it's back again

[Sepia]

all the enlargened chickenbreasts I ever saw came from over there or eastern europe. I had a blueberry the other day that was almost the size of my fist and weighed over three hundred grams. it was called 'american blueberry'. it tasted like watermelon but I was giggling all the way down to the throat.



"ontopic" though; I've been revising the story and have added some stuff but I'm in doubt this at the moment:


I think I want to add even more to the feeling of timelessness and discard newspapers, current politics or exactly what kind of drugs were taken. I want it to happen in a more mythical america, I think, but have anyone thought anything about this or have something to contribute regarding this?

[Sepia]

And for everytime I push down a pedal, the hillman screams, guttural, gargantuan, pain. It¬¥s us two now, the car and the chauffeur. The car feels oddly connected with me, like an extension and I knew where I was headed when I first gunned this engine, miles and miles away and I know it¬¥s been a weird trip and I know it¬¥s somehow been important  but I can¬¥t for the life of me remember how or why, there are glimpses, temporarily bouts of sanity or insanity, places names signs objects, inanimate aswell as animate, feelings sensations and somewhere there is a dark guttural drawl that would put my hillman to shame that started it all, I feel there was a plan at some point, a beginning and a curious wish to end it, whatever it was, I¬¥m wading in my subconsciousness and the door on my right rattles and I let it, because, hey, this is supposed to be a free country so I feel free to drive among rocks and trees.

This is where I begin. I know it now and I know why it was fitting. Vineland. The first time one of our kind sat foot on the continent of freedom and I giggle and laugh and throw a hysteric fit before I´m back on the concrete, lines dividing me and everyone else. People told me that marketing and advertising was a crooked business and I remember not caring because there was something important behind it, the schemes, the smokescreens and the hard labour to create a perfect illusion and I remember myself telling these warnful people that it´s only an illusion if you want to buy into it. I told these people that in an open office landscape. Why would I work in an office?

The air is salty and the sea is close and Leiv Eriksson is only a trip away, but what trip? I check my eyes in the rearview mirror and they´re almost all black and my head´s spinning but I sortof expected this. When did I get on the trip and what did I take? And why did I take it?
I stop at a diner up the road and sit on one of the stools by the counter, ordering coffee and a bee ell tee. There´s a book in my pocket called something Dexter Ward but the book´s torn and old so I don´t know but I begin at page one. The words hum to me, sortof alive, trying to catch me where I sit but I don´t feel like paying attention to I end up sitting there, staring at words, sipping coffee and glancing at the fat lady that makes my blt, she´s talking with someone else, also female, she has that same uniform aswell and they giggle, laugh and aren´t very discrete. Then I ask myself, what am I reading for?

The supposed blt arrives, drenched in fat and grease dripping off it, a thick layer of mayonnaise makes it look like a acne shoved along with old tomates and sickly-looking lettuce of some sorts and the bacon is just black but I´m hungry and I knew it would taste like crap the moment I sipped that black tar they called coffee and the only reason to drink it is because it´s caffeine in it. I should have ODed on amphetamine instead. It would have been more pleasant and the effect would last longer.
I have a fear of sleeping now, my mind is somehow cleared, everything seems fixed and not a large chunk of chaos sitting behind my eyes. Will I remember this state of mind if I wake again?

I finish my blt and light up a cigarette. The fivehundred pounds of flesh hurtle towards and puts forth her fatfuck sausage fingers. Her eyes are dull and I already know what she´s going to say. Then she says it: You can´t smoke in here. And I ask: Why? Because you´re bothering other people with your addiction. I look around and there are noone here save the other waitress and I say: I´m only bothering you and your friend over there. It´s against the law she says. Because it is unhealthy I reply.
Yeah, she says, with a face glowing that she´s somehow won something, like a sick puppy to win the sick puppy contest and waiting for the sick puppy trophy. Well, ms. fatfuck, you´ve just poisoned me and shortened my lifespan by probably five years because of your fucking addiction to fat. I wouldn´t be surprised it you used that bee ell tee to cleanse your clogged up arteries.

And I left it at that.

[Sepia]

me <3 horab

[Horab Fibslager]

all the enlargened chickenbreasts I ever saw came from over there or eastern europe. I had a blueberry the other day that was almost the size of my fist and weighed over three hundred grams. it was called 'american blueberry'. it tasted like watermelon but I was giggling all the way down to the throat.

i knew it!  :shock:

[Sepia]

The rain¬¥s on outside. Some people say they feel alive when they go out into the air, they defy the weathergods. They scream and shout that they are alive and they do something constructive. If you¬¥re alive, shut the fuck up about it because most of us aren¬¥t. We don¬¥t need suburban family fathers in goretex outfits to tell us that they are alive before they burn their own worlds in alcohol. Let¬¥s celebrate so what we possibly had tonight is gone tomorrow. The dawn will be hours and hours away, redeeming and confessing to a priest on a barstool, tellling stories from the old country and sipping whiskey, so that he, the priest, can tell his stories without being one. My skirt clings to my balls and my thighs after  three minutes out here and I know I¬¥m cold but the drugs are good to me, like they always are. There are salvation army people out, preaching, giving away soup and bread but I never accept it. They¬¥re just furthering the problem. They let the beast live and feed it enough scraps to make it hungry all the time. One day, the beast or the chains holding him will go away. We are frozen in perpetuality, we are all decaying and we are all wanting to die. Not prolonging life to live a dream once, but to die. No glorification.

