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Caving in to exodus. [Jun. 25th, 2007|02:42 pm]
Rodney Bathe
[Skullfuck |Gitane DeMone- Lover]

Nothing we mean will ever exist beyond the interval between the intent and the blind reaction of vain interest, whether hostile or friendly, we ignite in our spectators. There lies the variable, to see it roam, and commit to memory our subsistent intercourse with each other in war-like nature. It's all passive aggressive. Fucking with my or anyone else's exigencies, averting rumination and confrontation at all costs, I did me in a long time ago. And you still have your followup on death to complete. Managing to maintain a facade of spiritual wealth and calling it a crime. The ultimate crime. To have to commit oneself to his own existence, or nonexistence at that, and claim to brave his nights by the fronts he doesn't even flash, the distractions he doesn't even notice - the hope he claims to hate - namely, rely on to destroy the concept of reliability in general - feeds a serpent to a rodent and claims any distraction, like death, or even life, the victor by default - in that they haven't taken you. Rendering your own plot useless. Here are your lies, ready for consumtion. All of you who exist in the psychiatric soul. Convert your pliancy into deception or trickery, and you will find religion. Nobody achieves manhood in vacuo. Nobody achieves honesty in bravery. Just like nobody achieves God without treachery. The knife to their own back. Make it a machete. As many souls as there are to butcher to get where you want to be without fear of the past or future, there are as many tombs being excavated. And that's the difference you may never be able to discern. Between razing and excavating. Bitter motivations left me lacking and laconic. Anything more explainable leaves me avoiding consistency. Ulterior motives. We swim in them. Bask in them. If something grander could take their place and paint me as restive and you as perverse, I wouldn't deny it. I just wouldn't notice it. What's done is done, and there is so much to be stretched into a lapse of understanding. What is born as a lifetime could be as in 30 seconds condensed- a junction [not journey] of light [metaphored as irony] from one cosmos to another, say, danced out by a drunken hambone with whiskey dripping off his beard in a public theatre for faces and names to look at in basic eyes. It touches the crown of human indictment. Lays a well-soiled finger on it. Would you even dare to relinquish that crown, were it to place you in the exposure of security? Give a leg for identity? Sport a shiner for a purpose? No more questions asked, though. My mind doesn't like theatrics, and if yours doesn't either, you best not have place too long. No point in preservation of any conviction if it needs to be sought and not fought. It all coincides, anyways.
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(no subject) [Jun. 14th, 2007|05:29 pm]
Rodney Bathe
[Skullfuck |Cinema Strange- Mathilde in the Dirt]

I forgot about this site. It's for people who are desperate to appear knowledgable about what they namedrop. A cool site, nonetheless.
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(no subject) [Jun. 12th, 2007|08:26 pm]
Rodney Bathe
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this. [May. 31st, 2007|12:43 pm]
Rodney Bathe

'your voice, my voice, restore.
it is finished in pollen. in beauty.'
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(wayne has) made the point that not reading a book is as good as burning it. [May. 28th, 2007|06:14 pm]
Rodney Bathe
[Gutfuck |death by c section]
[Skullfuck |Hayden]

Waste deep in shit. But I like this.
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(no subject) [May. 21st, 2007|06:38 pm]
Rodney Bathe
Rodney Bathe: stand alone in the world
Rodney Bathe: spread her arms against the night
Rodney Bathe: lose her faith in her heart
Rodney Bathe: and in her mind
RoseClouds88: omg
RoseClouds88: OMG
Rodney Bathe: cried out loud against the storm
RoseClouds88: THAT'S MY SONG
RoseClouds88: at the end
RoseClouds88: of the world
Rodney Bathe: her eyes looked like she was still born
RoseClouds88: i wish she would find her love
Rodney Bathe: flashes divide her heaven like her frozen heart
RoseClouds88: and with him she shall go back to paradise
Rodney Bathe: thousand years and thousand nights
RoseClouds88: she couldnt believe in the light
Rodney Bathe: but her frozen heart starts beating again
RoseClouds88: but now her frozen heart starts beating
RoseClouds88: AGAIN
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(no subject) [May. 13th, 2007|01:17 pm]
Rodney Bathe
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herrlichkeit gegen die illusion davon [May. 11th, 2007|04:28 pm]
Rodney Bathe
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(no subject) [May. 10th, 2007|05:42 pm]
Rodney Bathe
[Skullfuck |Gravel Pit]

"I am a Green Beret, not a candy striper, or a wannabe, or some fake drunk at a bar claiming all his missions were classified and he has to kill you if he talks about it.  I've come close to killing bin Laden twice, and found him five times, and that makes me better at this than the FBI, and a lot of other people.  This is why the FBI hates me, and my guys, because they are the Federal Bureau of Investigation and we are a storm of interdiction."

"When the terrorists capture us they cut off our heads on television.  When we capture them they complain that we don't let them piss for twelve hours.  Well, sorry about that motherfucker, you were about to drive explosive rigged gas tankers into Bagram and kill 500 American soldiers in a ball of flames.  You should be glad I didn't defenestrate you.  I believe that real Americans want real counter-terrorist operations, not bullshit press junkets and canned PR stories from PAOs that shot a gun once in their life on the basic training qualification range.  I didn't start this fucking war, not the one with bin laden, nor the one with the press, they started it, but I will finish it, or die in the process."
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Fornicate. [May. 8th, 2007|05:34 pm]
Rodney Bathe
[Gutfuck |scattered]
[Skullfuck |Ain Soph]

has your father told you of your divine plan yet? the antidote my father raped me with the day my innocence syringed his heart. don't call out mother.
don't break oceans.
don't heave.
calculate ineptitude beyond or below precision
father 9 babies
give birth to 1
believe blackly in magic.
hold thereof.
don't believe in grace.
don't believe in solitude.
don't believe in subtlety.
arch forearm under cast
say not how come
live and die simultaneously
but don't wake
no movement
no protest
don't crawl.
break hearts
lots of hearts.
eat rampantly
despise nothing.
kill yourself.
don't space.
bad guyz
think thoughts
ONLY thoughts
do not suspend
desire = sufferage
the woeful pray.
don't float.

but most importantly....


You fucking jackass.

Like sitting, amped, in the center of your decaying floor in your Hollywood studio apartment, deliriously batting out words in white to communicate anything promising to the blatant negation of your sordid goodwill. REAL JOBS DON'T MAKE REAL MEN, DO THEY? Keep to yourself and continue blowing a stubborn skull through your brain. Your relentless hacking skills and tributes to deities that don't exist make you braver than the blurry mass of names and faces you pretend not to indulge yourself in. Drugs, mechanics, paranoia, want, watching, throw it all. Supreme waste.

'winging it', she said.

To speak in extemporaneously cutting eloquence to a couch full of entirely numbed fools doused in righteousness is to preach the pseudo-theoretical chemistry of a root that refuses to flesh out its corpus appropriately, in understanding with the potential larger corpus that it may be precluded from an existence more pseudological than that of a painter who gives red wings to the canvas so as to become free of all cannibalistic materialism his family spit at him throughout his luxurious childhood. As to the base is the base is the base- uniformed analogies, unequivocal theorems, and from someone along the same level of 'moral standards' as the painter...severed heads. I shit out a gallon of peurile intent to my audience and am flustered with the outcome. Honesty. Decency. Apology. You know that drug that makes you blink when you see something you can't believe- fear? It's gone. Thusly. My mind has numbed my body so that I can no longer convey physical reaction to cognitive acceptance upon physical perception. It so situates itself when I try and think of reasons to let go. Of it all. Of myself. Irrevocably.

