spider hacksaw eats & is eaten

pain. painful. pain. filled. pained. paint. pain. panic. increase. pain crease. pancreas. out. in. distance. crease. flaunt. flush. fab. rip. cord. pain. in. crease. increase. out. put. in. of. pain. full. filled. pain lease. borrow. loan. receive. release. disease. makeshift. flirt. originaire. origin. nation. origin. all. occupant. occuphant. opulent. front. up. in. out. patient. detail. indulge. over. arrange. flourish. murmur. mercury. infection. deflect. shun. victim. Vick. Tim. suffer. cover. redesolve. solve. stretch. slip. pull. slip. per. slip. her. glass. zip. her. strip. her. zipper. pain. hurt. increase. tangle. un. due. late. form. you. late. mask. slave. bait. seven. sever. severe. stain. clear. pain. delay. sign. if. i. cant. distract. shun. you. / stress. full. / man. i. pull. ate. / fab. rip & cord. / in. terror. gate. shun. / over. utter. come. pleat. extreme. esteem. estimate. shun. meaning. full. pain. solve. supple. suffer. evil. union. good. sudden. sullen. pain. flesh. eating. volt. sure. flutter. subtle. sorrow. swallow. all. black ivory pain. de. stab. you. li(ck)(or)ish. de. base. mint. rev. oh. (F) lute. shun. pain. dis. funk. shun. me. you. art. if. fist. full. dollar. pain. (T). ink. pains. take. ink. holler. hurt. pain. please. filled. pain. for. sliver. dis. troy. dis. solve. dis. truck. shun. pain. subtle. please. sure. pain. sure. filled. pain. full. joy. full. pain. full. filled. pain. in. out. re. eject. deaf. effect. poise. poised. sun. poise. sun. mercury. solve. vent. raid. i. ate. shun. from. sun. shine. son. shine. de. re. in. crease. pain. resolution. pain. full. pain. filled. hurt. remain. calm. remain.

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(ripcord)(©)(spiderhacksaw)(2014)

CONVERSATIONAL ETIQUETTE / by: spider hacksaw
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TOPIC = Conversation Participant + Conversation Participant (ad infinitum)

The “TOPIC” – of the conversation is what two or more conversation participants are conversing about.

The “CONVERSATION PARTICIPANTS” – are the two or more people engaging in a conversation about the “TOPIC” or multiple “TOPICS”.

The “END OF THE CONVERSATION” – is when one or more of the Conversation Participant(s) can not contribute their own worthy thoughts or feelings to the conversation with regards to the “TOPIC(S)” and thus resort(s) to making one or more of the other CONVERSATION PARTICIPANTS the “TOPIC”.

This is what many people do when they do not have their own valuable or differing ideas or thoughts to contribute to the conversation “TOPIC(S)” and choose instead to call one or more of the CONVERSATION PARTICIPANT(S) names or undermine them personally in some way. Thus making a Conversation Participant into the Conversation Topic. And usually not in a complimentary light. It does no good and contributes nothing to the conversation to praise or belittle another CONVERSATIONAL PARTNER.

This “CONVERSATIONAL PARTNER BECOMES CONVERSATION TOPIC” switch-a-roo is also done when one or more CONVERSATIONAL PARTNER(S), not only have nothing of value to contribute, but also when one or more of the CONVERSATIONAL PARTNERS just wants to win points with another CONVERSATIONAL PARTNER by seeming to side with one CONVERSATIONAL PARTNER over the other. This is not a real “CONVERSATION” but simply just another “US AGAINST THEM” ploy that typically is taking part in the lives of two or more of the CONVERSATIONAL PARTNERS. It is a buddy/buddy attack and defend maneuver that merely serves to engorge the egos of the persons participating in said tactics. Thus making them feel all warm and snugly.

note: TOPICS naturally change and morph and become new things throughout a conversation. Not many conversations stick to one TOPIC. That is the joy and the beauty of a CONVERSATION. However, the conversation is over when one or more of the Conversation Participants turns on one or more of the other CONVERSATION PARTICIPANTS and starts to make the CONVERSATION about one or more of the other CONVERSATION PARTICIPANTS rather than about the original TOPIC or another TOPIC that the CONVERSATION has segued or moved toward.
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from: conversational etiquette / by: spider hacksaw ©

