The Po-To-Weet Blues

heya. i wanted to tell u about that time when u were behind me and i was on my stomach and it felt sooooo gooood that i was out of breath...and then i moved a little and a mattress spring pressed against my chest and for a few seconds it felt like i couldn't breathe and u were saying, come, baby, come cuz i had just announced how close i was and suddenly i was unstuck in time like billy pilgrim, and i was back in belgium in my fucked up little room with the water damaged walls covered in green and brown mushrooms and i'd just said no for the final time and was now silently crying, which in turn made him cry. his fat, hot tears fell on my neck and got mixed up with mine. please dont cry, he said, which made me cry harder and he pressed his large hand on my face so he wouldnt have to see and i couldn't breathe or speak and i couldn't believe this was happening, it was like a movie or a book or a bad dream, and as i tried but failed to pull his hand off my face he started saying, come, i want u to come, over and over, and at first i didn't understand, it was so far-fetched i wondered if it was some kinda fucked-up joke, since he knew that i knew what was happening--i mean, there i was, not wet in the least and wincing in pain everytime he pushed in and for weeks i'd be covered in purple and green bruises down there and he wanted me to have an orgasm? come, come, i wanna make u come, he said, and pressed his hand down harder on my face and it was at that moment that i told myself i was going to give up on breathing, and the 40 watt bulb in my brain dimmed and the room started to recede and a looooong hallway appeared before me, at the end of which there wasn't a bright white light, but a hazy red never-never land, like the V.I.P. room of a club and as i squinted my eyes i saw my own face down there, floating in the mist and calling out to me for help...

i can't help u, i said to myself, and the sadness of my failure filled the air and soaked my face like spring rain and all i wanted was for it to be over, whatever that would mean, and when i opened my eyes instead of the fleshy orange of his palm i saw my own eyes looking back at me--it seemed i had crossed the shadowy distance in the hallway and was standing face to face with myself, staring, sad-eyed as i said goodbye to the girl i would never be again.

Vlog post without the Video

this guy takes his photographs the old fashioned way, with cameras that use film.

he captures the high density, leonard cohen afterworld that is the new york city i know:



like im filming a movie with my eyes

and the movie is looking back



it's a citywide, cinemascope





it's so fucking DELICIOIUSLY crowded with people and flowers, and people who are sad flowers


home on the range...

Other Meanings

lovekatie.

if i sit here, cold figurin on somethin fer awhile, sooner or later im going to get horny. that's the way it works. it has to do with the whole mind body relationship and the energy that clots up our veins if we don't let it out. like the poisoning of an overdose. in college i'd sit around banging my head against thick ass philosophy books fer hours and it would just come over me...slowly, like a train approaching from a distance. my mind would start wandering...thoughts would pop in my head, i'd start twisting around the things i read so that they said other things...with other meanings.

and i'd become super-conscious of how my jeans rubbed me between my legs...

and voices would either startle me or soothe me to sleep, depending...

depending...

finally, when i couldn't take it anymore i half-walked, half-ran to the other side of the library, where there was a bathroom that was hardly used. the floor was slanted and the stalls were painted a hideous bright yellow and the faucet dripped, loudly...

i'd listen to it after i came, as i stood there straddling the toilet and catching my breath.

then i'd become strict and tell myself off.



kidgod

blackonblackhatsarethebesthats

i just wanna have some fun.

last night the full moon was a gigantic flashlight pointed down on me as i took the long way home from fitz's place. i felt like i used to after i stole something or in the seconds after i placed three or four tabs of acid on my tongue--a mix of exhileration, self-loathing and couldn't-care-less-ness.

i'm so sick of this scene.

fuck the world. i mean that for real, man.

no one was out. the street felt fake like a stage. it was too quiet--the facade of the church was a flat prop. a single light from a bodega doorway spilled across the sidewalk like yellow paint.

i looked inside and the store was empty. there was no one behind the register.

the only thing moving was the steam blowing off the top of the hospital. it danced around crazily, like it was trying to tell me something--not with words but with the static blast of its jubilation...with the freedom of its formlessness...

it was watching me. looking out...

it was telling me that i had no choice but to love the way i look...the way i dress like a boy and walk with a limp,

the way i'm always leaving early, because i've got to go to work.

the way i don't want to be sorry but i always am.

the way i love so hard, so silently...


the way i've given you my all and gotten back nothing in return.




always amazing

The psychotic lives in the terror of breakdown (against which the various psychoses are merely defenses). But 'the clinical fear of breakdown is the fear of a breakdown which has already been experienced (primitive agony)...and there are moments when a patient needs to be told that the breakdwon, fear of which is wrecking his life, has already occurred.' Similarly, it seems, for the lover's anxiety: it is the fear of a mourning, which has already occurred, at the very origin of love, from the moment when I was first 'ravished.' Someone would have to be able to tell me: 'Don't be anxious any more--you've already lost him/her.'


