:: Porkchop Serum ::

:: Saturday, January 24, 2004 ::

I think I saw a dead man on the way back to my apartment. Strapped tightly into his seatbelt, a middle aged man wearing a parka and wool hat sat still in the front seat of his Volvo station wagon. His head tilted back and mouth agape, much like someone in deep sleep, but in this 20 degree weather, as I walked by I wondered if this fellow hand drempt his last. I slipped past silently, shocked by the silent man in the car, imagining his body heat diffusing into the vinyl seats and rubber tires. Perhaps I would turn back and tap on the glass to make sure. Maybe even open the door somehow and search his neck for a once strong pulse. The darkened mass of Potomac River house rose up before me while I fantasized about a matter-of-fact 911 call I would place that would raise the nearby rescue squad who would dash down Joyce, hours late to save the poor man.

:: sandy 4:12 AM [+] ::
...

Some hooded words tremble on the cusp of this gargantuan volume of festering jabs, teetering backwards into a gleeful freefall.

"I believe this time no opportune sinewy twigs will happen into my fist."

Crashing upon dulled senses, happiness spills over the craggy horizons, my bruised and calloused form explodes free from a cold and tortured rigor of repetition. Sweet breeze and sky sing like pressurized gnomes, filling a creased and folded coronary globe at the final moments of a dreary existance.

Pink sheen of viscera and smokey wisps of bone haunt the hydrosmoothed bolders underneath but my soul remains aloft in that nameless void, forever weeping and playing in grassy fields with gleaming loves long faded.

:: sandy 6:36 PM [+] ::
...

Swipe. Stab. Rake. Why doth my forehead itch? Or is it burning. No, the iron skillet is cold and tucked away under the sink where it should be DAMMIT! Devilish omelette making whores swing like Mark McGuizzzzy. I know. The gnome blood is irritating they say! I can't sleep sometimes without a tune or buzzing to help carry me off to dreamyland. I tried many devices and gadgets without any real positive results. Then in it hit me one day. Gnome are always singing or chanting or some shit while they root through my garden or climb the trees or fucking the squirrels. One morning, net in hand, I gathered up 15 or 20 of the happiest gnomes I could fing and hung them perhaps two or three feet above my head (when I'm reclined in my bed, that is). Ahh. I'll tell ya, there is nothing like trapped, starving singing gnomes. A quick and sharp THWAK from an extendable police baton and they sing for hours! Works been rough recently, trouble sleeping. Perhaps I've been a bit too extrajudicious with the Asp. For now, not only can't I sleep, my head itches from the gnome juice. "You hear that, you little shitballs!!???!"


THWAK!!!!!

:: sandy 11:26 PM [+] ::
...

Evidence of a wicked cold journey through D.C. in search of the Real World House. Wasn't able to locate the house as the "Belmont Street" tip proved to be fruitless and/or the house was very well hidden. Oh, and shooting photos at night, with a long exposure time.. yeah, that takes a fairly steady hand. The pics are commentless as yet, with the exception of my brief discriptors. Feel free to add some, Matt.


Matt at the station, waiting for death

Don't Jump.... the trains not here yet!

"Hi little girl, my name is Mattttttt"

Embassy of Croatia, statue

Minaret from Saudi Embassy? Awesome building

Alley, wealthy

The source of Matt's power

A different kind of Alley

We've entered a new part of the city...

Matt with odd, amputee trees

A brief respite

Likewise

Cool Sign

:: sandy 5:11 PM [+] ::
...