Log in

Improved Toppypock
[Most Recent Entries] [Calendar View] [Friends]

Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in TheOneTheOnly's LiveJournal:

[ << Previous 20 ]
Monday, June 28th, 2010
11:38 pm
Thoughts on Death
(Beginning with a line from Supermarket in California by Ginsberg)

What thoughts I have of you tonight, Taylor, while
I sit down, preparing for my toilsome slumber, and wonder when you
will wake from yours. Was it you that sat behind me in a math
class in my final year?
The way I remember it is this: you sat behind me, intently scrawling
numerical notes on a page. The numbers dancing on the empty white, singing
themselves to sense within the golden spiral. I sat there, penning lyrics to
songs that I would never write. I wrote paragraphs to stories I would never
finish. I drew cartoon figures with no back stories. Yet, before the year was
up, I would say something to you, our briefest and only exchange. Two people
crossing paths for a moment. I went on to write poetry. What you did
I still don’t know.

“On any given day, an average 148,000 people will die,” says
Daum of the L.A. Times, but isn’t it interesting that I am, we are all,
fixed on one? There was something about you, Taylor,
I can’t quite put my finger on it. Something about your picture:
welcoming eyes, a warm smile. You would judge no one

And then the good die young as the clichéd phrase goes.
As you sit on Charon’s Ferry and wonder why you and the other
147,999 are taking a final trip to the underworld, I will sit up here
and wonder why you’re going to see clear blue skies at such a early

The bell rings from a distance.

(1 thought otherwise | You're wasting my air)

Tuesday, June 1st, 2010
11:58 pm
The Gray Man
Cut up the meat and make a stew
out of the ears, nose, pieces of the face
and belly. Add onions, carrots, turnips, celery,
salt, and pepper.
Take second batch of meat from rear,
and with onions and gravy, cook. Hit meat to
make more tender. There is no finer meat to be
had. The little monkey will be
sweet, but the pee-wees are too tough.
Toss in toilet.

Genesis 22: 1-24: Abraham takes his son to the top,
doesn’t follow through. I, on the other hand, succeed.
Take up meat, like communion, not cannibalism.
Religious cannibalism is a “matter of taste”.

They said, “psychiatric phenomenon”
and I smiled. I didn’t think
I would be one in a million,
but here I am. Sitting in the chair,
the thought of leaving the oven
on pops into my head.
“Do you have any last words?”
“Can you shut my oven off?”
They call me a monster,
a freak, an abomination.
They shouldn’t think too much into it;
I was simply hungry.

I don’t even know why I’m here.

(You're wasting my air)

Saturday, May 22nd, 2010
12:30 pm
His stance shifts and
his eyes turn blood red, hate.
He stretches out his arms
and blows everything to Hell
with purple light.

(1 thought otherwise | You're wasting my air)

Wednesday, May 12th, 2010
1:59 am
I don’t have it anymore
Imagine this: the deadbolt
of your heart, locking back up,
before the next full moon,

The pain-inducing break,
the heavy swallow, tensing up,
before another bed rotation,

Emotional block, forced,
a call to hide, building up,
before the walls close,

The end and beginning of
you, reborn again, waking up,
before the collapse,

The home-wrecker when there
was no home to wreck,

(You're wasting my air)

Monday, April 26th, 2010
11:05 pm
Flowers from Eva
Your fiery spirit has clicked
gas ovens. You are the spark
that ignited this whole ordeal.

I’ve tried to die, twice now,
and you’ve pulled me out
from beyond the gates of
Hell. I abandoned no hope.

It used to be all about me
but now you’ve become
obsessed with perfection.
I’m not perfect but
you’ve loved me for years.

But for how long do I have to
linger in these cramped camps
of death and dishonor?

Soon, they will come and you
and I will be forever placed
in our niche in history books.
No one will look back with a smile,
except me.

The men have kicked dirt
over blood splatters but
it’s still there.

(1 thought otherwise | You're wasting my air)

11:02 pm
the world’s greatest painter takes his shotgun into the cornfields
…and he pulls the trigger.

The sky turns red and the painter flies
through space, cosmically, with
lesser ex-lovers and greater gods,
not singular yet plural, like the many
ants in the universe. Everyone
scribbles Marx and claims obsidian
headstones, past Pluto and vast empty
vacuum of space. The painter holds off,
searching for the one who got away,
see also: committed suicide.
See also: long lost love.
See also: love’s labor’s lost.
Last Christmas was the last Christmas
where she carved vivacious quips
into her arm, tearing vein.
Pushing through a cosmic library of
surrealistic dawn, radiant and lovely,
a skyline, etched in black stone,
the better part without the city.
Through months of disappointment,
earth-shaking, ground-breaking,
a glass of Scotch, smooth jazz before
Before the cosmic dreaminess of
America’s sweethearts dampens the
acoustics, the painter’s bug-eyed
mystical vision turns to Pollack,
a bittersweet irony.
Vibrant multihued rainbows flash
with incredible seizure-inducing colors

(You're wasting my air)

11:00 pm
quia multi sumus
Before dinner,
black light bedroom,
burn clothes,
oil drum of evidence.
Clean with bleach.
Wash, rinse, repeat.