--Roland Barthes, The Lover's Discourse

history repeats and cyphers become complete.

it's not that i hate dubya. i don't. i don't even strongly dislike him, to tell you the truth. i think we could prolly chill. two drunk wasters who went to expensive schools where we learned how to FRONT.

i wanna skullfuck him and i bet if he met me he'd want it too.

i'd break bread wit him. tell him all the worries on my mind. ask him to explain his ass. ask him to consider peace, instead of more war (with Iran, or Seria or whoever). i'd point to latin america, and ask him if he REALLY thought all of reagan's war mongering in the region paid off...u know...for the sake of democracy.

por favor, mi hermano, i'd say, and i'd clap him on the back and wave my hand in front of his eyes, like i would to a sleepwalker who just marched out into traffic.

then id roll us a blunt and spark it off the flames upon which id thrown his history books.

wake-up, doood! i'd say to him, the same way i say it to my peeps sitting slumped over with their red wine and prescription pills in front of mindless shit on the tv.

it's time to seek the higher learnin.

u and me, compadre. the dipshit from texas and the dipshit from jersey.

yep.

we'll travel by foot across the country. we'll speak in a simple tongue. we'll lean on one another for warmth.

come with me. take my hand in the darkness.

the night is cold but hell is hot...


write for our blog, and tell us about all the shit that pisses u off.

mr president, it's time to bring the beef.

brand new headphones.

TRUE,

baby.

you've got to be ready to die, that's what you always say.

yes, it's biggie smalls, i know, but you are the one who says it...

you can never get the party started by playing it safe.

you have to be always on the verge...you want your celluloid smoldering around the edges as though at any moment you might disappear in a puff of smoke.

look, the point is--don't you dare go middle class on us, TRUEBOY...

where are the new ideas?

where's the revolution?

we've got to put our heads together, and start a new country.

remember?

viva la hash pipe!

viva la remote control.

viva la undertow...

that's otay, cookie. you know i love you. now excuse me while i go cough and get off...

retroactively yours,


-f

hallelujah

can u hear me calling out to u...? i feel like a tone is ringing out from within me. the discordant blast of my desire...like the sound inside a shell, the empty ache sings out in spite of myself, overcoming myself...

(and women have that woman thing...)

i feel like all my cups are broken, all my bells are cracked.

im splintering open at my seed nut center.

(which is when they all leave me)

standing alone

standing alone

like the leaning tower of pisa

with my crooked smile

i front artsy like im mona lisa

a brain teaser

im a blog weaver

i'll guilt-wrap yr better intentions and bottom feed ya

i'll get u so famous yr own moms won't know how to treat ya


im strung out like a knitting circle

sex texts get interwoven

deep like the color purple.



fuckit


i know i didn't make it rhyme ferreals

but tech-nic-ly im as hard as steel.

there wasn't a thought in my head--only vibes as i looked at u as u looked down to put on the condom and then looked up to look at me. i felt everything and nothing conspiring against us in this moment of before, when we briefly pull apart so we can come even closer together, like how a train sitting in the station has to first move backwards before it can go forwards again.

This is a song called "New Age"...

Let’s run away to cali and live by anti and big tanky where there’s bright white concrete and the freeway humming to Alaska beneath an endless succession of flat blues skies, like a handful of old quarters with the faces worn off, and on the street are skaters in stained sweatshirts and dinky little foodstands where chubby mexican women sell tacos and corn and fried cake dough on a stick. We’ll get a place near the ocean but never go on the beach. At least not where anyone can see us…

We’ll buy metal blinds to put over the windows and a secondhand tv that we’ll keep in a closet on a cart with wheels.

Video cameras, not cable.

Vegetables, not meat.


(and lots and lots of candy)

iTunes and weed…

I’ll be yr dog and u can be mine.