I am resting involuntarily and repeating stories of said [hinted] steel butterflies with painted wings and infrared vision [della, you know] soaring stiffly through the air at sunset. A symbolic solution to one little girl's holy mess of numbers and the intricacy that follows in dotted trails. Aerial creatures often used in parables because they for some senseless reason symbolize the macrocosm of freedom. Human beings, of war. This is all we know, war. War with ourselves, with each other, of each other and by each other. Nothing will ever be unlearnt of this concept. I was generously deeded time and study by my parents, teachers, and all other preachers. Enough to scalpel a huge hole in my heart to let all the substance quick itself through. How came I of this spiritless construct I am not sure.

Nights are slow. Nothing worth living for. And with that freedom, I'm living my life rightfully. I should probably give in to the doctor's orders. Drinking more than I should [drinking at all], sneaking in a smoke every now and then. Can't help it. The air is too dry, the ocean too silver, and the balcony too old and creaking. I need to get out of California and into the heart of something richer, something pure. This year will be a mark for change. Real change. I have a lot, but I don't need any of it. Charging into the jaws of the world might explode that sentiment to pieces, later to be found, reconstituted, and digested feasibly. I fucking penetrate myself with this one, hah. You know, not being able to fall asleep without some dissonant, cacophonic noise abrading my brain and polluting my dreams. I can't fall asleep WITH anything now. That makes me normal, just like you, right?

Sigh. Is it wrong or even silly that my greatest passion is something I've not yet experienced? My projects are those of regression, not abrasion. Something most people might not know. To keep hooded fists clenched is just as demonizing as all other forms of sermon, less of a reticent rhapsody to a dried out world with a diminishing coexistence of true progressionists and anarchists. I have no respect for people who fascinate me anymore. There are the natural, without qualification. Then the judged. The glorified. Both seem to depart with sunken faces. Those I do have, though, I really do have. And I have them but solely, which makes me less inclined to script every day. They keep me upstanding. They know. You could say a real friend makes to temper your desire, not replace it. Or you could say the exact opposite. They know. We know. Like I said, it's times like these that show you who really care about you, who just want something of you. I think of her and I think of the prototype of a good friend. A true human being, in my essence of the word. Then I think of how seldom we talk anymore, and it states itself once again. I stand as the wellspring of testimony that does not deserve to be spoken or heard of. I rest my case as solidly as if it were my own. I keep to myself more often than I used to because it pains me to see others react more carefully than they should. I remember something my former best friend Joe said to me once. "I'm not a criminal, just the camera." Took me four years to finally understand his enthusiasm. We don't speak anymore, casually enough.

my name is Myth, and i have been cheated.

Racking motivation. I.e. some asshole breaks your heart, you call him back. Letting the dither of loss drive you is wrong. The scum of all conviction. I didn't find this out the hard way. I am continuing to find it out, and hard doesn't even begin to summate it. I love who I continue to become, though. So much as I am even breathing. I remember sometime within the last six months, Thinking "I know what love is, now. Love of self. Love of sight." I wouldn't dare rationalize it into a 'step into maturity', and 'leap into womanhood', or anything of such pharmaceutical withdrawal of honest words. Instead, my mouth would shut and my soul would open, emotions emanating in pure, in full, and in tune, perhaps more cursively expect than I'd them too. Prosperity comes in all different measures, I suppose. It's not easy being born with a trismus, but I fail to communicate myself gracefully enough, don't you think? To the clergy. No, my words never relate meaning to your nitpicked brains, but rather throw glaring light at your weary eyes, and further perpetuate our hollow acquaintance. My pleasure. Entirely. As many men, so as many opinions, eh?

In the theatre of this world, it is never about deliverance. Absum.
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(no subject) [Apr. 28th, 2007|06:44 pm]
Rodney Bathe
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wsb 1961 [Apr. 27th, 2007|02:27 pm]
Rodney Bathe
[Gutfuck |intestines, bowels, <3beat]
[Skullfuck |??]

: What is your department?
B: Kunst unt Wissenschaft

C: What say you about political conflicts?

B: Political conflicts are merely surfaced manifestations. If conflicts arise you may certain powers intend to keep this conflict under operation since they hope to profit from the situation. To concern yourself with surface political conflicts is to make the mistake of the bull in the ring, you are charging the cloth. That is what politics is for, to teach you the cloth. Just as the bullfighter teaches the bull, teaches him to follow, obey the cloth.

C: Who manipulates the cloth?

B: Death

G: What is death?

B: A gimmick. It's the time birth death gimmick. Can't go on much longer, too many people are wising up.

C: Do you feel there has been a definite change in man's makeup? A new consciousness?

B: Yes, I can give you a precise answer to that. I feel that the change the mutation in consciousness will occur spontaneously once certain pressures now in operation are removed. I feel that the principal instrument of monopoly and control that prevents expansion of consciousness is the word lines controlling thought feeling and apparent sensory impressions of the human host.

G: And if removed, what step?

B: The forward step must be made in silence. we detach ourselves from word forms-this can be accomplished by substituting for words, letters, concepts, verbal concepts, other modes of expression; for example, color. We can translate word and letter into color (Rimbaud stated that in his color vowels, words quote "words" can be read in silent color.) In other words man must get away from verbal forms to attain the consciousness, that which is there to be perceived at hand.

C: How does one take that "forward step," can you say?

B: Well, this is my subject and is what I am concerned with. Forward steps are made by giving up old armor because words are built into you---in the soft typewriter of the womb you do not realize the word-armor you carry; for example, when you read this page your eyes move irresistibly from left to right following the words that you have been accustomed to. Now try breaking up part of the page like this:

Are there or just we can translate
many solutions for example color word color
in the soft typewriter into
political conflicts to attain consciousness
monopoly and control

C: Reading that it seems you end up where you began, with politics and it's nomenclature: conflict, attain, solution, monopoly, control--so what kind of help is that?

B: Precisely what I was saying---if you talk you always end up with politics, it gets nowhere, I mean man it's strictly from the soft typewriter.

C: What kind of advice you got for politicians?

B: Tell the truth once and for all and shut up forever.

C: What if people don't want to change, don't want no new consciousness?

B: For any species to change, if they are unable and are unwilling to do so--I might for example however have suggested to the dinosaurs that heavy armor and great size was a sinking ship, and that they do well to convert to mammal facilities---it would not lie in my power or desire to reconvert a reluctant dinosaur. I can make my feeling very clear, Gregory, I fell like I'm on a sinking ship and I want off.

C: Do you think Hemingway got off?

B: Probably not.

(Next day)
G: What about control?
B: Now all politicians assume a necessity of control, the more efficient the control the better. All political organizations tend to function like a machine, to eliminate the unpredictable factor of AFFECT---emotion. Any machine tends to absorb, eliminate, Affect. Yet the only person who can make a machine move is someone who has a motive, who has Affect. If all individuals were conditioned to machine efficiency in the performance of their duties they would have to be at least one person outside the machine to give the necessary orders; if the machine absorbed or eliminated all those outside the machine the machine will slow down and stop forever. Any unchecked impulse does, within the human body & psyche, lead to the destruction of the organism.

G: What kind of organization could technological society have without control?

B: The whole point is I feel the machine should be eliminated. Now that it has served its purpose of alerting us to the dangers of machine control. Elimination of all natural sciences----If anybody ought to go to the extermination chambers definitely scientists, yes I'm definitely antiscientist because I feel that science represents a conspiracy to impose as, the real and only universe, the Universe of scientists themselves----they're reality-addicts, they've got to have things so real so they can get their hands on it. We have a great elaborate machine which I feel has to be completely dismantled--- in order to do that we need people who understand how the machine works ---the mass media---paralleled opportunity.

G: Who do you think is responsible for the dope situation in America?

B: Old Army game, "I act under orders ." As Captain Ahab said, "You are not other men but my arms and legs---" Mr. Anslinger has a lot of arms and legs, or whoever is controlling him, same thing as the Wichman case, he's the front man, the man who has got to take the rap, poor bastard, I got sympathy for him.

