Emptying The Bastille

a poem about hipsters

xthecoolx — Mon, 17 May 2010 06:15:51 +0000

i heard you talking shit about pitchfork
i saw your ipod
you were listening to gang gang dance
you always talk about the importance of lady gaga
you have fashionable shoes, glasses, and clothes
some day you’ll be a photographer
you know what’s important
who’s important
six months before they do
i read on your blog
that bloghouse was dead
i shed a single tear
i read on your blog that justice was over
and i cried
maybe you could make me feel better
with a trip
on your vintage bike

-aaron

This is the first day of my life

xthecoolx — Mon, 08 Jun 2009 06:28:02 +0000

Yeah, yeah, what the fuck, I know. There has been quite a large gap in between posts yet again, however, for once I have a logical and reasonable alibi. As I write this now, I am sitting on my new un-put-together bed in my brand new mess of a room in my brand new house that I moved into today. Yes, dear hearts, the umbilical has been severed and I no longer live at home with the parental units. Instead, now I am a man, an adult, standing on my own two feet, living my own life, paying my own bills, buying my own food and, dear lord, washing my own clothes. Its a nice shake up though, being able to sit at my laptop in my room with a cup of rum in my hands and no one nagging me about it. However, it goes without saying that I am scared shitless out of my ass.

So how did this happen and why is this only being reported now? Well to be fair this situation is an amalgamation of me being pseudo-kicked out pseudo-walking out on my own accord and I soon realized afterwords that I didn’t have much in the way of options. The details for that is kind of sketch but lets just say this was a long time and a lot of counselling meetings discussing “mommy issues” coming.
For the past week I have been living at my girlfriend’s house (oh yeah, I have a girlfriend now. Hell does, on occasion, find itself in the midst of a cold snap) and while I am eternally grateful for what she’s done to keep me from chillin’ on the streets, her internet connection leaves much to be desired and without wireless, the signal my laptop picked up was sort of on the non-existent side of things. However, she kept me fed and warm and rested and most of all, made me feel welcome, even though by this point I’m almost positive she’s sick to fucking death of me and needs a good month of recovery after dealing with me in close quarters for so long.

It also needs to be mentioned that Stacey has gone above and beyond the call of friendship in the way that she’s helped me get sorted. She’s kind of like the guide that’s held my hand and showed me what it is I need to do to be able to make this work. She’s given me so many things and has been with me every single step of the way, it’s absolutely insane how much effort she’s put into this.

So now this is the first day of my life. From this point on I’ve got no fall back routes to travel in case the road gets narrow and difficult. To say I’m not absolutely terrified at the possiblity of inclined tits (this entire operation going tits up) is a bold-faced lie, but whatever, you know? This is my chance to prove all the things I said I would and I kinda gotta make good on this. Its also very exciting to be able to live on your own, to be your own person and answer to no one but yourself, or maybe the landlord.

However, I need to put a cap on this for now, I have at least mutliple hours worth of cleaning to tackle before I go to sleep and I can feel my eyes drooping, so the amount of it I’ll probably complete will be a minimum at best.

Cheers to the future and all that.

- R.o.A

yes, this poem

xthecoolx — Fri, 22 May 2009 06:33:41 +0000

this poem is dedicated to the wayfarers
the drunks living the idyllic life
as sun casts the most beautiful tint
of mexico dreams into that bottle of hope.

this poem is dedicated to the chain smokers
and the gambling dens where hazy
nights are spent and friendships are bet
and won and lost to the swirling black heart of chance.

this poem is dedicated to the
collegic types with bookwormish tendencies
to squirm and fidget in the shocking presence of the untold story of future.

this poem is dedicated to the:
guitar
drum
voice
bass
occasional harpsichord breakdown
of life, the rhythm and dance of forgetting;
the hum and the tune of believing;
the funny ability in which song posseses
the strength to snap our backs as we sing.

this poem is dedicated to the lovers
those fucking fools of calamity.
you know the way that doom haunts their backs like a brazen cloud
like hiroshima was only the precursor to a much larger explosion
like the fallout will cast them into a rage of dispair and suicide.
this poem is dedicated to that,
for the just in case.

this poem is dedicated to the airfield
how it signifies a means of escape with only a minimal possiblity of crushing defeat.

this poem is dedicated to the gutter
because love stems from every single rose you see.

this poem is dedicated to the coffee shops
in which we waste away our days, confused
and intelligent, brilliantly misunderstood
as if the place was a stage and we are the actors
but i guess it already is like that
if you think too hard about it.

this poem is dedicated to every other poem penned down, onto parchment, paper, stone or arms alike.

this poem is dedicated to you, my dear
for you bring forth the muse to scribe these words,
to wrangle them into existence, when even they don’t wish to be seen.

this poem is dedicated to the underdog
who lies weeping under sleeping castles
after victory and enchantment has passed him by
like another train
vanishing into the morning.

this poem is dedicated to all those mad dogs who still posess the courage to howl.

- R.o.A

tell them who you are.

xthecoolx — Thu, 14 May 2009 19:31:09 +0000

In Front of The Class - Bonafide Rojas

- R.o.A

Beverage Review

xthecoolx — Wed, 13 May 2009 00:42:56 +0000

Steaz Root Beer Flavoured Sparkling Green Tea

On opening the can, I was greeted with a delightful fuck you as it burst open with slightly carbonated goodness onto my bag. Root beer, this is not. However, while it’s not being entirely unpleasant, the can has a certain smugness about it – being stamped with several proud proclamations that the beverage contained within has been certified fair trade, organic, and vegan. The latter of which I found most surprising as I was not under the impression that root beer companies had begun packing their beverages with pig snouts and cow hooves. I imagine the best way to consume this beverage is to stand outside your local Apple store with your dirty dreadlocks, smoking and discussing Noam Chomsky, briefly putting the can down at your side to set the playlist on your iPod to whatever Pitchfork is recommending this week, you smug son of a bitch. If I had to sum this drink up in a sentence, it would be that regularly consuming this will turn you into an asshole, if you aren’t one already.