It will be Independence Day, over and over, with sparklers, not flags.

We’ll be best friends and lovers and I’ll never have to pretend I’m something I’m not and neither will you.

Dr. Sterling drops knowledge

I’ve been thinking about poor girls and rich girls. The world would be a better place if more lovin was exchanged between the classes. Is there anything as delicious as a marathon make-out session with a girl who’s decidedly not of your “station”? Despite what you might have been told it’s not the big irreconcilable differences that prevent us from understanding each other. It’s not about the hedge fund her daddy runs for her and and it’s not about the heap of junk car you drive. It’s the little things that will throw you—cultural differences it helps to be aware of in advance. For example, rich girls have kitchens and bathrooms that are clean but never spotless. This is a result of always having servants when they grew up. The poor girl shouldn’t take it personally that there’s scum around the drain and a pubic hair beneath the soap dish in the shower. Instead she should tell herself, “This rich bitch never learned how to get down on her knees. That’s what I’m here for.”


Poor girls fuck up by thinking they have to blow an entire paycheck on a single gift for their rich girl. You can’t give a girl who was born into money expensive gifts and expect to impress her. If she’s truly rich, she’ll only be happy with trifles. Something Italian but everyday and in a set of two, like plain white coffee cups on plain white saucers or thin-ass martini glasses. She’ll pull away the tissue paper and exclaim in the most heartbreaking way about how she really needs this. What happens next depends upon whether she is a rich American girl or a rich European girl--the European girl will immediately place the gift on its proper shelf while the American girl will wash it thoroughly first with soap and warm water.

the best thing would be if the post would write itself.

queer sex fer straights

that's right...that's the potion im peddlin on this here data trickle. i wanna change the way u fuck. yep. that's my ultimate goal.

now u know, faithful readers. it has been revealed.

k i don't wanna change it just rearrange it. or at least make u think about it again, if u haven't recently.

sure, when people hear the words 'queer sex' they usually think of dykes and fags but queer sex is about a lot of things that have nothing to do with whether yr actually gay or not.

queer sex is often long and messy, with lots of positions and play and laughter and smells and tastes and breaks in the middle cuz yr tired and want to talk and hang out for awhile with the sheets over yr heads like a tent.

...like yr in a secret getaway bungalo on mars, where no one knows yr name...

queer sex is about there not being a fixed to-do list.

queer sex is whenever someone comes. how doesn't matter.

it could be five minutes it could be five hours.

when bill clinton so emphatically stated, "i did not have sex with that woman," what he was really telling america was that "i did not have queer sex with that woman."

queer sex is about spending the weekend in bed together when yr not in the same city.

queer sex is too sweet fer werds. like a plate of chocolate cheesecake and chocolate ice-cream covered with powdered sugar and with fudge sauce zig-zagged across the bottom of the cold, thick plate.

queer sex is about increasing yr awareness of what's happening when u get naked, and not numbing yrself out on beer to give u the courage to take off yr pants.

queer sex is about a woman making love to a man like he's a woman.

...and vice-versa...times 2.

queer sex is not about marriage.

queer sex are the thoughts that just pop into yr head, uninvited and unbidden.

...on the train, in the deli, when yr eating yr mashed potaotoes at the dinner table or listening to the best of steely dan, in which the songs are pretty good, but each one sounds just like the one before, over and over, track after track, time after time, year after year...

queer sex keeps u up at night with yr spiderman panties tied in a knot.

queer sex is about reading the last page first and starting from there.

queer sex is about the fact that u are only given one life to live.

...and so you run for the safety of your blog...

Fake Death is Real on TV

i was walking on 55th street last week behind Bad Boy World Headquarters, trying to suppress my boner at the thought of having my own skyscraper for BRANDTRUEBOY, there at the center of the world, surrounded by neon lit marquees and storefront delis with ancient wooden barrels in the window that used to be filled with smoked meat but are now just empty decorations, as these days, the meat is "smoked" in a vat of chemicals and shipped in from northern jersey in a refrigerated truck covered with third-rate graffiti, and tourists wrapped around the entrance to the david letterman show, shivering in their champion sweatshirts and looking like farm-grown idiots--but not as idiotic as they would look a few hours later, clapping and waving and smiling for the cameras like this was the most fun they'd ever had...which it prolly was...which is why they are idiots.

