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Isqandar, The Opium Prince
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| Poetic Injustice a la 21 Jumpstreet |
[Mar. 10th, 2005|09:58 am] |
| [ | mood |
| | hyoscyamine sulfate 1.5mg | ] |
| [ | music |
| | Doors - Light My Fire | ] |
it once seemed that the grass was always greener on the other side.
and at other times your grass was as green as their grass.
and you could step from your turf to theirs...and vice versa.
no more of that though. what's up?
On my mug I shall have imprinted 'Depression is Inevitable'
Today I was walking down the street and saw a depakote clock amidst the garbage bags. For those who don't know....depakote. Google it. A clock...with 'Depakote' emblazoned on it and an image of a father fishing with his sun in the sunlight, mother standing by their side...enthusiastic. Perhaps too enthusiastic. Which is the depakote patient here...the fish?
Are WE the fish? The fish in the sea?
The fish in the sea...
Are finding out...
That you and me ...
Are finding out...
[repeat 12x]
- Jean Paul Sartre Experiment ~ "The Fish in the Sea" |
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| (no subject) |
[Feb. 24th, 2005|06:02 am] |
| [ | mood |
| | Ecstasy | ] |
| [ | music |
| | John Coltrane - Giant Steps | ] |
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| Op.118 nr2 |
[Feb. 13th, 2005|05:42 am] |
| [ | mood |
| | Overwhelmed | ] |
| [ | music |
| | Intermezzo Op118 nr2 [R. Lupu] | ] |
I blame my melancholy mood on my boy Johannes (Brahms)
He is responsible for all this week's pinings away and all that...staring out the window and writing letters and tearing them up.
Yes, he is to blame. The genius...I am worth less in my lifetime than a portion of his dusty old fingertip.
 |
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| BWV 105 |
[Feb. 11th, 2005|05:23 am] |
| [ | mood |
| | Enlightened | ] |
| [ | music |
| | BWV105 dir. Herreweghe | ] |
* * * * * * * * *
Nun, ich weiß, du wirst mir stillen
Mein Gewissen, das mich plagt.
Es wird deine Treu erfüllen,
Was du selber hast gesagt:
Dass auf dieser weiten Erden
Keiner soll verloren werden,
Sondern ewig leben soll,
Wenn er nur ist Glaubens voll.
[Textdichter Unbekannt]
* * * * * * * * * |
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| Series 1 |
[Feb. 8th, 2005|12:59 am] |
| [ | mood |
| |  melancholy | ] |
| [ | music |
| | D774 | ] |
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| Waltz in Gb Major, Op. 71 |
[Jan. 30th, 2005|04:06 am] |
Today I slid on the ice to Polonaise in Ab major [the 1821, not the OTHER Ab major polonaise]
It came out of nowhere, a sheet of black ice on the black pavement, stretching for many feet ahead of me - a cunning film of backbreaking obstacle course;
Cue the polonaise, as it comes on my iPod automatically, blaring at full volume; I hasten for the volume controls, but alas, my two feet are already poised on the treacherous terrain at a crafty angle, and away I go, ushanka ears flapping in the wind, my hands outstretched, holding my cigarette up [god forbid that my cigarette should fall and become extinguished] grasping the air around me, praying that I do not break my spine when I fall.
During these moments, I thought about the void...and the pointlessness of life. And for that one second, faced with the opportunity of paralysis, I cared. I cared for that split second. But when the escapade ended, I resumed my pace, heart pounding, pupils dilated.
Thankfully, no one saw me - as much as I adore a human audience to bear witness to such events.
The blasted polonaise - never in my life have I gotten such a rush from Chopin...and I'm sure this instance was the last. I blame it, and only it for such a spastic episode - my non-spastic cat-like record is now shattered. At least, however, it was not as tragic as the 'bus stop misfortune of Aughty-three...when I was running to catch the Q29, suited up to the hilt, pommaded and reeking of success, and also failed to notice a small foot-long patch of ultrathin ice; not only did I fall, the lower portion of my body lept into the air and I wafted down as a feather would, but with the weight considered, straight on my bony little behind - whilst the passangers aboard watched me, astonished. I waited for someone to start laughing - and when I boarded the bus in shame (at least he did not speed away, spewing emission fumes into my face, as I lay there), I looked for some smiling faces, which reassured me. I like to laugh at accidents . . . Falling is funny. We should laugh. And I want people to laugh at me. I laughed all the way to the Opera that night, recalling my dramatic plight ...and in the end it worked out well. Next day's visit to the doctor left me with a nice Vicodin script (I <3 my Doctor...god bless her and her newborn child) which brought me many a happy hour. |
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| The problems of benzodiazepine withdrawal paired with Opium induced Lucid Dreaming... |
[Jan. 23rd, 2005|12:21 am] |
| [ | mood |
| | :lookaround: | ] |
| [ | music |
| | Rithma - Opium Dreams | ] |
Last night....
