MY BLOG HAS BEEN MOVED.
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MY BLOG HAS BEEN MOVED.
FIND MY NEW MATERIAL AT GUYLAEN.COM/BLOG
A year ago when I got my wisdom teeth pulled, I used the notes application on my iPhone to communicate with the person who took me to and from the surgeon that pulled my teeth, because I had a mouth full of cotton and my words wouldn’t have made sense anyways. I recently discovered my forgotten communiques, and I offer them up to the internets for your enjoyment. Keep in mind that this is only one side of the conversation.
The problem is that I can’t even feel my tongue
Any paperwork issues?
Thanks for this
That was about an hour yeah?
Cool. I’ve already seen the good the bad the ugly, but thanks.
So, I don’t know about this whole x house thing. That was just the first couch I could think of.
That’s enough time to launch an invasion into Russia.
My mouth is so dry.
Make sure it’s okay with the guys, cause I didn’t really ask.
We, the people.
We, the bastard childs of corporate monopoly and astride an invasive greed – which has invaded every level of our political infrastructure.
And yet our minds are still awake.
Our souls remember the struggles of our ancestors, and their fight for a nation without oppression of any form.
We, as a people – if we ever hope to maintain our domestic tranquility (in where it does exist) – need to resist the overpowering temptation of money.
Thought of the week.
I have become charbroiled.
Like a steak having been marinating in an oven, I have been sitting for three hours in my own juices. Sweat, piss, and semen.
The birthday of the U.S. Army was today. A Sunday.
Other soldiers in other units might have been taking a ceremonious night out on the town to celebrate.
I was sitting in the back of a Bradley armored personnel carrier, pissing into an empty Gatorade bottle, and jacking off into a baby wipe.
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Plead the Fifth.”
WordPress.com has asked me to add my thoughts to an ever-growing, ever-expanding cauldron of oozing discontent and hatred. The witch’s brew has boiled over. I am inclined to share my thoughts, in my most cynical manner. The question set before me is this: What question do you hate being asked?
It is a simple question. And an honest one. It carries with it all the years of hard-hitting truths that have been heaved upon the human collective consciousness over the past three centuries like bricks upon the sandbags of our identities. Insecurities abound.
Yet the manner in which I approach my sectors of thought is not easy. The road to understanding is fraught with peril and woe. Distant memories… of a life long past, haunt my aching bones. Or, at least, I hope it’s long behind me. For I have yet to live through half the memories that I dare dream.
A decent enough segue.
I am horrified by the thought of having to prove myself to a world that does not understand me. For once in my life, I’d like to do the things I do for the desire that I have in my heart. Not for the cameras that constantly monitor me from the atmos. Not for the approvals of my father or mother or siblings. Not for the pissing contest of life, or to prove that my dick is indeed the longest in existence.
My penis is just fine the way that it is.
I am content with myself being a strange, manically obsessive indecisive and straight-forward person with absolutely nothing to prove to anyone. Perhaps it is due to my insanity that I do not need the praise, the spotlight, the popularity.
Human beings are like giant balls of ego. Their pride is a sickness that will drive them all into the ground. Not me. I was proud once. Until I met this girl. She pointed some things out to me. She broke my shell. I changed.
When I walk into a cafe to order a drink and I’m still dressed in my ACU’s, please don’t thank me for my fucking service. Please don’t ask me where I’ve been. Please don’t ask me what I’ve done. My answer to you is the same as when I answer everyone else: I don’t want to talk about it. It’s not you, I promise. It’s me.
It’s me, because I have become jaded and cynical. I have begun to think that everyone I meet is a threat to me or my way of life. Everyone dies eventually.
I eat popcorn and watch movies. I eat pizza and attempt to get a few more chapters of my novel done. I call up my contacts in Whitehall and ask them to fill me in. They tell me to fuck off. This is my life.
I can’t imagine where it was that I flipped the rails. Where it was that my train came to a screeching halt and why I’m no longer working from a computer at my university, but from a computer… that I’ve never seen before.
So… Don’t ask me anything when you see me.
I’ve got nothing to show for it, anyways. I’m a failure. A miserable failure who masquerades himself as a death-dealer. In fact, I’m not even sure what I’m good at right now. So, the three words that you should always avoid when it comes to polite conversation with me.
“Have you ever…?”
Because my answer will always be the same.
“No. Fuck off.”
