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mordicai caeli

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March 25th, 2004

colostomy bags is not a desert survival technique. [Mar. 25th, 2004|01:16 am]
mordicai caeli
[Current Mood |you have no idea.]
[Current Music |you have know idea.]

incomprehensibly, i dreamt last night that louis farrakhan, senate majority leader, was dead & that there was a world wide moment of silence. what the fuck is my brain mulling over that i get farrakhan as my dreamy side effect? i mean, this wasn't some "i'm not in heaven, boy oh boy i hate not being in heaven" dream, this was just a weird piece of surreal. there were wheel chairs that squeeked when you pushed them. fuck, man, i have these dreams.

you're really trying to live healthy, but using an abrasive toothpaste?
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(no subject) [Mar. 25th, 2004|09:11 am]
mordicai caeli
[Current Mood |guided by voices feat.]
[Current Music |crown me king- my valuable hunting knife (shiv dub).]

feeling very medusa this morning. by which i mean in relations, incompletness. that "i'm the unfortunately mortal counterpart to sthenno, & euryale too." it "sucks," ("blows the big one") to be not only missing two thirds of yourself, but also be alienated in fundamental ways. & i mean, what can you say about that? there it is, & thus endeth the world? because as far as i can see, there is going to be a strict fucking causal relationship. between these candy-coloured eyes of angels & the black cape of m. perched atop a skyscraper, i'll draw my silhoutte over the world like a hand over a dead man's eyes. lets drink only blood & eat only ashes.

there is a book at work called a hand in the bush. the subject of this book is vaginal fisting. discussions of the fat hippie men & mullet wearing lesbos illustrated in it are funny enough, but the jewel in the crown is the FISTING POEMS section. just the exsistance of said chapter is good enough for me.
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torn up & writhing out on the kitchen floor- a larvae for all seasons. [Mar. 25th, 2004|10:02 am]
mordicai caeli
[Current Mood |fucking lovely.]
[Current Music |crown me king- the evolutionary precursers to greys.]

misanthrope, iso the rosetta stone to my heart. epitath reader, obituary reader, iso you, waving a black flag. me: exactly the right guy to mess with. you: you you you. there are monsters in this personal ad. there are monsters & they have broken blue glass before. this is a love letter. this is surgery on the field of battle. you florence nightingale me every morning. you marie currie the waltzing tango. feet weaving mandalas on your way around the apartment. i want to take you to the top of the glass palace & overlook the launching of icbms. you are my pet theory, like phlogosten or the hollow earth.
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