C: Could you or do you think it wise to say who it will be or just what force it will be that will destroy the world?

B: You want to create a panic? That's top secret----want to swamp the lifeboats?

C: O.K. How did them there lifeboats get there in the first place?

B: Take for instance some Indians in South America I seen. There comes along this sloppy cop with his shirt buttons all in the wrong hole, well then, Parkinson's law goes into operation---there's need not for one cop but seven or eight, need for sanitation inspectors, rent collectors, etc.; so after a period of years problems arise, crime, dope taking and traffic, juvenile delinquency---So the question is asked, "What should we do about these problems?" The answer as Gertrude Stein on her deathbed said comes before the question--- in short before the bastards got there in the first place! that's all---

G: What do you think Cuba and the FLN think about poets? And what do you think their marijuana policy is?

B: All political movements are basically anti-creative----since a political movement is a form of war. "There's no place for impractical dreamers around here" that's what they always say. "Your writing activities will be directed, kindly stop horsing around." "As for the smoking of marijuana, it is the exploitation for the workers." Both favor alcohol and are against pot.

C: I feel capitol punishment is dooming U.S.A.

B: I'm against Capitol Punishment in all forms, and I have written many pamphlets on this subject in the manner of Swift's modest proposal pamphlet incorporated into Naked Lunch; these pamphlets have marked Naked Lunch as an obscene book, most all methods of Capitol Punishment are designed to inflict the maximum of humiliation---note attempts to prevent suicide.

G: What advice do you have for American youth who are drawn to political action out of sympathy for the American revolution---

B: "I wouldn't be in your position"---old saw. If there is any political move that I would advocate it would be an alliance between America and Red China, if they'd have us.

C: What about the Arab peoples---how are they faring?

B: They're stuck back thousands of years and they think they're going to get out with a TV set.

C: What about the Negros, will they make it---not only the ones in the South, but everywhere?

B: Biologically speaking the Afro-asiatic block is in the ascendancy---always remember that both Negro and White are minority groups---the largest race is the mongoloid group. In the event of atomic war there is a tremendous biological advantage in the so-called underdeveloped areas that have high birth rates and high death rate because, man, they can plow under those mutations. The country with a low birth rate and low death rate will be hardest hit---and so the poor may indeed inherit the earth, because they're healthier.

G: What do you think of White Supremacy?

B: The essence of white supremacy is this: they are people who want to keep things as they are. That their children's children's children might be a different color is something very alarming to them---in short they are committed to the maintenance of static image. The attempt to maintain a static image, even if it's a good image, just won't work.

C: Do you think Americans want and could fight the next war with the same fire and fervency as they did in World War 2?

B: Undoubtedly, yes---because they remember what a soft time they had in the last one---they sat on their ass.
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(no subject) [Apr. 25th, 2007|01:33 pm]
Rodney Bathe
[Current Location |library]
[Skullfuck |Deework- Losemyfire]


Everything is incredible about this- from the picture to his signature to the '$5200 of info".
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So incredible. [Apr. 14th, 2007|07:04 pm]
Rodney Bathe
"It's a completely different scenario. (Rappers) are not talking about no collegiate basketball girls who have made it to the next level in education and sports. We're talking about hoes that's in the 'hood that ain't doing shit, that's trying to get a nigga for his money. These are two separate things. First of all, we ain't no old-ass white men that sit up on MSNBC going hard on black girls. We are rappers that have these songs coming from our minds and our souls that are relevant to what we feel. I will not let them muthafuckas say we are in the same league as him. Kick him off the air forever."

- Snoop Dogg dismissing comparisons between sexist hip hop lyrics and the recent sexist/racially charged remarks made by Don Imus
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(no subject) [Apr. 1st, 2007|10:44 pm]
Rodney Bathe

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THE POSITION HAS BEEN FUCKED. [Mar. 30th, 2007|03:58 pm]
Rodney Bathe
thank you. collapse.
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(no subject) [Mar. 29th, 2007|03:56 pm]
Rodney Bathe
[Skullfuck |Cinema Strange- Time]

Read this 6 page long but worth it article.

Fucking incredible.

This has happened to almost every single person in my immediate family..including myself! All credited back, and luckily mine wasn't that much, but the statistics are enough to make you keep all your cash in a jar at home, eh? 350,000 burglaries v. 400,000 residential fires v. 78,892,031 ID thefts per year, etc.

Never did likes banks anyways. Wells Fargo will tend to do that to you.
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America's batter. [Mar. 27th, 2007|07:42 pm]
Rodney Bathe
[Skullfuck |Herbst9- Dhyan Chohane]

What can be more palpably absurd than the prospect held out of locomotives traveling twice as fast as stagecoaches?
- The Quarterly Review, England (March 1825)

The abolishment of pain in surgery is a chimera. It is absurd to go on seeking it. . . . Knife and pain are two words in surgery that must forever be associated in the consciousness of the patient.
- Dr. Alfred Velpeau (1839) French surgeon

Men might as well project a voyage to the Moon as attempt to employ steam navigation against the stormy North Atlantic Ocean.
- Dr. Dionysus Lardner (1838) Professor of Natural Philosophy and Astronomy, University College, London

The foolish idea of shooting at the moon is an example of the absurd length to which vicious specialization will carry scientists working in thought-tight compartments.
- A.W. Bickerton (1926) Professor of Physics and Chemistry, Canterbury College, New Zealand

[W]hen the Paris Exhibition closes electric light will close with it and no more be heard of.
- Erasmus Wilson (1878) Professor at Oxford University

Well informed people know it is impossible to transmit the voice over wires and that were it possible to do so, the thing would be of no practical value.
- Editorial in the Boston Post (1865)

That the automobile has practically reached the limit of its development is suggested by the fact that during the past year no improvements of a radical nature have been introduced.
- Scientific American, Jan. 2, 1909

Heavier-than-air flying machines are impossible.
- Lord Kelvin, ca. 1895, British mathematician and physicist

Radio has no future
- Lord Kelvin, ca. 1897.

While theoretically and technically television may be feasible, commercially and financially I consider it an impossibility, a development of which we need waste little time dreaming.
- Lee DeForest, 1926 (American radio pioneer)

There is not the slightest indication that [nuclear energy] will ever be obtainable. It would mean that the atom would have to be shattered at will.
- Albert Einstein, 1932.

Where a calculator on the ENIAC is equipped with 19,000 vacuum tubes and weighs 30 tons, computers in the future may have only 1,000 vacuum tubes and perhaps only weigh 1.5 tons.
- Popular Mechanics, March 1949.
(Try the laptop version!)

There is no need for any individual to have a computer in their home.
- Ken Olson, 1977, President, Digital Equipment Corp.

I think there is a world market for maybe five computers.
- Thomas Watson, chairman of IBM, 1943.

I have traveled the length and breadth of this country and talked with the best people, and I can assure you that data processing is a fad that won't lastout the year.
- The editor in charge of business books for Prentice Hall, 1957.

But what ... is it good for?
- Engineer at the Advanced Computing Systems Division of IBM, 1968, commenting on the microchip.
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(no subject) [Mar. 26th, 2007|11:02 am]
Rodney Bathe
Beer, bacon, and a cigarette at 6 am before work. I gross myself out sometimes.
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Rehearsal is blasphemous. [Mar. 22nd, 2007|07:20 pm]
Rodney Bathe
[Gutfuck |sedimentary]
[Skullfuck |epica, therion, chalice]

Beginners communicate their emotions disguised in human lexicon. The 'experienced' continue such perversion. Masters, such. The bestia bites the blood and releases all winds of the viscera, scold and mold, unwash, into nothing, out of captive denial. Fronts are for those who thrive on the ever detestible 'charm' of life. I try not to blink too much through my reports.