When you’re sitting at home alone dressed in nothing but your tee shirt and socks, gorging yourself out on the decadence of chocolate chip ice cream from the tub – I hope that whatever it is you are mindlessly doing on your laptop is worth the feelings of silent guilt and shame that you feel when you finally step on the bathroom scale. As for those of you who read poetry to entertain your cyclical nature as insatiable mammals – God help you, you miserable fucksticks.
I have more poem for your appetites. Savor these words. Swish them around in the front of your mouth like a 5 ounce glass of chilled whole milk on a warm day. Suck on them, devour them like they are guts – and you are a zombie from the popular television show THE WALKING DEAD. I know you can’t get enough.
I shouldn’t be encouraging this. Poetry is a gateway drug into the vast abysmal nature that is literature. But I do it so well. You might as well call me the fucking kingpin. So, without any more fuss – take this baggie. Read this poem so that you might crawl shamelessly onto the next high. But just know that you’ll get no sympathy from me at all.
Blithering, bumbling buffoons of the night –
HEAR MY CALL!
who so gallantly strode
upon the white stallions
We, as the collective entity that is the millennial generation of America, decided not to turn out to vote in this midterm election. This saddens me. This grave error in our generation judgment of the future has led to the demise of our education until the year 2020 at least. This is not to make you feel culpable or implicit in anyway as to this feature. But, it is your duty, your civic duty as an American citizen to turn out to vote. And you did not.
OK, guys. I’m going to try something new here: a poem.
Yes, I have written a fairly decent amount of poetry in my life. Freeverse poems, haikus, superficial laments in Iambic Pentameter, and the 1st person metaphorical musings of a rather confused giraffe at the sudden and unexplainable elongation of his neck.
But I have never put any of them on my blog. It is, as they say… well whatever it is they say about my blog.
I am experimenting with the idea of not giving a shit. That is to say that I am experimenting with the idea of not giving a shit about the rules. That is to say that I am experimenting with the idea of not giving a shit about the rules of poetry. That is to say that I am experimenting with the idea of not giving a shit about the rules of poetry as defined by poets and scholars.
If my poetry somehow miraculously agrees to agree with the traditional traditions of stout old grey men sitting around a house in County Galway or Waterford in the early 1900’s – that is to include one of my relatives by the name of one Frank O’Connor – then so be it. Fabulous.
But, if it, in its cynical and tempestuous attitude, decides to flip the tables over on the rules and smash them with a large mahogany baseball bat – so be it. I have no control over what my poems decide. I can attempt to urge them to the gauche or the droite, but in the end, they can do what they damn well please. I’ve got better things to worry about. Things like the ever-increasing chances of humanity’s self-destruction.
So if you are one of those Grammar-Golden-Dawns (the modern version of a Grammar-Nazi) then politely, kindly, and with all of the care as to not step on the grass on your way: fuck off.
With all of this on the table, I dare say that I should give you the poem. So, without further rhetoric, I present to you a completely horrible and utterly useless poem:
I wonder what happened to the cowboys?
Where did they all go?
I wonder what happened to the cowboys?
Did they go off to that range in the sky?
I wonder what happened to the cowboys?
I sure could have used them today.
In recent months, my imagination has been fogged over by dragons. In fact, ever since I saw THE HOBBIT: DESOLATION OF SMAUG, I have been thinking about dragons. I thoroughly enjoyed Smaug’s monologue under the Lonely Mountain.
Mr. Cumberbatch’s personification of the mythical winged beast was nothing short of spectacular. Although there were a few elements of the last two Hobbit films that did not align with the book, if Stephen Colbert is okay with it – so am I.
This movie got me thinking about everything that I know about dragons. I know that the origination of the dragon tale evolved in seperate areas of the earth independently of each other.
But my various sources of dragon knowledge sometimes give me conflicting information. For example; Skyrim and the Hobbit both say that dragons are intelligent creatures that can speak, but Game of Thrones and Harry Potter both tell me that they can’t.
Perhaps these are simply different species of dragon?
WHY DO WE BUILD SKYSCRAPERS?
It seems that everywhere I look in this world – people are building up.
Higher. Higher. Higher.
Constantly building onward and upward.
They are reaching up and clawing at the sky with fingernails like talons. As if there is something at the end of their journey – a Babylonian prophecy guiding their every move.
I won’t lie, I’m much more attracted to city life after growing up in a rural island county. I think it might be the fact that my hometown is so far away from everything and anything of value or importance to me – except for absolute silence.
Every city has its own unique character – a soul, a spirit – that is unique to that city alone. This phenomenon is explained extremely well in the comic book series The Spirit.