"there's more to life than this", i whispered to them as i passed.

the wind was blowing from all directions, like it was tryin hard to tell me something...

to leave? to run home...?

to embrace the future with eyes wide shut?

(but i had my iPod on and i couldn't hear the phrase through the halcyon haze)

trash and plastic bags flew up in little twisters from the gutter...making me sentimental and spacy and lookin for my camera like the stoner dude in american beauty.

and that's when i saw him:

right in front of me--farnsworth bentley. that umbrella toting, fag-acting, fashionista "assistant" of puffy's who's been a source of endless fascination for me, as he's one of those people who are famous for being famous, which, as some of you well know, is my ultimate goal in life.

damn, i said to myself, i guess his fifteen minutes is already up, cuz he was dressed in boring chinos and a boring jacket and a boring scarf--totally out of character with his usual haut couture get-ups. he didn't have his trademark umbrella or hat and he needed a haircut too.

as i watched a small piece of white paper shot out of his hands--a receipt or something.

he lunged after it in the air, missed it, and then ran forward trying to catch it, but it kept eluding his grasp.

the wind stopped, he fell to his knees but then a new gust sent the little square further down the sidewalk.

he prolly needs it for an expense report, i thought. i considered snapping a picture of him with the camera on my phone, but decided against it.

instead i turned up biggie smalls on my iPod and bopped on over to 7th ave, remixing a few lines of Goethe over the beat as i stuffed my hands deep inside the pockets of my no name parka:

I'm not like the others

who will try all their life to grasp the magic receipt

which they can see but never touch.



sin twitties

So many long and lonely nites I spent shaking like the last leaf on a tree, certain that something was wrong with me and that I was guilty of a crime against humankind. I was going to be made to pay for my strange desires and dreams—I knew this the way I knew that the threat of punishment—even of being thrown into everlasting hell for the rest of eternity--wasn’t going to be enough to stop them, that the monstrous, overwhelming need inside of me that manifested itself in furtive glances and soaked sheets and school yard recriminations and whispers in the hallway was never going to be exorcised.

At first I had to look up some of the words they called me.

I accepted myself as damned.

I was broken.

I was gay and God hated me, so I might as well hate God, or so I was taught, by both queers and non-queers, who in their religious opinions, it turned out, were two sides of the same coin.

But what if they’ve got it wrong, and God isn’t prohibitive but the opposite—the kind of freedom that can only occur where there is no jealousy and no hidden agenda? What if it turned out that God IS love in the sense that God is that which feeds the energy to the urges within us to love and be loved?

What if God is the gasoline attendant who pumps oil into our overheated, empty fuel cells, or the farmer who patiently waters the soil so that the thick green stalks of our emotions might someday enclose bright, golden corn instead of dried-up husks?

What if God is love in the sense of a fantasy fulfilled—an ache rubbed away…not love in the sense of marriage or ownership—nothing formal like that. But love in the sense of seeing someone with both eyes open, and wanting nothing more than to take pleasure in the way they pleasure...?

Love in the sense of giving yourself over fully to another.

Love as a wanting to want…

Love as the discovery of bridges to burn, glowing in the distance like old memories.

They look like they are made of steel but they are made of wood.

God is what gives you the strength to make new habits

and to express your deepest desires in a language you create together

Formed with letters that trace the loin’s dark twists

and filled with meaning mined from the spot where dreams and responsibilities are found pressed together in chunky, supernatural conglomerates.

Now my helmet's on, you can't tell me I'm not in space
With the National Guard United States Enterprise
Diplomat of swing with aliens at my feet
Comin' down the rampart through beam on the street
Obsolete computes, compounds and dead sounds
As I locate intricately independent
Economic rhymer got savoury store food
In Capsule D my program is ability
For a reaction and response to a no-one
Identification Code: Unidentified
I got cosmophonic, pressed a button, changed my face
You recognised, so what? I turned invisible
Made myself clear, reappeared to you visual
Disappear again, zapped like a android
Face the fact, I fly on planets every day
My nucleus friend, prepare, I return again
My 7XL is not yet invented

Earth People, New York and California
Earth People, I was born on Jupiter

Earth People, New York and California
Earth People, I was born on Jupiter...



UltraB

Anonymous

Andy Warhol Was My Daddy.

Someone once told me that when u love someone or something it's cuz u really want to BE that person or that thing...




I love plastic idols.