Life becomes more sensationally 'good' each passing moment, in all its lurid details. I think you know this when you wake up in the middle of the night sucking on your own cheeks and tongue, sucking on the thought of the taste of something new, some fresh new plasma to indulge in. Testimonies from the outside world are courteous, but no longer needed or asked for in my own. I have songs though , that I listen to childishly as if my day could not swing by any more senselessly without them. Always a melodic aura, at variance of effect. A soundtrack, if you will .

Nothing pleases me more than the silvery dullness of my life right now. No simplicity. Never. Illusively stoic, I guess, but more endearing than the cloying snow jobs of everyone else I seem to mindlessly continue to fraternize with. It's hard to explain .

I started working on 'scripts' again, knowing that nothing of mine will ever be published or accepted by anyone. Heh, kind of drives me even more, I guess. Knowing I have all the freedom in the world- limitless, barrierless, DEADLINELESS,, etc.

Usually my nights consist of drinking, reading, ignoring people, waiting til I've drunk a few more and then calling them back professing everything a break-loose recluse could profess.

One of those 'I feel like moving to Sudan on a whim' kind of nights.
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tatsumaki jime [Mar. 21st, 2007|04:54 pm]
Rodney Bathe


tout ce qui
se faisait


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(no subject) [Feb. 26th, 2007|05:10 pm]
Rodney Bathe

auf maschine.Collapse )
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(no subject) [Feb. 21st, 2007|11:56 pm]
Rodney Bathe
[Current Location |in a fucking barrel.]
[Gutfuck |brother incarnate.]
[Skullfuck |Ophelia's Dream- Saltarno]

Juiced at night, stale in the morning. Sometimes reversed. It amuses me in a way that a single burning flower may amuse a romantic Goth/a melodic tree, an indian. My neck is sore and stained, with the stench of dye from bathing in ink for the past couple of weeks. Every crevice in my body, particularly on my hands, captures something tasteless yet unspoiled of my life, almost in a mocking way, something that I pay more attention to than needed. The concept of refurbishment and modernization has long since perished within me [still no slave to luxury], the concept of breeding and wincing has clinged to appetent cavities in my body but usually end up either temporarily dissipitated or being usurped by something that can prove as suitably temporary. Nothing but work now. No vacation. Half-pay. Already having to pay 'rent' for some bullshit reason. My youth imploded peacefully, truthfully, and quickly, and now I'm just sort of blindly continuing the discontinuation.

In regards to my recent indisposition, I am not completely better but I am entirely alive. And that is all that will ever even begin to matter. Or so I've been told.

"Hard to Starboard". New, brilliant, unfamiliar manifestations arising within my poor striken household, all of utmost rotten interest. A striking redolence at my every turn, they adorn and even define my paths now. This, being personally and greatly attributed to my being so-far almost completely devoid of olfaction. Life will never take you as seriously as you take it.

Feel manic in the sense that people are rushing ahead of me in my life, offhandedly dragging me with, and worst of all apologizing for it. I used to feel that those who could violate me in that exact way I felt I needed to be violated were those who deserved my attention, respect. Those who taught me nothing, but left a stain upon my existence and some unfamiliar code of germs to breathe, digest, desparage..were the chemicals needed to allocate the imbalance in my life. To breathe dirty lustful life into the virgin within me, scrape off the formless residue, enhance and beautify the demerits.

I sit at my computer, who I am surprised is still alive and breathing today, after all I've put it through in the past years, and write whatever I possess [or whatever possesses me, I'm not sure]. In between paragraphs, or sometimes sentences, or even words, I stop, take no sip of anything, no puff, but stare at my hand and clench my first like a Puritan, just to see if I get an understanding out of it. A denotative reaction. So far, no.

It's orphaned land. Locust lifestyle.

hearts of glass and lead. face without form. poem without content.


I imagine indifferently the first time we talked, the first time we touched. The first breath he laid upon me, the first sensual quest he silently coaxed me to join him on, the first gate that opened, and more persistently the fact that it never closed. I remember he smelled of stress and chlorine. I was surprised he didn't cry the first time we made real, actual love. But I knew I'd be angry if he did. He saw things in me I thought only the devil could call upon. Things I didn't want him to see. He exposed me in every way a 'girl' would hate to be exposed, in every way for which she could thank him. He would whisper random confessions into my ear, expecting me to whisper one back, but I never did. I was afraid I'd shout.

I had and sometimes still have the habit of letting people think they can destroy me. I think perhaps I urge them to. I want them to. Something in me does. I don't like knowing that I am my destructor. I don't like dead weight. I'm used to it, but I don't like it. The embellishment of someone else's cry upon your own cryptic pain is what is expected of a mad man and a sad woman.

I like to overstate. Impingement. Stain. herzen aus glas und blei, wie ein ritz im granatapfel, augen und augenhöhlen. the difference. the burning insignificance.

Sought for Soul. Wake up, brush off, grow up, smash the mirror, cleanse, repeat. But who knows. Maybe they are stains. I pay close attention to those who withdraw, to those who speak softly enough. Those who claw, however, I give in to and give up on.

I don't break loose. I just break. We fall into the same patterns of asymmetry all the time and actually in the most ridiculously timely manners, and continue to paint a picture of remorse further yet. "Remorse Code", we used to call it.

Every past mortal of mine indicts me of robbing something of them that I couldn't handle to begin with. Can't even fucking type this without a grimace.

It's all black and aside from the occasional bankruptcy of vivid memories and erruption of lost promises, I feel no heat of any kind. My eyes have been sore from the moment I came out of my mother's womb. I don't distrust myself, which is something I can claim glory over, and fashionably compare myself to the rest of all you lonely assholes in society with. I speak great peace with numbers and polish my words sparingly and hesitantly. I have been lost in the vogue of some wretched romantic souls, desperate for ignition, desperate for purpose. I have clawed my way out. And I appear, to myself, as myself, again and again, over and over. I could possibly declare a state of emotinoal and human constancy...if we wanted to debate change.

I wrote one a letter. Reads "don't worry, I still feel small next to a ridiculously vast ocean."

How quaint.

I stand still in time and open my fists as bitterly as I clench them at my desk. Spread my fingers to a rip in the air, violently yet vulnerably. A hopeless or hopeful whiplash. I've never been a teenage wasteland and I never will have been. Never a scumbag, never a dreamer, never a line-tied ghost in washington, never pure nor salted beyond aching precision. Here we go again, pragmatism v. romanticism, a fixed ballet of wastes of souls and burnt out flesh. I'm over this, as I am over you as well. But I will never pretend to be above what you've held me as. I can claim my own resignation, but you could paint it. You were always the artist, remember?

I peer closely into shame, its incisions, and its comebacks, and temperately recite the true definition of a warrior. Unwashed, accepting, anything but volatile.

I remember the picture you spoke of over and over. You told me you embraced me for all the wrong reasons. That you adored my austerity, that you could taste me bitter. You liked the way I taste. It irked you. You told me destruction came at a price, and that price could overrule confirmation. I was dead set on believing every word that came out of that beautiful fucking mouth of yours.

That picture of a man at the jaws of the shore, holding a briefcase and bearing a blank vision. What was never disclosed was that the man had originally been kneeling.

träume ich?
bin ich hier?
sag mal....
ich kann nicht länger warten.
ich muss wissen, wenn dein herz wahr ist
damit kann ich es brechen, wor meinem erwecken
gib mir bescheid.

Sleep will be my greatest passion yet. Because I find comfort and normalcy in everything else. Need I even explain what those have to offer me. Vapor is more precise.

Still, something or someone shadows. It's inceptive.

