh, Everything will be okay. I'm wild-eyed, and the guy I'm holding onto – Billabong shirt, dreadlocks, beer in one hand, plastic wrist-band things, multi-coloured and tacky – he's looking around, he asks “Do I know you?” and “Uh, who is this guy with?” and I'm laughing because I have no friends I have no friends. I'm trying to tell him, Look dude, look dude... I know life is scary but it'll get better. Hang in there, you can do it, you can do it, you can do it. Satisfied, I throw him away, he giggles nervously, disappears into the crowd that's slowly forming around me. I stagger over to the next one, a girl - plastic nails coloured purple, fake-dyed blonde, hair extensions, blue denim mini-skirt, Black Sabbath t-shirt – I'm screaming EVERYBODY KNOWS I'MA MOTHERFUCKING MONSTER, I'm stammering Sh-sh-shit sorry, wrong thing, uh, uh, um, Love is all you need. She's squirming to get away, I draw her in closer, I'm saying There is nothing more valuable than human life, and you cannot disagree logically with that statement but instead of getting a look of enlightenment from her instead she squeals and throws her drink in my face.

My face, my hands, my feet, they're numb, I barely feel it. I burp, I feel vomit in the back of my throat, I step back from her and look at her, breathing hard, shoulders heaving. She's looking at me warily, wide-eyed, nervous. I mutter I just wanna be loved under my breath, and reel away.

I'm pushing through the throng of people, I'm wondering if they are understanding the messages I'm trying to convey, I'm wondering if my message is logical, is positive, again, I've done it so many times it doesn't take me long. Just go through the same old fucking chains of logic over and over again.

Baggers finds me, grabs me by my shoulders, he's asking “What the fuck are you doing?” I don't look at him, I'm searching around wildly, looking for someone who might understand. He's wearing a quicksilver hoody, he's got the arms pulled up to the elbow, you can see hints of his tribal-patterned tattoos. I'm remembering being seventeen and tears prick my eyes, I want to go back, I want to go back, I want to play Metal Gear Solid 3 for the first time again, I want to be alone but be okay with it. I don't wanna be alone, I tell Baggers, and he's like “Okay, I'll come with you,” I'm like, All religions should be abolished, he's saying “What...?” and I'm already disappointed in him. I push him away and I reel over to a girl, brunette, eye shadow, pink lipstick, fake nails and high heels. Fuck you fuck you fuck you I'm thinking but I'm saying Hey, babe, don't ever let anyone tell you you aren't beautiful just the way you are. She cocks her head as if she didn't hear me, and I say Never change for anybody and I nod and walk away, I find a redhead jock in a grey singlet, arms exposed and ripped. I tap him on the shoulder and he spins around and I tell him Everybody you will ever love will eventually, inevitably die or reject you and he say “Haha what bro?” but I grab his head and put mine real close, our foreheads are touching and I'm like Shit, ignore that, I mean, uh, KILL PEOPLE BURN SHIT FUCK SCHOOL and he goes “Uh, what bro?” and I panic and say the first thing that comes to mind, Shit, uh, uh, maybe you should rethink your stance on marijuana. Baggers grabs me and steers me away from him and he's saying “Sorry, I'm sorry,” and I'm muttering But there are 85,000 deaths due to alcohol in the US annually, and zero due to pot, it makes no sense, IT MAKES NO SENSE. Trouble looms around the corner, in the form of the girl who threw the party, she's, what, eighteen, seventeen, blonde (dyed) hair, black nails, pink lipstick, fishnet stockings. I'm staring at her legs, she asks “Who the fuck invited you?” and Baggers and I speak at the same time, he says “Uh, he's with me,” I say First, Do No Harm and she goes “What? I don't give a fuck. Get him the fuck out of here before my boyfriend kicks his ass,” and I finally see the six foot brick shithouse behind her. I'm taller than him but he's clearly built, chest as big as a barrel. I laugh and say Violence is never the but throw up before I can finish. All three of them let out an “Ugh!” of disgust simultaneously, as they jump back, unfortunately not before getting vomit splashed on their shoes. My stomach hurts, my throat is tight, between hurls I'm saying Snake barf says, There vomit is no right part in choke murder and I vomit and vomit and vomit before finishing, Not ever, and they're staring at me and as I right myself I grin and wipe my mouth and I say I honestly just, like, cannot disagree with that, like, logically.

Before anyone can say anything I've spun away, I'm thinking Bitch suck dick bitch suck dick bitch suck dick and I find an unattended bottle of rum and I swipe it and the girl looks at me open-mouth-shocked and I mutter I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'll leave now, and I take a swig and stumble out through the chain-link fence, and I'm back on the streets, lost, the thump thump thump of the party behind me, all the houses look the same, all the houses look the fucking same, and I'm looking at my watch and it's 1am and I'm looking at the stars but I can hardly see them, between the light of the streetlights and my own blurred vision they are impossible to make out.