A cloud of refined drifter laughter
gathers

and locks your thinner doors

of devilish
heart
s

the bygone errors
nibble
at projected reflective
rose eyes
and rope throat
garrote

curtain cord noose
a curse of nights

brook drugging
in tampered
redness

a triple homicide slide
of earth worms
opens folds

in windows
of
deceptive angle

a mist lingers
nimble fingers
and brings
tryst

leaving
what’s
best

for
later

as the rest
bleeds ease

and a breeze blown kiss
of this peaceful horror

takes us for
what we are

and that we care
not

__________________________________________
(this peaceful horror)(spider hacksaw)(2014)(©)

The man sad, “You can’t bounce you balls here.”
I said, “Sir, would prefer I go huff glue and fry my synapses. Or go vandalize a Mr. Sparky’s. Because I need to do something. So, why is it? Why can i not bounce my balls here.”
The man eye balled me and spat, then he said, “See yon sign in the window. It’s says, ‘No Ball Bouncing Allowed’. Now, you don’t want to break the rules does ya?”
I said, “Sir, whose rules are these?”
He squinted at me as though his spleen were about to explode inside him, “Son, it’s the rules the sign made.”
I queried, “So, this sign makes the rules then?”
The man spat a droop of his chaw in the dirt at my feet, as if to threaten that the next one would be mine to wear. He said, “Son, in this town, the sign makes the rules and the laws. What the sign says goes. What the sign says, we do. That’s the law of this land.”
I pondered internally, then externally, “So, if the sign told you to kill me, or to kill yourself, that is what you would do?”
The man smiled. “That’s right.”
I smiled and stuffed my rubber spheres back into my pants pockets. Then I tipped my baseball cap to him and strode off. With plans to make friends, with the sign.

from:(the sign)by:(spider hacksaw)(2014)©

“Vowels are like bowels, they’re the guts of a word. If you want to kill a word, disemvowel it”.
—spider hacksaw (2014)

There is one God. It is your God. It is my God. It is everyone’s God. God is you. God is me. God is everyone. God is everything. Everything that “is”, “was”, “will” and “will never be”.
And God is nothing. Mostly God is Nothing. Always God is Nothing.

There is as much god in the sinner as there is in the saint. There is as much god in love as there is in hate. There is as much god in the common as there is in the great. There is as much god in chance as there is in fate.

Difference is opposition. Opposition is separation. Separation is illusion. Illusion is reality. Reality is Something. Something is temporary. Temporary becomes nothing. Nothing is eternal. God is nothing. Always God is Nothing

There is one God. It is your God. It is my God. It is everyone’s God. God is you. God is me. God is everyone. God is everything. Everything that “is”, “was”, “will” and “will never be”.
And God is nothing. Mostly God is Nothing. Always God is Nothing.

_____________________________________________
©(No Thing)(spider hacksaw)(February2014)

sideways unfolding guts of rapture
using carving larvae speeds
fetching sparrow heroin coal
sitting, smoking, open soul

forward unto graven ship
dwellers sinking
at dawn’s first bite
climbing out from battle ribcage
box cutter flutter bird springs
necking in the woods of wings

I hear some good things
have come to stay
say the things that make hearts follow
swear it to the brightening guards
sing it from the skewer pole
sling the welting belt

uneven devotional burn ink spire
come the holy roaming empire
savage forsaken token yolk
the clouds coveted water broke
choking out the flame of dog
listen how God hath spoke

sleeping helpless in shallow hollow
meeting there with you tomorrow
in our vast past cargo hold
we ride together, heading home
colliding our atomic genome

finger test and press your belly button down
lips to lash, lips to nape
kissing tragedy playground tides
kissing the front, the back, and sides

kissing where it hurts the most
mother, father, holy ghost
kissing bullet riddled skulls
drowning in a sea of Plush
succumbing to the spoils of lore

all we want is more more more
give it to us, war war war
this is what we live to die for
give it to us, more more more
all we want is what you got
give it to us, war war war
this is what we live to die for
all we want is more more more

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eye cents nonsense /  spider hacksaw / ©2013

Truth be told, when I observe my own experience with creativity, it seems to originate from some dimly lit netherworld, and it comes seeping into my skull sponge filter before it get squeezed out. ‘Tis as though these little invisible jellyfish-people are running this story spewing machine, which looks like a sewing machine, but it’s a spewing machine, and they are stitch-shooting these bullet threads into my inner cranial tubes and then these swarms of gooey ideas belch pocket-blossoms that bloom and slather the walls inside my skull and behind my face with layers of a creamy black milk mustard substance and then from this, a piece of story or a character emerges. And the story or character just tell me their own story and I listen, like a talk show host, but I’m really more of just the outlet, like some dirt or potting soil for a creative force beyond my control to grow itself out of. Something like that.