I find myself saying
so often
too often
"I want someone to understand this with me"


immer, mein Opfer.
Link10 rekoreds of faggotry! ;; Contract AIDS.

No longer petitioning. Just affirming. [Dec. 30th, 2006|08:31 pm]
Rodney Bathe
Who really fucking knows if 'love conquers all'. All I know, from experience, is that hate [as seemingly bitter as I may be toward, well, everybody], should be saved for those who truly deserve it. People who fuck up because of their own problems, people who hurt you unintentionally, people set to destroy theirselves, causing your destruction from it, people searching and learning, lying and mistaking, crying and dying, and just...wondering, do not deserve it. The hardest part sometimes, for me at least, is wondering what is going on in their heads. Wondering how they are taking the same situation you're taking, wondering if they're wondering how you're taking it. Always wondering what they truly think of you, never having the guts to ask them. It's hard to 'not know'. Especially things that need to be known in order for you to continue living a satisfactory life. It's also hard to be given the cold shoulder, when you try to forgive, and when you try to love. Those things drive you away, tell you to maintain your distance and 'be smart'. Go with your head, and not your heart. I've held to this ever since my first heartbreak in 9th grade- but I know now that you need a balance.

Sometimes I want to go fullspeed, say fuck you to my brain, act on impulse and digest all the emotions in my heart, let them storm throughout me, let them guide me, let them make me whole. I feel more alive. I feel more raw, and more truthful [pretending there lies no truth in my brain]. Other times, the memory kicks in. I remember 'what happened last time' when I relied solely on my heart, and what became of me/it. I think, as fun and adventurous as it is to act upon obsession, infatuation, anger, and passion- it's important not to underestimate the efficacy of a fresh skull, or even of a beaten one, and heed the code of advice that travels throughout your brain to your heart- realize where it is initially coming from. Realize that there is a powerful relationship between the both of them, and maintain the balance and mutuality of it. It's hard for me to accept advice from anyone- I don't like hearing it, and I like discovering things for myself. That includes my own advice. I let other people's intentions and actions drive me, rather than my own blood-embedded convictions. I underestimate myself constantly, and forget that I still have a 'self' to rely on. I let others become my entire existence.

And this, of course, is what leads to such hostility. While I deserve to be mad at them for what they have done to me, it is entirely my own self that is dealing with it- and for the way I choose to do so, I must blame myself. And after the blaming and some senseless contemplations of self-affliction, I just shut the fuck up inside, sit quitely, feel, and accept. Accept all the wisdom coming into me, flowing throughout me, giving me all sorts of solutions and ideas. God? Who fucking knows. Quite frankly who fucking cares. I don't. I just know that there's more to me than I like to accept, and it's what is compelling me to write about this right now.

It's important for me to not lie to myself during situations like these. To not pretend that I'm in anymore pain that I am, or in any less pain, for that matter. To not make excuses, to not change the subject, to not pretend to be happy, and most importantly, not pretend to not care. Pretension is harmful, and truth, while initially discomforting, can be lifesaving. Take the pain like a man, take it will full heart, give it your undivided attention and don't only accept it, embrace it. See it for what it is, and what it's doing to you. Pry its palms open and memorize its tools, scrutinize its schemes, determine every fucking element of it. Fucking marry it. Then, divorce. Don't lie to yourself to temporarly perk a sighing smile. No "eh's". Just "mm's". Acknowledge the pain, and know exactly where it's hitting you. The worst element of hearbreak is confusion, for me. If I can get through the confusion, I can get through the rest of it. Know where it's hitting you, and then work with it, fight it, wrestle it. Claim it as on you, but not in you. Claim it as something that can and will be defeated, and get creative in ways of accomplishing so. Know your strength versus its. Know that yours is always, always greater. Fucking, I can't stress enough how important it is to be honest with yourself during these situations. It's fucking insane to realize who the real enemy is- most of the time it being yourself. The 'heartreaker' has performed their actions for their own innocent reasons, hardly ever for yours. And knowing that I have my own, knowing that only I can extricate myself from this, I must face...well...myself. Unfortunately I'm beginning to sound like that clucking cur, Dr. Phil. It's cliche but it's fucking genuine to the core.

And let's just be honest. The few people I claim to 'hate' in my life, I love. I love with all my heart. And I would be ruined [metaphorically] if they were to perish. Life's too short, yeah yeah. Even if life were eternal, there's no point in wasting your time holding them in contempt, swearing to yourself you'll never forgive them and developing new reasons every day for why they deserve such contempt. I will never forget anything. And I will never stop thinking about anything. Far too much emotion within me, and while I can claim to hate it, I know in truth that I love it, and that I love them. I've sure as fucking hell done my share of hurtful things to people, and if they can forgive me, why can't I forgive anyone else? I guess this is all rational thought that comes to people every day. Perhaps I should have heeded this before. I was too clouded with junk. Too distraught. It's hard enough to even be able to write in this thing anymore.

I don't know where I am going in life, who I am going with...I'll probably end up with myself in the end, and that is something I can choose to love or hate. And while the thought of it disturbs me now, I know I will be grateful for the strength I have endowed myself with later on. Hell, I already am.

A few friendships I've had this past year or two or three have gone awry, or have even just completely perished. These friendships still lie within the heart of me, and I'll hold thankful to everything I've learned from them, everything they've taught me, all the ways by which they have shaped me and illuminated me. And everything they've ever meant to me- even at one second in time, in the most microscopic ways. I tell myself they've destroyed me- but they've, of course, built me. To something more beautiful than I could have imagined. It sucks not being able to even speak with them anymore. I pray that it won't remain this way. I pray we'll be able to teach and learn from each other, and most importanly confide in each other again. Or hey, even just talk, about anything. I know they think of me at times, they know I think of them. I am glad we at least have this connection. Some things don't even need to be said. But for the sake of assurance, I'm saying them right now anyways.

I am glad to know that as indignant as I am usually, I raised myself in love. Love may not conquer all for everybody. But it does for me.

This is not some bullshit new years testimony. The only thing I do for new years is masturbate violently from 11 PM to 12 AM [family tradition]. This is just me dwelling in all my faggotry. And loving it. For the first time in a while, I am smiling, you know.
Link19 rekoreds of faggotry! ;; Contract AIDS.

Die quälend Schönheit der Natur. [Dec. 8th, 2006|07:49 am]
Rodney Bathe
[Gutfuck |reichlich ; adjektive]
[Skullfuck |some symphonic cerebral infiltration]

Ich liebe dich
Ég elska þig
Ik hou van jou
Jag a"lskar dig
Ya tebya lyublyu
Te amo en cada idioma posible.

I love you.Collapse )
Link32 rekoreds of faggotry! ;; Contract AIDS.

rofl mathturbat0rz anon [Nov. 17th, 2006|02:19 pm]
Rodney Bathe
[Skullfuck |Sshe Retina Stimulants]


I'm having fun flaming everyone who commented on this post [this is my first time being 'banned' from anything on this website]. I forgot what it feels like to give a fuck about 'school', but are all academics this gutless?

My sagacious proposal to the old chap is at the end.
Link20 rekoreds of faggotry! ;; Contract AIDS.

(no subject) [Nov. 10th, 2006|07:02 pm]
Rodney Bathe
I got robbed, again. This time everything meaningful/valuable/irreplaceable I have ever owned is gone. Completely gone. Everything. I can't fucking believe this. This has been...such a fucking terrible year. Was going to say week or month- but then it just fucking hit me. Everything has gone/is going wrong. Get drier and drier every day. No one to even fucking confide in over any of this shit anymore. I've been robbed of them, too. Hence I resort to menstrually blustering about like a little bitch via this fucking piece of shit. Where did everything/everyone go? Fuck it.