Take up the meat toward
Bethlehem and post- pre- heat
375 degrees of Fahrenheit. Clean
pan and heat, splash vinegar
to add flavor. Grind rest
into paste, water for dipping

Tough? Reheat in heat waves
wrapped in wheat weighs,
maybe beat meat with feet,
complete and tender.

After dinner, relax
to neo-pop noir, whodunit.
youdunit, Maltese falcon
cannot hear the

(You're wasting my air)

Tuesday, February 16th, 2010
10:09 am
Fuck Tibet
…or at least, ignore it,
I think that’ll hurt more.
These atrocities, they claim,
are fictitious in nature
but standby to nurture
all sore sordid wounds.
I wound up near China
but not nearly close enough
to call myself Chinese.
Boom, I’m south of this

(You're wasting my air)

Thursday, January 7th, 2010
3:43 pm
When the Battle Begins…
On the first day,
it appeared
in the sky near the
Northern lights.
We look at it,
On the second day,
the seas rose
and waves smashed
into islands. Many
were swept away,
On the third day,
mountains erupted,
fire reigned down.
Everyone got scared,
panic came quickly,
On the fourth day,
the object in the sky
grew larger.
Insects swarm to
eat the rest of the
On the fifth day,
they came with bullets
screaming. His
followers struck first
and many were
On the sixth day,
my lover ascended
high into nothingness.
Our seven sins
left us behind,
On the seventh day,
it crashed into Earth.
It opened and the demon
came forth,

(You're wasting my air)

Tuesday, December 1st, 2009
3:08 am
Untitled 16
Snow falls from
the sky lazily and
all I see is white
doors with bright
red markings. These
houses are stained
and by midnight
Death’s motorcycle
will roar down the street,
stopping door-to-door
to claim the most recent
born son
or daughter, whichever
comes first. He’ll grab
them by the toes and
toss them into a
basket. They’ll be deposited
into a casket and shot onto
Mars, where they’ll create
a new society. It will be
better than ours. It will be
brighter than ours. It will be
greater than ours could ever
be. Every day they call upon
their self-appointed
parliament for changes
and they will happen.
Because apparently the only
people that really listen
are babies; they’ll listen
to all your bullshit
and nod.

(You're wasting my air)

Saturday, November 7th, 2009
12:39 pm
Untitled 15
Your eyes have the ability
to relax the most agitated
soul. They roll away when
ever I say something that
causes the reaction. Your neck,
soft velvet. You’re as beautiful
today as the day I met you.
It was cloudy and rainy but
this did not impede our stride.
Our interests matched up
but then life started to mash up.
As a catalyst would, motions
were started, the gears started
grinding and now we are
I never meant for this to happen
but now I strive to make
the best of it. I’m nervous
again and you can always tell.
I’m being corny again
and then I get the reaction.
It is too soon to tell what
will happen next but I believe
you have all the cards laid out
and I’m ready to hear my
future. Am I to remain in this
space or am I destined to
kick down the door and
run free? It’s not up to me,
rather it is up to destiny,
no, free will. I left that box
unchecked for a reason.
This season on Life we finally
arrive at a conclusion,
a solution, to the wandering
mind. I introduce you as
the next. I realize I’m getting
too bold but I can’t help how I
feel. Wasn’t it a professor that
said it?

(You're wasting my air)

Friday, November 6th, 2009
3:15 pm
Desire-less Dante
Have you met
Desire-less Dante?
He wants to do
nothing; he wants not
to get out of bed. His
actions speak volumes
when he chooses not
to speak. He lies in wait,
rest, in a sort of
self-induced oblivion.
He wants not to
deal with petty human
interaction. He deems
people weak, yet this
only reflects his
self worth. Nothing
gets done when Dante
transforms into this
pitiful soul. It takes a toll
on all around him,
he dabbles not in sin
but would gladly be
better off left alone.
His mind is a
minefield and if you
try to catch him,
he will spew a
fireball of malice
in your direction.
What is Dante afraid of?
Rejection? We’ve felt more
of this indiscretion
after the breakup of the
seven. He knows
all he wants
but not all he needs,
no method to achieve
a disconnect between
the goals and the means.
There is, however,
a glimmer of hope.
Maybe Dante can break free
unless he fucks it up.