A man stops me, touches me and I smile the smile they expect to see upon my face. He smiles back, he´s sure of himself and I hate him. His well-formed body, his striking face and the big cock that´s throbbing on the inside of expensive linen pants. I feel sick and play it silent which doesn´t matter much because he´s happy if I nod or say yes or no and already I know he wants the porn act. He´s after a school uniform and he´s got no balls to himself to rape a child so he´s stuck on the street with me and I feel even more sick. It ain´t the drugs and it ain´t the trade. It´s him. Smug man. Probably made a name somewhere for himself. Doing something with a good reputation, he´s spending hardearned cash. If he had less taste he would probably wear a wifebeater and some prewashed precut shitlooking jeans with fake fake fake fake cowboyboots and smoke marlboros. It´s the way he touches me.

He ain´t quick. I was right about the hard earned cash. He wants every penny to have value, every cent is to be part of a dream realized miles away from his respectable business. Banging down a hooker with a penis.

[Sepia]

And I howl together with the hillman, making ourselves known to the suburban sprawl that is new america. Once, shortly and briefly, this was a state of dream, utopia. Then the political trends shifted and it was agreed upon that utopia was to be the fantasy fairyland which we would all dream about when silently contemplating suicide. The land-of-dreams would be the-land-of-work, disenchanting and destroying all magic that was left. Other people however, who still dreamt of america would get together and form a new type of magic to be used within it's borders to preserve that which was once pure and a glimmering star among dull and dark nations. They called it magick and from magick was born the perfect illusion, the grand entrance and the escape artist's escape from under chains fifteen feet under water.

I'm driving through cornfields and everything's out of a stephen king flick from the seventies. The colours are dry and the wind blowing is bleak only making the rows of corn waver childishlike. There's thunder over the next ridge and far away are lightning streaks torching cattle and barns. Why do I always get that feeling on acid? That everything has just been the arranging of domino pieces and that this is the exact moment. I can feel a finger making a sudden movement to topple it all. Fate seems inevitable on acid driving down an old highway with dark weather and dark winds.

The fields are screaming along with us and I only catch one glimpse of him but there he is, standing lonely by the way with a grin and sickert.

[Sepia]

They were my wings. I knew it as things like that are known the instance they happen. Like when stressful people die there's a sigh of relief followed by the guilty conscience and then there's the mourning but it all goes away in liquour as it always does when people say something serious has happened and all you have to do is play along and then you're drunk, quite free and with the same amount of bullshit you have to shit out of your mouth to get to that point but there's a difference because now you can hone your skills in other areas than 'o really did he buy a tv set that cheap thats genious sorry mate i only got ice in mine yeah thank you ill have whatever you have oh? i had a one of the cuervo, yeah that bottle thats been collecting dust for ages and is better than any whiskey youll ever taste cheers but look i gotta go talk to auntie aunt because i havent spoken to her for SO LONG'

anyhow. they were wings. earlier, ive only imagined them. when i was quite drunk and hate would be the recurring emotion for the people around me. i would imagine them to be like tyraels, whitehot and smiting anyone nearby. they werent smiting. they were there however and people started looking at them and i was kindof freaked out because i had been on speed for a few days because people were demanding all manners of steaks at the restaurant and the chef hadnt chilled out for months and i couldnt burn myself again to go home, disfigurement.

so i had wings. and i wasnt drunk this time. and i was headed somewhere, the heart of the country. the black heart of life itself.

[Cain]

Bumped for greatness.

[East Coast Hustle]

fuck yeah.

[Sepia]

wouldyaknow, it's back again.

This time with a POSSIBLE ENDING!!!! (It's only been through the mill once and I haven't weeded out grammatical, spelling or other errors, still working on STYLE and possible implementation)


This is it. Don't you remember? We're in your dreamcountry now, we're smiling and smoking marlboros and we're not talking about it. Can't you remember?

You had a friend and he went to artschool, he called himself a videoartist and you watched his stuff and laughed at him behind his back. He soon became the artfag because you had this wonderful ability in your brain, to put two and two together, they learned you that in school. You were never a stupid kid, you got decent grades, decent enough grades for you to get an engineer's degree and you got to play with trains, the real ones from your childhood imagination. You still contain the glee you felt at seven when you're on callduty because they had to lay off or how they put it restructurize the organisation.