I'll tell you one thing good. I got a new gun. Yeah. A new fucking gun.
Link38 rekoreds of faggotry! ;; Contract AIDS.

Forgetting is a myth; forgiving is a sin. I embrace them both. [Nov. 3rd, 2006|12:02 pm]
Rodney Bathe
[Gutfuck |it's all coming back to me now]
[Skullfuck |ashy drifts of insect corpses]

Self-eviscerating concepts. No longer an element of recreation- relentless hacking of the mind. Blutdürstiger Krieg? Nicht gerade jetzt. Fall nicht vom Stängel.

It's so funny...yeah, funny... to witness yourself constantly battling between the 'fuck it' attitude and the 'you cannot fight the passion!' attitude. It's all circumstantial. It's all relevant. Or perhaps it is all entirely irrelevant. The prevalent sentiment is needless to say....well....it is just needless to say. Recalling the past, undulating bodies enveloped in some hot magnetic sphere, adamantine, dying in time and crime and passion- feeling your every last inch of morality or dignity disintegrate while every stinging droplette of passion within your sweat boils and rises up finally- consuming you. And this all blossoming into some beautiful blood-written [we're speaking coagulated, at this point] poetry that seeps out of unknown places into unknown membranes, all reluctantly inheriting this madness. Like a plague- and all the glory boomerangs back to you and explodes in your face. Years of wasted touches and tastes and whatnot...sparking the air and then sizzling down shamefully after their peak moment. You're so proud of it all, as it has created this alleged beautiful monster within you.

Then the underdog, who histrionically wails for the loss [be it death or life] of their loved one, blindly painting a portrait of a face they can no longer envision accurately, accursed in emotional servitude and firing meaningless anecdotes out of their cage to all the passers-by...anecdotes of this song, that conversation, this connection, etc. What gives with him, right? Just a jealous, spoiled, uninteresting little rodent who feeds off other people's property- other people's lies, that's bound to no where and essentially bound to nothing whatsoever. To realize how much you didn't mean to them, is tough. To watch some half-sinister grin form on their unwashed* faces while they become with someone else, or maybe just become someone else...is hard to take. To discover that they now defame your character [as if the initial heartbreaking action wasn't enough of a punch in the gut] while you've devoted every fucking cell within your [decremented] temporal lobes to their image and voice and every fucking beat of that wretched heart of yours to their well-being, and more importantly their knowledge of your utter love and care for them...is really hard to take.

And you'd still take one, two, ten bullets for them, eh? Shame. Shame the fuck on you. 'Forgive and forget'. Okay, and if the afflictor couldn't give less of a shit whether or not you choose to do either of them? See the variable roam. Now where does it stand? Now what is the defining factor? Yourself. As it has always been. It's repulsive. It's exhaustive. It leaves no trace of an account, for lest you be seen as a victim. Lest anyone give a fuck. No stitches on this one. You're on your own, invisible, and hardly invincible. Desperate for the wrong cause, you'll make your own. Truly inebriated of this mess, you'll act upon whatever is handed to you, because you are too fucking shallow to heed your own wisdom. You'll make a mess out of it, and the mess never intended to be cleaned, because all things need to at least exist. Eventually, you tell yourself, you'll just move on somehow. Don't know when the fuck, how the fuck, where the fuck, why the fuck. But it'll happen. Just be. It'll come. Or, hey, here's a concept. Maybe it won't. Yeah, it's hard to do the math. Cold hard math- the time you spent caring plus the time you spent crying divided by the time they spent lying times the time no one spent witnessing minus the time you both spent aching. Aching isn't even a matter of time, with some people. But why convince yourself that it's anything else, right? No philosophy here. Just cold. Hard. Math.

What star-crossed lovers would yield to such unwashed* truth I will never know of. To manage to cultivate a love or a friendship that was even just created by a thread of last-minute hopes and unwarranted depression, is insane. Possible, but insane. It's hard to conduct a war you don't even believe in. It matters not now. Or does it? Or should this ache even dwell within you? Do the concepts of 'good people' and 'bad people' even exist in your own home anymore? Is your own home even a fucking home? HAVE YOU EVER FUCKING KNOWN A FUCKING HOME. That is the question you will be asking yourself for the next godknows how many days you'll remain alive and prosperous. No, no. Wake up from this. That's always the cure, right? Waking up?

Well. These days you wake up in the middle of the night wearing an emotional corset, gasping for air, knowing now in the horrifying truth that breathing is only for the lucky or the strong. You could pretend to be either one. You could pretend to be cold and heartless, and convince yourself this doesn't affect you. Convince yourself that no one/nothing's touched you, and it will all have evaporated come the morning. Convince yourself that you are machine and machine is you, profess to yourself that hearts are for those who succumb to the treachery of their own emotions and souls are for peasants who foolishly dare to believe. A bleak numbness [oh glory to the lord, right?] could override all hints of blaze within you now- set you on a different track. And you'll make a goal out of it, a dream, a movie even. You'll gain what you've hoped for in due time- and then spit it all out..no..puke it all out with the one thing you'd hoped to rid yourself of...passion. You've gone black, are asphyxiating in unwashed* gray, and now you aspire to a piercing white that supposedly holds all the answers- in that it holds nothing but the milieu to your pre-crushed concepts and fantasies.

And I find it necessary to state...that this land of imclemency you so eulogize, will neither make nor break you. It won't fuck you up. It won't fuck you over. You know what it will do? Not a single fucking thing, but serve as another unwashed* disguise. Doesn't matter? Excellent. Be on with it. Be it all a matter of thirst now, you will rise to the top of your masterpiece of resistance, and fight your way through the thorns and fire and whatever product of whatever wrath of whatever god you refuse to believe in spits upon you. You will do this all in method, cloaked in contingency, and promise yourself you'll win. Regardless of you the hell you fuck over entirely in the process. This is your story, good man, and we unknowing, misunderstanding, undeserving pawns are all a part of it. Ave atque vale.

*about as much equilibrium as treebark.
Link14 rekoreds of faggotry! ;; Contract AIDS.

(no subject) [Oct. 29th, 2006|09:46 pm]
Rodney Bathe

The very end is the cool part. Seriously.
Link9 rekoreds of faggotry! ;; Contract AIDS.

(no subject) [Oct. 19th, 2006|05:38 pm]
Rodney Bathe

Link12 rekoreds of faggotry! ;; Contract AIDS.

POLEMNIA HAS ATTACKED. What will YOU be wearing? [Oct. 16th, 2006|12:14 pm]
Rodney Bathe
[Gutfuck |knives in my throat]
[Skullfuck |A Constellation Of Skin]

Thickening fear- in the April soggyness, abrasion becomes construction and winter is shadowed over like a deathpond of parasitical fluorescence; promulgating the deteriorated laws of the desert [Falconidae combustion//Cactaceae explosion//Serpentes evaporation], and in outercourse, planetary implosion...[the desert which only now holds traces of a once-hailed, now-mocked exodus of velvet corpses entwined with thorns of glory- pitch black- and pure], all sense of state of being is diminished and matter's thrown usurped by some alternate cosmic contagion [adulterated elements of cosmic 'principles' included]. Tower's crumbling end and mathematical precision failing our heated heads- april mornings no longer know death or darkness, but melodic and contagious triumph seeping out of the Earth's veins. The longest winter has succumbed, failed us, and we shall never see it again- taking each magnified grain of repetitive claims of virtue and aching indulgence with it. All is well, with Costa del Nada Interno. La Costa de Pautas still shattered by its harrowing experience with the unexpected sunset and Niagara of radical sea creatures assuming a "lifted" position in the circle of life. The winds have been exiled from the Earth; last night I heard the moon whisper to the sun "we'll see who gets out of this alive".

exquisite torture, forgoing sacrifice.