I'm plod plod plodding along the streets, I tell Baggers I don't even have a plot for this fucking book. He's not there, but I picture him nodding and I burp and smell vomit and vodka and rum and I down another couple of gulps and I'm looking for the next party. I'm looking at the front yards, of the houses, and I want to cry because I will never have my own house, I will never have a Home, I will never have a Family, I will never be loved and I just want to die.

I'm talking to Alan Moore, I'm talking to Bill Hicks, I'm talking to Blake Schwarzenbach, in my head, I'm talking to them and I'm asking them what to do. I ask them what the fuck I should do, how to be happy, how to get over my problems, how to help the world, but they are silent. I feel, like, I know they are there, I know they can hear me and I know they love me like I love them but I cannot hear them.

I will never change anything, I say out loud, and hearing it just makes it real, makes it worse, makes me disgusted with myself and the world we live in. I will never change anything and I will never help anyone and nobody will ever give a fuck. Nobody will ever love me as much as I love them. I think about them, the girls, that I love, and who do not love me, and I don't know how to feel about them. I can understand, like, why I should feel say, anger, or betrayed, or yearning, but all I feel at the moment is emptiness, and I am comforted by the inevitability of death.

I look at the houses and I'm trying to judge if I could break into any of them, they are black and silent and the windows simply look back at me, neither inviting or rejecting. I look at fences and wonder if I could hop over them, but I'm thinking, What the fuck would I steal, why would I steal anything, why would I do that to someone. They have security lights which guilts me into looking away every time I approach, ever time they turn on, they probably have dogs, I can't hear any but I know they may be there. Another party, another party, is looming on the horizon, I can see the disco lights and the cars lined up on the street and the inevitable thump thump thump of the shitty FUCKING WATERED DOWN SHIT DANCE MUSIC SHIT FUCK CUNT fuck and I wonder if I am trying too hard, but I know I'm not, because it does not take effort, to be angry, and for me to express my anger, it is just harder to get people to acknowledge my pain, and to care about it.

There is nothing I would like more than to throw, than to fucking ditch the bottle in my hand, wetting my hand, feeling the vindication of smashing glass, of smashing anything, there's this, feeling, in my gut, but mostly, in my fucking dick, in my dick and my balls, the desire, the urge to destroy, to kill, to fuck the world. I wanna smash the bottle into somebody's face, I want to find a girl with long legs and plastic blonde hair and smash the bottle into her fucking face, see her tears mix with her blood, see her teeth on the grass, watch her hands redden as she brings them to her cut-up face, confusion and anger and fear and adrenaline colouring her screams. I wanna smash it into her face, over and over again, I wanna tear her clothes, pull her hair, I wanna pull her tight t-shirt off as she screams Ow ow ow oh no oh no my face oh no and she's trying to push me off and then I push her over and watch her hit the back of her head on the pavement, which stuns her briefly. She's crying and I pull down her short shorts, and suddenly she realises what I'm doing as I'm clawing at her panties, pink and pretty, and she's screaming Nonononononono stop stop Oh God stop oh no oh no stop and I just want to kiss her thighs, slowly, I want to kiss her feet, peckering her ankles lovingly, working my way up. Her thighs are soft and pale white and I kiss the inside of them as I softly fondle her breasts tweaking her nipples and she looks down and I look up and we make and hold eye contact and she is beautiful and she smiles and I kiss her mound, I can feel the heat coming from her cunt as I lower my mouth close to it, and she says “I love you,” and I say I love you too and I briefly come up and kiss her on the mouth before heading down and plunging my mouth into her womanhood and she's screaming NO. STOP. PLEASE. YOU CAN STILL STOP.
I shake my head and I'm missing my iPod terribly. There's this new band I'm into, Blacklisted, hardcore punk rock, first punk band I've gotten into for a while as honestly, I cannot listen to anything but hip hop these days, Dr Dre and Kanye West and mostly Odd Future Wolf Gang Kill Them All, Earl and Tyler and MellowHype. But anyway, Blacklisted, they have this one song, Matrimony and the chorus goes JUST WANNA LOVE MYSELF / LOVE MYSELF / JUST WANNA LOVE MYSELF / LOVE MYSELF and I hear it in my head and I dance-thrash along the street for a bit, before getting dizzy and having to steady myself against a streetlight.

But I know that I would never hurt anybody intentionally, I know that I feel angry but I would never hurt anybody, no matter what, it's not their fault, it's not their fault, it's not my fault, I forgive them and I forgive myself and I love them and I want them to be happy and feel safe and feel loved and feel content in their life. I want us to be friends and lovers and I want us to create, a future, a better world, art, art, I just wanna create art, I just wanna be an artist, I just want to do what I wanna do and I want people to like that and I want people to like me, for who I am, I don't wanna change, I don't wanna change, I don't wanna be anybody but me because I cannot be anybody but myself. I love you, I love you, I love you so much. I look at the bottle and I laugh that I ever wanted to smash something so beautiful, and I drink what was left and I pass a bin, and I place it in there, and I laugh again and walk a couple metres before I turn around and take it out of the bin and put it in the recycle bin next to it. I've heard that it doesn't mean shit, recycling, I mean, but I just wanna do what I can, I guess.

