Word Vomit: Mongoose

To formulate an understanding of where this dreary, puke infested thought might take me this early morning, it might be best if one can clearly imagine the scene that has been viewed in history on more than one occasion, and introduced to me by my favorite daughter, Madness. Maybe not in 1690, but certainly in 2009. Quickly, I became intrigued by the onslaught of images of electrical wires and fire hazards by verse only, however, when combined with a living visual from the genius of Neil Cicerega, the hook was set. Addicted and over-played, the following video deserves more air-time.

Lemon Demon – “Eighth Wonder”

Fantastic clarity is prevalent like chromium waste water. Indeed, I am a secret fan of Neil and his insanely odd videos and music, along with his introduction to strange and wonderful musings. If you have never had the pleasure, “Breakfast Buddies” is probably the creepiest of medical diagnoses, and never ever will I stare into the eyes of “Jesus” on a prayer mat for any reason.

Yes, this takes us way back into a time when, – when what? Before the TBIs disrupted my brain? And why do people suggest the proper unification of the s after the brain should matter, especially when we only have two in our skull. Yes, I said two, the left and right half. So that would make it brains and not brain. Either way, it’s my vomit and pimpin’ ain’t my style, unless you are selling it, and then I want my cut upfront.

Back to Mongoose. Mongeese? Golden fleeces. No? Then we shall continue. For the record, there are not any of these creatures living in my walls. And, again for the record, or benefit of the anal skum that stalk my wanderings, my walls do speak to me. Not from the obtuse formula and scratching on the red paint, but in pops and clicks. No ghosts have attacked me or my cats, so I will assume it is electrical in discourse and the grid here is two, powered by the usual suspect.

An old friend suggested once that I should write drunk and edit later. That friend is reported dead, so Michael wouldn’t mind me using his name. Sharing the time with him in the late night hours, while most never learned to “Swim Past the Bait” – we did indeed share too many laughs and suspensions from an unidentified platform.

In the event he were to be alive, Michael would know where this was leading. So would his lovely lady. The fact of no real confirmation of his death proves just how much I do care and miss my friends, by never believing until I see. But now, gone. By the hands of others and their envy. I see. Crystal. Clear.

Nothing needs to make sense, and yes, screen shots are forever. Maybe a refrain from travesty will intercede on my behalf. Thinking I will stick with nausea and forget the vomit, this road has no end and no beginning. How do you begin a story that is finished without fucking shit up for nothing but silence and hate? These feelings grow. Anger, infested anger with too many turns and boundaries to cross.

The idiotic watchers that feel they have a legal right to my life, go fuck yourself. I think I am finished with allowing you your “false narratives” and not in defense, but in offending your actions toward a human with real emotions and genuine thought process. So aware of your crimes and ugly truth, yet why am I expected to remain silent to cover your actions of brutality?

Mongoose. What a fairly odd creature. That is all. I’ve nothing to say, for now.