Impregnating this cadaverous body with a pollen so sweet and so brilliant could almost be calculated into a crime.

Just a note. As usual. Hammered into my soul.

There is another category of fear- in explicit measures - the fear of pictorial representation of lifesaving truth in unwashed, deluding, and rather romantically stubborn murk. A murk that would make someone like Nicolas-Jacques Conté either proud to see his concepts applied or outraged at the decadence of them- the modern application of undertoned beauty to deceptive madness. But all for the sake of some braindead infatuation, right?

Such a case might find itself atop the mountain of Pragma, perhaps dueling with that of Eros. Lord knows that whatever limerence cannot replenish us with, Love will rape us with. Cheers to unwanted and evidently unheeded axioms.

Avant Garde, licentious romance, growling guts of revulsion? You tell me.Collapse )

Link30 rekoreds of faggotry! ;; Contract AIDS.

Does she hear herself talk? [Oct. 13th, 2006|03:25 pm]
Rodney Bathe
"Liberals hate America, they hate flag-wavers, they hate abortion opponents, they hate all religions except Islam, post 9/11. Even Islamic terrorists don't hate America like Liberals do. They don't have the energy. If they had that much energy, they'd have indoor plumbing by now."

"Liberals become indignant when you question their patriotism, but simultaneously work overtime to give terrorists a cushion for the next attack and laugh at dumb Americans who love their country and hate the enemy."

FOX Hannity & Colmes:

"I take the biblical idea. God gave us the earth."

"Oh, OK."

"We have dominion over the plants, the animals, the trees."

"This is a great idea."

"God says, "Earth is yours. Take it. Rape it. It's yours."

"Terrific. We're Americans, so we should consume as much of the earth's resources..."

"Yes! Yes."

"... as fast as we possibly can."

"As opposed to living like the Indians."

"I think the government should be spying on all Arabs, engaging in torture as a televised spectator sport, dropping daisy cutters wantonly throughout the Middle East and sending liberals to Guantanamo."

"Conservatives believe man was created in God's image, while liberals believe they are gods. All of the behavioral tics of the liberals proceed from their godless belief that they can murder the unborn because they, the liberals, are themselves gods. They try to forcibly create 'equality' through affirmative action and wealth redistribution because they are gods. They flat-out lie, with no higher power to constrain them, because they are gods. They adore pornography and the mechanization of sex because man is just an animal, and they are gods. They revere the UN and not the U.S. because they aren't Americans -- they are gods."

"Cheney is my ideal man. Because he's solid. He's funny. He's very handsome. He was a football player. People don't think about him as the glamour type because he's a serious person, he wears glasses, he's lost his hair. But he's a very handsome man. And you cannot imagine him losing his temper, which I find extremely sexy. Men who get upset and lose their tempers and claim to be sensitive males: talk about girly boys. No, there's a reason hurricanes are named after women and homosexual men, it's one of our little methods of social control. We're supposed to fly off the handle."

"I think [women] should be armed but should not vote...women have no capacity to understand how money is earned. They have a lot of ideas on how to spend it...it's always more money on education, more money on child care, more money on day care." [I think I love her.]

"I love Texas Republicans!" she said. "They're these beautiful women, they're so great-looking, they're completely loaded. They're dripping in this gorgeous jewelry, they're really funny and sarcastic and smart. Americans are so cool, and they're such parochial idiots here in New York."

"Being nice to people is, in fact, one of the incidental tenets of Christianity (as opposed to other religions whose tenets are more along the lines of 'kill everyone who doesn't smell bad and doesn't answer to the name Mohammed')". [Right, Catholics...]

"The ethic of conservation is the explicit abnegation of man's dominion over the Earth. The lower species are here for our use. God said so: Go forth, be fruitful, multiply, and rape the planet--it's yours. That's our job: drilling, mining and stripping. Sweaters are the anti-Biblical view. Big gas-guzzling cars with phones and CD players and wet bars -- that's the Biblical view."

"They're [Democrats] always accusing us of repressing their speech. I say let's do it. Let's repress them. Frankly, I'm not a big fan of the First Amendment/"

"When we were fighting communism, OK, they had mass murderers and gulags, but they were white men and they were sane. Now we're up against absolutely insane savages." .

"I think things are going swimmingly in Iraq."

"A couple [of] alleged males attempted to sucker punch a 100-pound woman and missed. And they ended up with their faces smashed in and spending the night in the Pima County Jail, where I'm sure -- being good liberals -- their views on gay marriage will serve them well."

"My libertarian friends are probably getting a little upset now but I think that's because they never appreciate the benefits of local fascism."

"If those kids had been carrying guns they would have gunned down this one [teenage] gunman. ... Don't pray. Learn to use guns." [THANK YOU.]

"[Canadians] better hope the United States does not roll over one night and crush them. They are lucky we allow them to exist on the same continent." [Mad good.]

"Liberals refuse to condemn what societies have condemned for thousands of years - e.g., promiscuity, divorce, illegitimacy, homosexuality." [I could go one on one with her for MONTHS on this one]

"Not all Muslims may be terrorists, but all terrorists are Muslims."

The list goes on and on and on....
Link9 rekoreds of faggotry! ;; Contract AIDS.

(no subject) [Oct. 9th, 2006|07:47 pm]
Rodney Bathe
Oh! I forgot to mention. I hardly believe in forgiveness, and revenge is a pastime. Cheers!, you miserably insecure, pathologically-lying piece of worthless shit.

(no subject) [Oct. 7th, 2006|10:33 pm]
Rodney Bathe
[Skullfuck |Samsas Traum- Dies ist kein Traum]

I was told by my doctor that I have perfect feet, and am going to continue to if I keep up my secret. What is my secret, you ask? I DO NOT, NEVER HAVE, AND NEVER WILL WEAR HIGH HEELS. Seriously. Heels are made for women for a reason. Women are beautiful, inferior, worthless pieces of some inimical lipid-compound called estrogen, and deserve to fall and injur/humiliate themselves as frequently as possible. This is why Jesus created the high heel, and designed them to appeal to women [and flamingly gay men, who are of equal ignobility]. However, if you want to pretend you are anything above this principle and have any purpose to your being beyond your Junoesque breasts and drippingly exquisite vagina, you can keep your feet nice and godlike, like me, by wearing flats as much as possible, and steering clear of all heels, especially pointed-toe ones. Heels cause longterm and potentially severe damage in your toes, [corns, bunions, etc.], instep, and tendons- from which several permanent medical conditions can emerge that require surgery in order to alleviate the pain. If you're going to wear heels all the time when you're young, make sure it is the type of shoe you plan on wearing to EVERY EVENT EVER FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE because your feet will be too fucked up to function properly or painlessly in normal/valuable-people shoes.

This includes platform heels that you find in a lot of "gothic"-styled combat boots and such. Incidentally, if you are ever going to wear any combat boots at all, no style should even be considered other than that of these. Period.
Link18 rekoreds of faggotry! ;; Contract AIDS.

Sasha, I think you will appreciate this. [Oct. 6th, 2006|06:56 pm]
Rodney Bathe
[Skullfuck |Mono No Aware- Decemberland]

MAD fucking good. My friend Dan is getting booted from his what, like 4th month, in the Marines- and for what, you ask? Well, naturally.

Drinking his own piss.

Mad mad mad mad mad fucking good. Can't stop laughing. This is going to be such a great story to tell his grandchildren. Or even his folks, for why he got kicked out.

I seriously have never had so much adoration for anyone in my life.