The Spirit of any particular city is not readily definable with words. It is the feeling that you get in your bones when you first see a city from the airplane window. It is the feeling when you are on a twilight parajump and you see a city basked in the glorious wonder of the setting sun. That is the Spirit of a city. That is the soul of a place.
We live in a capitalist nation.
That should come as no surprise to anyone.
Capitalism exists communally with individualism. The individual will succeed if he works hard and saves his money. The individual will fit in if he buys the right things when he’s told to.
The war for our minds as consumers has long been lost to our corporate overlords. There is no use in fighting it. The influence of consumerism is felt around the world – it is no more prevalent in Belltown, Seattle than it is in Bakara Market, Mogadishu. On both sides of the North-South divide, capitalism reigns king.
I have nothing wrong with that, either. A single and international economic platform makes it much easier for a nation to win wars without firing a single bullet. If a nation controls the wax and wane of the world’s economic tides, it controls the outcome of any situation. Although, I dare say, a solitary individual with a calculator, a laptop, and a lot of spare time can be just as easily poised to be king of the world – if only for a moment.
Consumerism makes people to want for and to long for material possessions.
Capitalism justifies this behavior as rational, and explains a concept called the “American Dream.”
But advertisements, marketing campaigns, and public service announcements do not create a need from nothing. They tap into the unconscious psyche of a human being – the core of a man’s identity.
Freud had this cousin – his name was Edward Bernays.
That’s another story.
It’s my personal understanding that human beings have underlying needs and desires. But I – and the entire scientific community – think Freud may have have been quite askew on a few tidbits.
I think that a majority of what drives certain people to madness and certain people to success might possibly have to do with whether of not a person is
I think that the Elder Scrolls series might just actually be on to a major scientific breakthrough.
If only they were a legitimate science lab instead of a video game.
Let me extrapolate: in the video game Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, a medieval kingdom on another planet much like Earth is faced with a terrible and treacherous enemy: a dragon that will bring fire and destruction. It is prophesied that a warrior endowed with dragon’s blood will defeat this dragon and send him into a stasis field via an Elder Scroll.
Didn’t catch that? That’s okay, what you need to know is that the hero is called the “Dragonborn,” and it is believed that the hero carries the blood of a dragon.
So, there I am
sitting on some random-ass couch watching the every exhalation of breath, tweak of jaw, and clamp of claw that is made by this amazing and ferocious creature on screen before me.
His hunger. His greed. His vanity. His illusion of power.
These things could possibly be metaphors of humanity. But they could also mean something so much more…
So, what do I really know about dragons?
AND IT HITS ME…
What do I know about people who build skyscrapers to live and/or work in?
Not all rich people are assholes. And certainly not all people endowed with the desire to dominate everything the eye can see – which is a lot more from a penthouse than behind the dumpster in the alley – are rich. I am quite fairly certain that I have had the want, the desire to live in a penthouse apartment and own half of Seattle. It’s only human to want that, right? Or is it something more?
Perhaps this world is truly becoming overrun by people with dragon’s blood – and they’re not all using their powers for good. There are a lot of evil people in the world. They seem to have been coming out of the woodwork recently. Joseph Kony, FOX NEWS, the Koch Brothers, and Donald Trump.
These rich bastards are out for blood – and, if my hypothesis is correct – they will not rest until the world is in ashes, at least the parts that don’t already belong to them.
Damnit, maybe those truthers are on to something after all…
It goes without saying that my readers probably know that I get around. Unfortunately, I get around in some very unsavory places. I do a good job of covering up my tracks – but sometimes I just can’t avoid making enemies. This is a list of all the people who probably want me dead or at least financially insolvent by now – because there’s just no pleasing some people.
*Al Shabaab: This Somali terrorist organization – closely related to Al Quaeda – wants me dead. I am Catholic, white, American, and I’m in the military. I am an advocate for tolerance and peace. I believe that everyone on this earth is a brother – it doesn’t matter what country you’re from or what religion you believe in. This does not jive with Shabaab.
*Anonymous – I’ve talked bad about them before. Even though I know the awesomeness of their capabilities, I can not condone so much power and ability at the whim of a nation without a mission statement.
*Lulz Sec – They’re like the wannabe badasses of Anonymous.
*Lord’s Resistance Army – They’re angry at me for kind-of killing (ish) one of their drug-lord business partners and for saying that Christianity does not involve chopping off people’s breasts to remove their ability to breast-feed their children or FGMC.
I’m pretty sure that there are more, but that’s enough for now.