—spider hacksaw

IT’S A WONDERFUL DEATH ©
story series by spider hacksaw

Young Franzy Milton, a nine year old boy in third class, traveling to America with his family, got up and went to the public lavatory shortly before midnight. He only had to pee. He yawned and stared distrustfully through the crevice of his limp eyelids at the crapper before him.

Franzy had heard of these fancy new outhouses built indoors, but until this time, he’d not had to use one. He liked the idea, but was still a little uneasy about using something that he was so unfamiliar with. The whole thing was a bit too posh for his liking. It made him anxious. He’d been told some spooky stories about them. How they could blowup inside and return people’s piss and poo to them. Especially if someone was to unload too much dinner in them all at once.

His friend, Chauncey Parker, back in England, had told him that he’d seen it happen once at his wealthy Uncle’s place in Wolverhampton. He called it “overflowing” or “flowing-over”. Franzy did not like the sound of this, nor the idea of it happening. Something so fiendish could never occur with an outhouse, his father had stated. And Chauncey had said the new indoor crappers were fine to whiz in, but you shouldn’t crap in them. A good old outhouse was best if you had to do the number two. They had laughed at this little poem about poo, as nine year old boys do.

When Franzy flushed the toilet. There was a jolt that almost knocked him down, and a horrible sound that carried upward from somewhere deep inside the bones of the structure that was transporting him and his family toward a wonderful life in a city called New York. The vibration echoed up from the porcelain hole into which he had just urinated, with a rumble and a gurgle that made Franzy think of a haunted ghost, growling. The dark porcelain hole sucked air and then seemed to belch as the bowl began to quickly fill up with water.

Before he even realized that it was happening, Franzy felt the cold wetness crawling onto his bare feet, as he stood there, transfixed in terror at the sight of the crapper water spilling over the sides of the bowl and onto the floor. His heart immediately began to thump and thunder in his chest.

“I only peed,” he whispered, and crossed himself, as if this might help. But the water kept coming. Because it did not care. And all he could do was turn and run.

Franzy hurried back to his family and crawled into his bed alongside his brother. He would simply go to sleep and never say a thing about it. He would never mention his trip to the lavatory. No one would ever know that it was him that had broke and overflowed the indoor outhouse.

It was 12:47 on Sunday, April 14th, 1912. Within two hours and thirty minutes, Franzy, his whole family, and hundreds of other people would be dead.

In the chaos and the commotion that followed, Franzy never got to confess to any living being what he had done. He died, thinking that he had caused the sinking of the great ship known as the Titanic.

Only god heard his distraught filled whispers, drowned out by the screams of people and the roar of angry cold black water, as it swallowed everything.

“I only peed,” Franzy whispered. “I only peed. I only peed. I only peed.”

© by spider hacksaw / 2013

I’ve got a whole new vision of myself
’tis made of marigolds and fleshless wealth
would you like to see me wear my crown of thorn now

out on the town
we did the best we could
to bring the world to its knees

down on the ground
we shed blood for good
to bring the world to our needs

what I’m about to say is
what I meant to say was
I’m dying to give
I’m dying to love

what I’m about to say is
what I meant to say was
I’m dying to live
I’m dying to love

ain’t it a shame what we do to each other
friend, stranger, neighbor, lover
ain’t it a shame the way we hurt each other
friend, enemy, stranger, lover

put us to our rest
for what tomorrow brings
put us to our rest
til we are better beings

I’ve got a whole new version of myself
’tis made of cherry grins and flesh of elf
would you like to see me bring the clown of thorns down

out on the town
we prayed to the druid
to bring the world what it needs

out in the crowd
we preyed upon the lurid
to bring the world what it needs

what I’m about to say is
what I meant to say was
I’m killing to give
I’m killing to love

what I’m about to say is
what I meant to say was
I’m killing to live
I’m killing to love

ain’t it a shame what we do to each other
friend, stranger, neighbor, lover
ain’t it a shame the way we hurt each other
friend, enemy, stranger, lover

what I meant to say was
what I meant to say was
what I meant to say was
I’m killing
I’m dying
I’m dying
I’m killing
I’m killing and dying to love

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©(clown of thorns)(spider hacksaw)(2013)