And I think this whole account just made my entire life. He's totally nonchalant about the whole thing too. Casually describing the Sgt.s' exploding reactions, how everyone thinks he's a complete psychopath now, etc. So fucking awesome. He has this total 'fuck it' attitude toward the Marines ever since he joined, which is SUCH a turnover from the attitude he had before- 'I <3 BUSH & KILLING & GUNZ & BEING TOUGH OMGZ RAWK AWN', etc. He claims to become more and more liberal everyday, just witnessing the bullshit the seeps out of his Sgt.'s/fellow Marines' assholes. I'm seeing him blossom into so much more of an individual and less of a fucking bindly loyal dog now a days- unafraid to take the challenge of living up to his own expectations of himself- rather than those of his peers/"authorities". Must be kind of hard to do in the Marines. But, shit. I can't believe he's getting fucking discharged just for drinking his own urine. Makes me damn fuckin' glad I never joined the Marines. What's up, crucifixion, maybe?

Edit: Apparently all sexual positions other than 'missionary' are impermissible in the military. In...teresting.
Link8 rekoreds of faggotry! ;; Contract AIDS.

(no subject) [Oct. 6th, 2006|04:41 am]
Rodney Bathe
[Skullfuck |Gewaltakustik- Die Prophezeiung]

Mad fucking good.

You can go ahead and skip all the preliminary shit and read straight to the part where she lays herself down on a railroad track in hopes to end her life- fails, and instead remains conscious the entire time, feeling the 30 freight cars rip through her body and essentially casting her legs some couple feet behind her. Was awesome, on the show, hearing her say she looked behind her and saw her legs just kind of chillin' there with her new white tennis-shoes on.

The other kid, AJ, who attempted to blow his brains out but essentially just blew his entire face off was mad good as well. The second he walked out onstage, I immediately referenced in my head the episode of Family Guy where they parodied The 6 Million Dollar Man- brooms and pots for limbs, completely distorted face, kind of like an unfinished or sloppily done puzzle or drawing by a 5-year old. Or Picasso painting. Something along those lines.

A few friends and I were watching it together, and the collective roar that emerged after seeing him approach the stage with that perky 'THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH ME LOL' "smile" on his "face" nearly had neighbours knocking on our door. I think most of the beer stains on my carpet are from that moment.

And need I even mention how incredibly aroused I am by this freight-train romanticizing feline. Shit. Cute face with shame hidden in her puppy eyes. Legless, in a wheelchair, most likely still or even more depressed due to her painfully shameful failure on being, uh, successfully killed by a..uh...30 fucking car freight train [although covering up this depression with her alleged Christian epiphanies and whatnot]- so deliciously vulnerable. Oh, no, I won't let her decision to appear on live television in front of millions of viewers fool me! This bitch is fucking pissing out the word vulnerability. She better wheel her ass on down here ASAP. I'm a hungry and a raggin'.

In other news: well, no. There is no other news. My life is as uneventful as yours is just plain meaningless. Cheers.
Link8 rekoreds of faggotry! ;; Contract AIDS.

(no subject) [Oct. 1st, 2006|06:57 pm]
Rodney Bathe
[Gutfuck |estimated in bone-white glory]
[Skullfuck |Popol Vuh- Mantra]

Saw the link to this flickr album on freeparking's journal a while ago- saved it, and thought I'd put the pictures to some visually satiating use on this journal of mine. These are, after all, incredible. Alberich Mathews behind the camera.

Sous la Mer.Collapse )
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(no subject) [Sep. 22nd, 2006|01:07 pm]
Rodney Bathe
arebours: http://www.babeland.com/page/TIB/PROD/vibrators-premium/01526
arebours: most industrial vibrator ev3er
arebours: *ever

I'd probably shoot that thing up the arm if I didn't know any better.
Link15 rekoreds of faggotry! ;; Contract AIDS.

a splitting, screaming, scorching sound. [Sep. 18th, 2006|03:21 pm]
Rodney Bathe
[Gutfuck |Irion-Esytion]
[Skullfuck |Camanecroszcope]

I spent every day, after the day it left me, betrothed to my own ghost. I awoke every somber morning- as if it had just appeared, not having been born of night- having conceived itself in another dimension, another life- with no knowledge of any previous events, any previous connection to classify it- as even a part of my own or anyone else's life. The sun pierced its way through the broken glass windows, leaving question as to whether the glass was broken before, or if the sun's vicious rays had indeed done it, were indeed trying to kill me. I awoke, bound tightly by nothing to the floor, to the smell of my thoughts- feeling the smell of smoke from the dream of fire, tasting the shiny and pointy tastes of various metal ornaments being clashed together. My eyes felt of sand- I could hardly crack them open- and my coarse-grained lips crackling and collapsing at the seems, taking my voice with them. ;; i almost yearned for even the bitterest foam to condense in my mouth- but no, the desert would see no other god. I felt the concept of time and its dreadful descendants heavily and slowly ripping their way through my virgin body- and the exterior of it, the shield- as if professing 'you cannot comprehend me' ensphered around me like a twister- all the while, hearing and feeling the dull and pounding tick of the hand on the thousands of Dali-esque clocks, drooping along with the corneas of my eyes- my pupils expanding- the pigment on each brown of each clock getting clearer and clearer. I felt as if one clock in particular, whose droop-action formed itself a shape of some sort of twisted violin of a mad composer- was about to explode such in the manner of a balloon- all of its numbers bursting into my face- mocking me, turning me, claiming me. And then ? something outside? of all objects unfamiliar and almost comedically false to my memory at this 'moment' ,- a sparrow squawking- not chirping, at the combustion of its habitat ;; thought to myself 'i want to help you, but not enough strength'- although felt this statement form in my mind as if perfunctory- I did not truly want to help the sparrow; i wanted it to combust along with its home, as i was decaying along with mine. Hot and sticky- the room had to been devoid of any oxygen- I breathed through the veins on my wrists which were slowly, but positively surely breaking free out of their bondage- my impoverished skin making it easier second by second. I lifted my head and opened my drooping eyes, sand and the glaze of the cornea secreting from my tightening sockets- do I dare turn my head? Dare I make this move? It would be bold. It needed to be done. You can't always rely on feeling, right? You must rely, even when half-dead, on doing. I dared to. I turned my head diagonally to see the blood seeping out of my poors. But it didn't gush. Not this time. It evaporated. Into thin air. And after it was all gone, my arms turned to sand. Not long before my entire body followed- i felt as if it were being ordered of an unknown force, perhaps within the clocks, or perhaps the clocks a victim of these orders too. The sun, I thought, perhaps- with its rays conducting the tempest of time around me. Yes, the sun must be provoking it all. The room started buzzing- I felt as if amongst, or right in the middle of, a swarm of bees ; a ventral turbulence that spread throughout the remains of my 'body' like an enraged electric current. The room vibrating, my body as sand, minimal flesh unable to escape accordingly, the droop of the clocks somehow escaping its own dimension and merging as one with that of my eyes. I called out to my blood, with no voice, but with intent- and prayed for it to come back to me- to replenish me- so that I may at least use it to write this last testimony. It betrayed me, as did the sun, and the hands on the clock, and the veins in my body- leaving me to rot on this, or in this, or as this arid plateau of poorly half-sketched memories and a tingling dissonance of light and fuzz, or buzz. But mind you, myself, that nothing could outmind the desert. The trace of decay on my lips, all I have left to possibly claim in an aspect of reality, and feel without the fear of madness, confusion, and lopsided poverty. Was it all a matter of consciousness now. Was it crackling, crumbling, vibrating, or drooping. My skin once bleached with fear- now vanished with time- could only hold to the alleged efficacy of its destructor to replenish it; as reads, hears, bleeds the genesis of all this.

'Pending'- was the last word in my head- before the black crept and conquered.
Link14 rekoreds of faggotry! ;; Contract AIDS.

Steven, I think you are going to appreciate this. [Sep. 15th, 2006|06:15 pm]
Rodney Bathe

Oleg ShuplyakCollapse )
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