I dreamt that I begged on my knees before a Lesbian airplane-maker to make me an airplane so that I could get out of this weird 'village' I was in. Looked like a Ukrainian collective farm without borders, and I was circling and circling to get out but all I had was a bike with a missing right handle. When I approached her, the smell of kerosene hit me, but she greeted me dryly and told me she no longer makes flying machines and that she's switched to cultivation of vegetables to feed her rabbits and hamsters. I was in a bad state - I needed to escape - just earlier I had been speeding through looped highways on my bike, and a radio call was already out for my arrest. When I saw her stash of tomatoes, peppers, and carrots, I realized I was doomed. If the Lesbian flying-machine maker could not assist me (and she made all sorts of odd DaVinci-esque flying contraptions with swirling parts and steam vents, all of which worked).Then I took my little airplane (which appeared beside me) and dragged it up the road, whereupon I ran into Julia Louise Dreyfus (yes, that's right..Elaine from Seinfeld) and Keanu Reeves who was for some reason dressed in a basketball uniform - I ran to her direction to warn her that he would attack her, but it was too late, he was all over her, and the country road turned into a street in Vienna...and then I woke up.
The dream before this one:
My father, who I knew was dead (during all the actions of the dream), came back home, and I greeted him as if he had returned from a long voyage. He made me tea - but he warned me; 'This tea is made from the leg of my former wife' he said. And it was a very hairy leg, with full, thick, red hair throughout. I looked at the tea, and jokingly told him in that manner I'd often use with him, that I would not drink that tea - it simply had too much hair in it. He declined to drink it as well. I took a cheese cloth, folded it in half and proceeded to filter out the hairs from the tea - but it did not work. I folded it once more, and attempted the process again, but to no avail, I could not rid the tea of the tiny hairs which kept settling to the bottom. For some reason or other, all dreams wherein my father 'comes back' are seen in an odd bluish sheen and the windows are always open exposing a gray, cold day.
I shall see again tonight....tonight should be even worse, as the withdrawal continues. |
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| Pinnacle of Calm |
[Jan. 13th, 2005|06:21 am] |
| [ | mood |
| | the scent of cobblestone | ] |
| [ | music |
| | Sibelius - Op. 101 [Romance] | ] |
If I were anymore relaxed right now, ......
I would materialize into soft hums of tan-colored Bentleys...and those irregularly shaped pools of the aged Hollywood resorts. Umbrellas in drinks we can no longer hold . . . 2 identical French poodles, oversized and coiffed down 5th and 83rd made their way into my smoke filled path as I swayed sinister to avoid their O'Nassis-like trot.
Everything smells like dusk and fog - collars upturned, corduroy, and even flashes of pink polkadot on Madison could not destroy the ecstasy... |
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| Study no. 1451 |
[Jan. 11th, 2005|03:31 am] |
| [ | mood |
| | predatory | ] |
| [ | music |
| | Nat King Cole - For Sentimental Reasons | ] |
Tragic
Precious
Narcan
Cringe.
Born from the womb
Of a rusty syringe.
Lorcaesque with pallid sheen
Felt and heard but Never seen
Heroin Menace
Heroin Queen.
Momma was an opium smoker
And a trollop too
Daddy claimed he was a Quaker
But he was a Jew.
Urban
Livid
Classic sin.
Herein Therein
Hero-in. |
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| Diane Schuur - The Best is Yet to Come |
[Jan. 11th, 2005|03:20 am] |
| [ | mood |
| | :lookaround: | ] |
| [ | music |
| | Julie London - You made me love you | ] |
I feel nothing. I'm sitting here, and I feel nothing. Sometimes I feel 'beauty', but nothing else gets to me anymore. I laugh all day long, carelessly, but I am in a haze.