(You're wasting my air)

2:06 pm
Untitled 14
‘Tis a lovely day
to squander our
chances at sheer
balderdash. You
are all hickory;
I feel like kindling
and less of a match,
one spark to ignite
all you see before
you. Before you
decide, think about
the firestorm that
could ensue, use
the wind as
guidance. It’s time
that we embrace
and wonder why
our world is
beautiful at best.
At worst, two planes
of existence – our
existences – will not
mesh but still
catch fire. All my
hope rests in your
as they roll away
from my gaze.
I am nervous again,
wondering what
thoughts are
swirling around
inside of your
mind; it’s high
time I asked you
all my transient
All that you need,
want to tell me
I learn in your

(You're wasting my air)

Monday, November 2nd, 2009
4:02 pm
Dead by Winter
Angels gloss ice
cold areas of
hands, nose, soul-
less, we are not;
full of love are
our hearts but
lack direction,
prey for focus.
Time, time is an
old friend with
a hearty “hello”
and a hug for
security’s sake.
Without time,
it seems that
our lifetime
is a moment,
an instant in
the cold winter
night. Staring
at the sky, thinking
of nothing in
particular until
the snow stops

(1 thought otherwise | You're wasting my air)

Sunday, October 25th, 2009
11:21 pm
The Horrors of Mankind

trapped, chambers of gas
explosions sought innocence
lost in the kickback of an AK – 47
2,860 days of life
lost in a hail of gunfire
childhood soldier with record
triple homicide, gross vehicular
manslaughter of your brother and daughter
last birthday, the cake decays
but relays what horror is
bombs, radioactive skeletons
with eyes that may not see
warning signs


death, depth,
detoxify, edify,
destroy, prediction,
mutilate, relation,
retaliation, fuck
mediation, guns,
youngster, murder,
electric chair blues,
popping popcorn.


They found him, behind closed doors,
naked, shouting mad demanding
mercy, mercy,
mercy for his crimes against his brothers
and sisters, mothers and lovers.
But, it was too late.
His hate ate all he loved,
murdered, pools of blood
soaked through sheets.
He was weak but
gun made him strong
like man who pulls trigger
takes what he wants.
All that is left, delusional God,
last cigarette, firing squad.

(You're wasting my air)

Tuesday, October 6th, 2009
1:47 am
Untitled 13
I’m pissed, shaking,
miserable, and dying
hot from consuming
gin, my only friend
in this despondent end.
I could scream from
the tops of
the smallest piles of
garbage. Filthy, I
reject these
outcomes. This bottle…
it is dead and what
can possibly come from
endless possibilities?
I say nothing. I say
the death of time
and space is compact
within these four
edges. Focus,
I will never know.
Come on strong and
reject this dejected
piece of nothingness
what is in the leftist?
I don’t think she’s
coming back this time.
She could but what
do you know? You fucked
this whole thing up.
How does it feel
to not let anyone
stay, stay, stay?
Let them go!
What are they worth?
Their weight in gold, no,
I refuse to let them be
refuge on the side
of the road.
I accept you with
all your flaws.
I have said my piece
and I will say no more.

(You're wasting my air)

Sunday, October 4th, 2009
3:41 am
Untitled 12
When it comes time
to make decisions, I
can’t help but
panic. What can
I do other than
brace myself
for failure? I have
done nothing
but fail,
and fail, and fail,
and now,
A shot at
taking a chance
on the unknown.
Being awake is
a burden on
the senses;
I sense that
this conversation
could end this
restless tension.
It is not
the actual conclusion
that worries me.
It is the time in
between the act
and the decision.
I care to hear
what you have to
say. My impatience
is being patient
and now we’re waiting
as the calm. Either way,
there is a storm
heading into town.
And I know
I can’t board up
these windows

(You're wasting my air)

Monday, September 28th, 2009
12:54 am
Poison is poi, son,
for the company lieu.
Meat from the bones,
blood, to wash away
alcohol, sober to the
weakened stomach.
The lining is gone
with ulcer growing.
Retribution may be
no solution,
call doctor.
PhD in gastroenterology.
Too late, maybe, too
early. Brother, call the
medics, my high time
is neigh.
I have eaten all that has hurt you.

(You're wasting my air)

Monday, September 21st, 2009
12:07 am
Untitled 10
Miserable without the burning
I cause the ground to shake
These hands are not clean
Burn them with chemicals
I drag you through the mud
Bracelet of thorns
Bring me to the dawn of man
Slay them with an open palm

Tell Catherine I don’t want it anymore

(You're wasting my air)

Thursday, September 10th, 2009
11:52 pm
That young doctor, the nihilist,
cares not for your cherry
-flavored cough syrup vomit.
He has to, not wants to,
save the little bastard
children with your
bone marrow. Forget your
sorrow. You’ll be as dead
as Dillinger at dawn.
Let’s not hack riblets:
this hospital sucks.
The food tastes like
rotten cement mix
and all the nurses suck,
turning tricks for
extra stirring sticks.
The doctors, what pricks!
They overprescribe
Demerol so we can
overdose before the
organ harvest. They use
sickles of sickle-cell
anemia to cause
cancer, cancer, cancer,
among other things.
Little eight year old
girls wearing slings,
asking too many questions.
“Where is Mommy?”
Under the floorboards,
wrapped in cords. Don’t cry.
I don’t want to hear it.
There’s a smorgasbord of
toys at the morgue with
your name on them.

(You're wasting my air)

[ << Previous 20 ]
My Website   About LiveJournal.com