I'm hearing Tyler's words in my head (or is it Chuck's words...?) and I don't mean Tyler, The Creator, I mean, Tyler Durden, I'm hearing Brad Pitt's voice speak Tyler's words speak Chuck's words, Fights go on for as long as they have to, and I'm thinking I can't give up, I won't give up, Never give up, never surrender, so I guess Tim Allen is in there too, but it's true, and I though death is a comfort, for me, it is comforting and it helps me that it is gonna be there at the end of all this fucking shit, I will never stop trying to help people. I will never stop trying to make the world a better place. I am typing and I am typing I am typing and as you read this I hope you are liking it, I hope more than anything, I hope you are enjoying it and it is something that you can relate to or something you like or something that makes you happy. I really honestly truly hope it does. Or is. Or whatever.

I'm getting near the next party, and there's dudes out the front, and they're selling weed, and I don't know how much it costs but in hindsight I know now it was only twenty, fifteen dollars worth of weed, and they tell me it's worth $60 but I only have a fifty dollar note in my wallet and the guy says that he likes me which should have triggered some sort of suspicion in me but I'm too busy saying This is a blessing, this drug, it is Amazing and Wonderful and Awesome and I wish everyone would try it and he's going “Yeah yeah yeah sure thing mate,” and he repeats that he likes me and because he likes me he will give it to me for only fifty dollars and I thank him and and I give him the money and he gives me the drugs and I am so happy I might explode. I ask him if he has anything to smoke it with and he says “Yeah sure.” As he's fiddling around with his bag I sing Dancing queen, young and sweet, oooonly seventeen, and he gives me this look and I hear unt unt unt of the next song and I watch people walk in and out of the party and I hate them, I hate them so much. He hands me a bong and I smoke the weed straight away, it takes me about seven minutes to go through the bag and he watches me wordlessly and I wish I had a girlfriend to smoke with and fuck while high. I cough so much I worry that it's gonna make me throw up but I manage to hold it in and I thank the guy again and say to him Metal Gear Solid 2: Sons of Liberty is the greatest piece of art of our time and everyone hated it and he's nodding and saying “Yeah yeah sure thing mate,” and I know that my words have washed over him and he will have forgotten me by tomorrow. As I walk up to the front of the house, some twenty-something year old, fat gut, Billabong shirt, beer in one hand, neckbeard, asks if I've been invited and I laugh in his face and spin on my heel and head back onto the street.

I'm fifty metres down the road when the high hits, and it washes over me like an awesome wave. I keep thinking bad thoughts, evil thoughts, that make me feel horrible like Where the fuck am I, I have no idea where I am and I am so fucking lonely but I concentrate on the high and it feels fucking amazing. I jump and when I land the whole world is different, and my eyes are bugging out from the sheer beauty of it all. I'm looking at my hand and clenching and unclenching it and it is the most incredible thing I have ever seen, I have ever experienced, I have ever done. I put my hand to my face and I can feel it, through the drunkenness, I can feel it, and it feels amazing. I would honestly kill to have my iPod, I would honestly kill to hear a song I like, like Thuggin by MellowHype, or Modern Man or Suburban War by Arcade Fire, or even fuckin' Stayin' Alive by the Bee Gees. I feel the crunch of the bitumen and grass alternating underneath my feet and it makes me happy, and I breathe in and the cold of the air hurts my lungs and makes me happy, and I grab my stomach and feel the folds of fat but it makes me happy. I'm thinking She never said goodbye, she never broke up with me, she just left me but I shake my head and think about Aladdin and the Genie and how much I love them and it makes me so so so happy I could explode.

war drums.

He bangs the drum and makes a dreadful noise
it brings His gang of sprites and thugs- the boys;
and men of blackened tooth, unpure of heart
to fuel the flames of war he wish't to start

His stars and stripes are pinned upon his breast
He grin is skeletal and knows no rest
a barren smile all bleached and dead inside
"My troops!" He smiles "You fill my chest with pride!"

"Now march! And shoot! And kill! And rape! And burn!
Salute! Now go, as fast your heels can turn!"
Like dogs they bow and scrape and beg for scraps
His hounds; well-trained, they're groomed and fed- but trapped

Along by nose they're led en route to doom
for doubt and thought He fosters little room
"Now come! It's time for daily briefing, men!"
A prayer, wishing death on foreign kin

They walk as men yet crawl and kill like beast
and wield their guns for Country, Lord and Priest
They march with glee; with cries of righteous boast
while knowing neither name nor creed of host

A man soon learns to lock in deep his fears
to keep his wish for peace and light from peers
They sneer instead, and toy with sharpened knives
With faces marked by darkness bruising lives

That Darkness; manifest the Lord of Flies...

That blemish! Staining black upon their souls!
No boy should bear that weight nor play those roles
but "March!!" He screams "It's killing time, oh glee!"
He bangs the drum; its call is not for me.

- iambic pentameter exercise