synner's blog: "Hated by Many~Confronted by None"

When I am lonely, I think of death. When I think of death...I'm lonely I suppose this error will continue. I'll walk into each grey morning, delighted by the frost that is death, and the trees that stand alone, in it's mists. When I thought I'd met my true love I was lonely. But it was the love in her body that was lonely. That error went on & on. Mornin's I would kiss her cold lips, devoid of altruistic passion. But the nights...the nights, her body dripping with those mists. This is the error that fascinates. I suppose too, you are secretly lonely. Thinkin' of death, thinkin' of love I'd like please, to leave a flower on your window. Just one cold flower, whose beauty Will leave you inconsolable all day. The secret of poetry is cruelty.

I guess things are cool still 'cause I ain't dead yet. Rats in the dumpster move thru the beercans sound like small dogs. Her pictures are stuck to a painting, by some dead fuckin' freak. It took me a lifetime to find her, and if the gods give me another lifetime I'll understand her yet... Her pic's don't move or speak, but I still got her voice...in my head. She talks alot again, sometimes her laugh...still so real. She says the thousand things, the one thing I always ignored; this will never leave me... That I had love, and now it's dead. A picture and a piece of tape ain't much, I've learned that lately... but give me one fuckin' day or two lives. I will kill any fucker who will touch or try to take... ...whatevers left

he's a runt he snarls and scratches chases cars growls in his sleep and has perfect scars above each eyebrow we hear it outside; he's rippin' the fuck outta somethin' out there 5 times his size it's that rich bitch's dog from 'cross the street that educated, expensive, bluebook dog oh boy...we're all in trouble I yank 'em apart and we run inside with the fucker bolt the door turn out the lights see them comin' across the street immaculate & concerned looks like 7 or 8 people comin' to get their dog that pretty bag o flesh with fur... he ought to know better than to cross the railroad tracks

rode the train today, to go buy dope. i met a genius on the train today. about 6 years old, he sat next to me. and as the train ran north along the river, we came to the bay and then he looked at me and said "it's not pretty." it was the first time I'd reaized that.

each man must realize that it can all dissappear very quickly. the dog, the girl, the job the front fuckin' tire. the bed, the walls, the room; all our "necessities includin' love, rest on foundations of sand- and any given cause, no matter how unrelated: the death of a whore on the lower east side or a blizzard in Omaha... can be your undoin'. all your chinaware crashin' to the kitchen floor, your girl will enter, and you'll be standin', drunk, in the middle of it, and she'll say "my god...whats the matter?" and you'll answer; "i don't know... I don't fucking know?"

you know, it was really fuckin' good. it was beter than anythin'. it was like somethin' we coulda picked up, rolled over, held, looked at in amazement, and laugh about, hysterically. we were on the moon. we were in the goddamn moon, we had it. never before, a fuckin' place such as that, was there? so very deep and so incredibly bright and so impossibly high so safe from the outside. at times it got so near to insanity. we laughed so very hard your laughter and mine. i 'member when your eyes screamed love so loudly now, as your walls have ever so quietly, shifted.

Somewhere along the rosd you meet up with yourself. Recognition is immediate if it happens at the right time & place you propose a toast; May you remain as my shadow when I lie down. May I live on as your ghost. Then you pass knowing you'll never see yourself that way again.

It's been a few years since I've stopped somewhere long enough, to consider it, and take up residence. You may think that it's lonely, or perhaps adventureous to live this way; following wherever the road takes me. It isn't, really. Adventuresome. Excitement wasn't what drove me to this wanderin'. If I wanted excitement, I would have stayed in the place of my birth. It's safer on the road. No sober person turns against you, challenges you, if it's clear your just passin' thru. My kind is not reflected on well, not in this world. Suspicion has leached it's way into the soul of society; suspicion against any free thinkin' individual who is not "normal"; not "human". So, now you ask of lonliness. Why should you care? You have your home to return to, your family & friends to distract you...your a "respectable" person. No one out there to accuse you of bein' of "diminished character"...void of the idea of in-compassion. Should you even possess a fraction of these qualties, no one would hold it against you. You are as they. Forgive me...These times bring bitterness. I shouldn't speak so, when I don't know you. No...no thanks, I'll pay for my own drink. To the bartender one bill is as good as another; he don't give a shit if the hand holdin' the money is smooth or scaly..it's his now. Besides, I ought to be movin' again. Lemme get my coat, and the bar will be yours again... alone.

If you think I am foul or outta bounds, then I ask: do you judge the man or the message? If you think it's the message I say you are blind and stupid. Most of you live under that thin glossY facade...and you think it is real. A valueless, commercialized, bullshit world created so that slaving sheep can fatten the master...and you can be convinced that your life has some meaning, cause you got a cool car. Or that your minerial cover up hides the REAL you..or you can sustain an erection medically induced. So sad to live in your greed constructed orb, candy-coated in your hypocritical shell. It's not the things I write about that are foul, or me specifically...or you. It's the world we've allowed. It's the blatant commercialism, and our willingness to pander to it. It's the abundant lack of integrity amongst our collective lives. It's the our tolerance of injustice, and our failure to organize against it. A willingness to bow rather than stand & fight. It's a government willing to turn it's back on it's own people to profit over it. Molesters behind the podium, inadequacy in the oval office, adulerous wives & husbands standin' behind warm breakfast plates, vile thieves dressed in suit & ties. Masks are masks. And we passively stand by, as so not to see under the surface, because you cannot handle what lies underneath it. Not lookin' at a pile of shit, don't mean it doesn't stink. What is foul? The world itself being quickly spun into a self-destructive centrifuge. Reducin' society to it's lowest common denominator. Lawsuit's in place of self-accountablty. Family's, who have not right to even exist, because they thrive & live off the pain & toil of the rest of us, because their too lazy to do it themselves.. No...the world is much fouler than anything I can write. So...if you think it's me thats foul...or those who agree wih me...why are you still fuckin' readin'? Pull off your blinders, even if for one brief moment, and face REAL horror. Is that face in your mirror? I unlike the masses, will not turn a blind eye, to you "soft-steppin" "politically correct" one eyed cowards who have tightly bound us to this shit. Only steel-spined men and women not afraid to accept responsibilty for our COLLECTIVE action, and tons of sharp & brutal honesty, can cut us free. Or if you think your just fine, and I'm the crazy one for being too open, too honest...too exreme, let me remind you that when you look at how shitty this world has become, it's cause we've tried it your way for far too long. Sorry, if I have been messy & ugly in deliverin' this. Or hurt your precious feelings, but a man tends to get dirty when dregin' thru shit AND I'M NOT IN THE FUCKIN' FEELIN'S BUISNESS.

I played my c.d.'s all night long on the 6th and the neighbors pounded, and the landlady knocked on the door, and said... "Please please please... MOVE!! You get the sheets filthy, Where DOES that blood come from? You never work... you lay around & listen to that devil music, and drink, and you got that unshaved face thats always smirkin' cruely. And you bring those whores home. You wear those boots and denim & leather. Why don't you leave?? Your makin' us all unhappy." "Fuck off you cunt", I hiss thru the keyhole..."my rent is paid till friday. Can I show you an oil paintin' of a nude, painted by a fag from the Village? I have it insured for 5000 dollars." Pissed off she stomps away. No artiste is she. I would like to see her naked though. Perhaps I could fuck her into happiness, no?