A certain e-presence is still bothering me with its passive nature. We mustn't give up so easily.
Let's revel in the apathy.
I'm gonna go eat my bowl of chocolate syrup and have a cigarette. Lately I can't smoke unless I have something sweet in my mouth. Smokes and Drinks nauseate me. I wonder what passersby think when they see me leaning out the window with my phone, cigarette, and spoonful of syrup. My reputation has always been controversial anyway.
'Nothing' is beautiful. Nothingness . . . It's the ultimate freedom. The VOID grows around me. I can feel its velvety appendages brushing past the hairs on my chest. You may have me, void. You may have me...
I miss opium badly. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jan. 1st, 2005|09:41 pm] |
There's a fine line between love and hate. [and if I wrote any further in such fashion, I will have outdone myself]
:sick:
Nothing. There's nothing to write for the first time in years. Nothingness reigns. Emptiness reigns. Silence reigns.
I hate being sober for prolonged periods of time. Being sober all the time is just as bad as being intoxicated all the time. We need to find a golden or bronze balance. We need to become quirky and controversial again. The populace demands it. And I have always been one secretly weak for applause, yet indifferent to boos and hisses.
How complicated it all is....
[The Author then committed suicide] |
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| Central Park in Autumn? |
[Sep. 11th, 2004|05:16 am] |
| [ | mood |
| | uh ..uh...UHHHH....OH...FUCK! | ] |
| [ | music |
| | Corea, Hancock, Jarrett, Tyner - Margot | ] |
I almost came in my soul...
And then....Charlie Mingus' " Moanin' " came on...and I did it...I did. I came right in my fuckin soul and made such a sticky mess...but like a naughty child I was proud because it just felt SO FUCKING GOOD....awh... |
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| We entered all in white, formally |
[Sep. 8th, 2004|10:02 pm] |
| [ | music |
| | Jamelão - Leviana | ] |
To the sounds of "Leviana" on a late model Victrola....I'd say 1939ish. It was so lavish, and yet so American...we could see the caviar, but there was no smell of food. Because in America money exists, but it's hidden. It's veiled...and that's how it should be. In Russia there's no money, but whatever they have is in the open....to shock you. That's why Russia is scum and the US is glorious.
Russia is the land of the drunken bear on rollerskates.
I will never agree to tails again...tails are Imperial. But I must admit, I fit so well into the bourgeois scene...the upper bourgeois crust, teeming beneath the real CRISPY elite, cushioning it, lubricating it. Maybe one day I shall emerge, if I use my connections....why should I use my connections? I am content this way...but I can be better. I can still be content, PLUS establish myself with the sleaze and benefit from partnerships with them..build my reputation, reap the profits and move away to Provence.
Yes..that's how it will be. And Leviana played all night...and the 40 year old woman with the sea-foam green dress is no longer in my memory...but her ass was as beautiful as the face of God, even through the satiny sheer...
It's good to return to the decadent life...if only just for one day out of the year. It's so good. |
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| Из грязи некуда |
[Sep. 7th, 2004|05:25 am] |
В грязи
аль в луже
Да иногда и хуже.
Так пафосно, по детски
Ожидая.
Карабкаясь
во мраке
как рак
на трех ногах...
Так жалостно скрипя и скрежетая
Так скромно, малодушно,
Постепенно
умирая.
Великое
Разочарованье
она.
Моя прежде незнатная,
Новоявленная...убогая,
хромая
Тошнота. |
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| Your Kisses are like Canada |
[Aug. 26th, 2004|06:43 pm] |
My name is...
I come to love you like an orphan
Do not unmake the bridal bed
We will cavort atop the pink, synthetic carpet
Or on the cold "Italian" tile, instead.
Do not squeeze me fresh-squeezed juice
Or call me trendy, pet names
You do not love me truly.
I do not play these games.
I do not love you still.
The flowers that I bring
are as convenient
as they are cheap.
Your kisses...
are like Canada.
And neither of us minds.
You can close your
Maidenly eyes
While I f*ck you
Realize
How you don't matter.
The cliched pitter patter
of feet, which you foresee
In motherly stupidity
Will be that
of cats...
I guarantee.