You know what happened to the artfag but you don't speak about it. When someone did mention it, there was this lurking omnious silence until someone said I saw Joanna by the mall today and boy has she grown huge and you laugh and snigger and ask who wants a cigar or some of your homemade bourbon and your wife enters, smiling with a tray of club sandwiches and leaving the room with You boys behave now and you know she's in the mood and you'll get a spanking later and you'll enjoy that but you can't really tell any of these people, your friends whom you've gone hutning with, travelled to tijuana and visited texas with. Bar the blood, they are your next of kin but they wouldn't understand.

Artfag ended up as many other artfags, working doubleshifts at 7-11 until he shot himself infront of a customer, repeatedly screaming YOU WONT FUCKING UNDERSTAND BITCH to an elderly woman that had asked regarding the availability of a new softdrink marketed for the 18-26 male segment.

What did we ever do to our heroes? How many of them died penniless, unhappy and unfulfilled because you were too fucking busy studying, working, looking for discounts on lawnmowers and building trains in the garage.
No action is still action you once overheard some kid outside your mall, he was perhaps fourteen and was dressed in black and filled with logos of bands, pierced and smoking cigarettes which you know he stole. You held him by one of his arms and smacked him in the head, dropped him and drove home to finish that last stretch of train and you felt this glow inside you, earnest and with no need to call forth happy childhood memories because you've always had enough of the unpleasant ones but you never really talked about them but you vowed that your kid wouldn't grow up with scars from a beltbuckle and you never hit him, you never touched him when he played that music loud, never kicked his shit when you found him with a girl of what you saw as questionable ethnical background. You built for him a larger prison, a more important prison yet only when it has been observed or destroyed.
Do you remember the last discussion you had with your son? He was home from college and he came down as you sat and saw the news on the cnn and he asked Hey dad, what's happening in the world and you replied with The same goddamn shit happens everyday and he said Well, why do you watch it then and you said without looking away from the tv, to stay updated, to know what's going on, you know that, that's an important lesson and your son sighed as he grabbed a milkbottle and you took your face away from a vice president or something that killed someone and you said Now what do you mean by sighing that way and he said Nevermind dad, you won't understand.
You didn't understand when he told you, it was like babble, it was something the artfag could've said while clipping his ridiculous movies about a violent dad with a beltbuckle and an american flag and sex pistols' anarchy in the uk blaring over and you built him his last brick of prison just as your dad did when he said he was proud of you on graduation day.

This is it. Don't you remember? We're in your dreamcountry now, we're smiling and smoking marlboros and we're not talking about it. Can't you remember?
There is much you should've understood come the apocalypse but it takes years to train a brain, just like it takes years to get an education or foster a child or not asking anybody out. You had time but you were doing things, you let control go because you knew someone would pick you up. You followed the news and put your trust in them, you saw shit going from bad to worse but there was this prickling sensation in your stomach that someone would pick you up if push came to shove, someone would help you, rescue you. You always were a good citizen and took pride in that, folding the flag the way you learned in the navy and didn't even drive drunk. You voted with your heart you said when someone asked you what you voted for but I'm sorry to tell you now that you're dead, you didn't. You voted for reasons I won't ever understand. You voted for the sensation in your stomach that when you stood upon a shore one night with nuclear winter happening around looking across an ocean and wondering if there stood a mirrorimage on the other side. You voted for help, for insecurity, for fear and the shit that made the news be the same goddamn thing every day and the worst part of it was that you thought you did it out of love but then again, you never read Orwell dad.

Now we're here. The final curtain. Frank Sinatra singing in the endtimes and we hum as we walk along a corridor of the darkest light I ever saw. We're terrified as fuck and we don't know what, where or how to do this. You did what you did for our sake and now we'll do our part. The sum of all the knowledge you instilled in us along with our own interpretations are what we'll carry with us. Who were you and what was the sum of your knowledge? We will baptize the end of this the same way you baptized us, by force and ignorance and your own ideals of right and wrong. You believed that might makes right and we will honour your ideals. You believed in a heaven and a hell and we'll send you where you always wanted to go. You believed in order and it is in the name of order we still walk down these corridors. You believed in heroes but never what they did, you never mimicked your heroes other than quoting them to look smart, to look cool, a part of the herd or a part of something different. We are walking to the crematorium and the dead fill the walls with their screams and the smell of roasted human flesh is in our noses but we don't feel dizzy or vomit now, we've been in this corridor before. We are burying you now and we bury ourselves alongside with you. We will join the fold finally, isn't that what you wanted? Homogenity is good and diversity is bad and Donald Ducks three nephews were Huey, Dewey and Louie. We smile as we follow your principles, your ways of life and beliefs. We follow you to the halls of compromise and in our leash we have the worst hound of hell himself, hound of blame and we call him quitter.


This is it. Don't you remember? We're in your dreamcountry now, we're smiling and smoking marlboros and we're not talking about it. Can't you remember? Try to remember.

[Cramulus]

I like this quite a bit. Thank you!

[Jenne]

shit...I'll have to read this later when I have more time.