You are a recluse
of the snows and ices
browned by dull
industrial exhaust...
Mediocrity gained...
paradise lost.
Your kisses...
are like Canada.
[dedicated to all the women I never loved] |
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| que estranha forma de vida.... |
[Aug. 19th, 2004|01:36 am] |
| [ | music |
| | Mariza - Ha' Palavras que Nos Beijam | ] |
Today I was dressed in black, because I am always dressed in black lately. Those who know me will attest. I simply like it....I like black and gray. So I am in black walking out of the building where Srta. SomethingOrOther, they are from Peru I believe, Peruvian intellectuals of the Old World sort, beautiful people although of some age, is with her husband sitting in the car. I know it is their car. I walk by without looking in their direction, since staring inside a parked car and waving hello is a bit too cheery in my book....and I hear as I walk by
"..ay pobrecito! se murio su papa!..."
I burst out laughing without turning back. I wonder what they thought....not only is it odd of them to think that I cannot understand them, but I am viewed as some sort of poor, lorn soul clothed in black mourning garb, tragically making my way down the street with a serious air [my air is always serious...it's just how I be]. I laughed at this image for hours...what I must have looked like...what poor little Senorita Whatsit must have thought of me, how tragic I am, the things going through my head. I must see caskets and corpses all the live long day....ah. Then I wondered...why I am laughing at this, only to laugh harder.
Then on Prince and Broadway, among the tumult of haggling street vendors and sweaty humans garbed in the usual SoHo trash attire, trendy and spiffy as can be....I almost vomited when who do I see but Pedro Tsividis, that pretentious fuck from high school whom I despise to this day. He looked so trendy, my heart filled with joy, and I walked past him, clothed in black with my briefcase, staring at him with a smirk, not answering his hello. I LIVE for that......What is wrong with me. Then there was a drug bust in the distance and everyone came a running and a scattering when the po pos descended upon Prince street..the street vendors left their tables behind and took off..it was a perfect ending to a perfect day. Fuck everyone and everything. Life is good. |
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| Not apples |
[Aug. 17th, 2004|07:57 pm] |
Not apples
**********
But pears
Are me
and you.
Inside the persian rugged interiors
of Park
Avenue.
Afore brass reverie
You are the bad champagne
Of concertgoing brethren...
...the Brandy swishing swine...
And we are pairs
Of contradicting notions.
Pears
of the proletarian sort.
Crisp skinned and bitter-sweet
Like poison.
- Pour La Mlle. Tzorbadzidis |
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| Not apples |
[Aug. 17th, 2004|07:54 pm] |
Not apples
**********
But pears
Are me
and you.
Inside the persian rugged interiors
of Park
Avenue.
Afore brass reverie
You are the bad champagne
Of concertgoing brethren...
...the Brandy swishing swine...
And we are pairs
Of contradicting notions.
Pears
of the proletarian sort.
Crisp skinned and bitter-sweet
Like poison.
- Pour La Mlle. Tzorbadzidis |
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| Arrival |
[Aug. 16th, 2004|02:38 am] |
| [ | music |
| | Leszek Mozdzer - Chopin, Mazurek op.68 nr3 | ] |
She has returned. And the skies are brown, once more. Death is lurking, the underworld summons. The banshees beat drums for they are tired of screaming. They need a smoke and drink.
Today I dreamt, my dearly departed great aunt, a simple woman, was reciting Shakespeare in Ukrainian...and we were all weeping at the beauty of her words.
In honor of the Arrival.
594
****
Everywhere
and Evermore
Do the figures haunt
Eternal
Five-hundred Ninety
And Four.
Fivehundred and ninety
Plus Three
And plus one
The Sabbatical Feast
Thus begun.
I see it plastered
On the hotel door
On my key
- Waldorf 594 -
In the Post obituary.
Five-Hundred Deaths
Caskets Ninety Four.
Ninety Four Ford Taurus
Four Door
Sedan, Coupe. Sporty gas-electric hybrid
Nevermore,
Quoth the Whore
As a thousand times before
As in the apocrypha of ancient Lore
Along the Nile were standing huts
Of straw and crude gray mortar...
Adornèd with the blood of rams
Was each half-opened arc-shaped door,
Emblazoned, godlike - Apocalyptic:
Five Hundred Ninety And Four. |
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