Score: 2.5/5, but because of the pretentious jerkoff quality and cost of the beverage, final score adjusted to 1/5.

-Aaron

this… made me tear up immensely

xthecoolx — Mon, 11 May 2009 06:08:14 +0000

Learn something.

- R.o.A

oh my, you great calamity

xthecoolx — Sat, 09 May 2009 02:25:54 +0000

Oh, stifle your laughter and suffer the rest, for the weary have all since abandoned this mess of a home, this façade of existence. Yeah, they’re long gone and pining is not an option. The only way to find them is to catch up and boy, you’ve got years of weed smoke and thoughtless rebellion to make up for that. Your time has long since passed.

Oh time, oh frivolous time. Time has conjured the end of you as the second hand races around your heart and the hour hand strikes vicious, like an executioner’s axe. Or perhaps its just one of those smiles you’re given, those reassuring sentiments that you hold ever so dear to your chest late at night when nobody cares for you, not even yourself. Those are the kinds of things that bring warmth through the blizzards of winter, those dogs of war, but boy, its summer time now. Would those same dear sentiments not cause you to burn up? Your flames rise so high, they burn so bright, one could only liken them to a signal flare calling out for help, or at least in theory anyway. However, we’ve discovered in the past that theory is a treacherous divine creature, is it not? Theory will strap you down to its own ideals and then gut you open when the floor cuts from beneath you. Theory will hold your head up only to get a better strike at your neck. Theory will fuck you until you’re raw and wounded and broken.

You seem depressed. Is there any way to help? What about those pills that the infomercials parade on about? What about swallowing whole, the very essence of your being with the swig of a bottle, the drag of a cigarette? You crave it, just as you crave the attention it brings, just as you bite down on the lip and chew ever so gently.

I don’t think I can help you anymore, for you refuse to help yourself. I don’t think I can hold you any longer, as your body is loosening my grip. I don’t want you to think that I don’t care, but you’re freefalling into madness again. What happens the next time? What happens then?

- R.o.A

How to make a browine

xthecoolx — Thu, 07 May 2009 01:00:23 +0000

Sure fire brownie recepie:

1 part – beard of defiance
2 parts – atonal math-rock
1 tsp – pure concentrated awesome

Directions:

Mix in a blender, puree, pour onto baking sheet, put into the oven, bake on easy for 40 minutes.

Submitted by: Alexz

- R.o.A

Let me tell you about war..

xthecoolx — Mon, 04 May 2009 18:21:55 +0000

sometimes, i’ve
been known to sit
and stare at the ashtray
as it stares back
at me, like we’re waging
our own silent war.

i feel bold and patriotic,
staring at the smug, self-satisfied
nazi bastard as it stares back at me,
coughing, ejaculating black ash
whenever the wind hikes up it’s
teasing skirt and bares its gustly fruit.
i swear to you, the couch, the front porch,
even the goddamn balcony becomes Stalingrad
when this happens.
the lines are dyed in red paint and we touch
our toes on the other side
with machineguns in hand, maybe a few grenades;
chomping on cigarettes, swallowing the nicotine
like gin, always staring each other down
with that menacing, hate filled
stare. it knows too much
and i have been ordered to kill it,
for the good of the fucking world, i need to end it,
make it bleed in eternity,
make it fear me for all the times i have been told to fear it.

the war is fought, bullets are spread,
the war is mine,
but it shot me in the leg,
looked me deep in the eyes
and punctured my lung with no remorse, laughing.

no, cackling.
it fucking cackled madly before it perished
into nothingness.

- R.o.A

Tonight and every night I will analyze everything, make myself count the ways I fucked up today.

xthecoolx — Sat, 02 May 2009 03:36:32 +0000

Oh, hello despondence, my dear old friend. My, it has been quite some time hasn’t it? How have you been keeping up these days? Ever since I changed the locks with my anti-depressants, you haven’t been around all that much, but I guess now that they’ve left my system, you’ve come to pay me a visit. Yes, I know, I should be taking them, you don’t need to tell me twice, but due to our mutual fuck karma, I haven’t been able to get any, thus, back to my old self again. Back to the lovable, misanthropic, bore that I always was and always will be.

That karma, she’s a fickle little minx, isn’t she? She has this way of wrapping you around her nimble little finger, then squeezing with all of her might. It seems she’s got a bone to pick with me too. For everything that seems to be going right, she likes to throw something back at me, just to keep me from getting cocky, I guess. Now that you’re here, I guess we’re gonna have us a good old sadsap party, complete with chips, dip, and contemplative suicide.

And really, why should I be surprised? It’s not like I didn’t see this coming, it was in the cards a while ago, but I guess you can only swim in the river of denial for so long before you get tired, wrinkly and are forced to crawl out onto the burning sands of life.

God, I hate you. I hate you so much and what you do to me drives me insane. How do I get rid of you? Are you really such a defining part of me that you’ll never leave? Is this really who I am? How much farther can I run away from it, from you, until I stop to catch my breath?

And by catch my breath, well…

Why do I make so many mistakes? Why can I never fix them? Where is my shoulder to lean on, or my security blanket to cover me from all that you do to me?

I hate you so much, which subsequently means I hate myself with just as much passion. Go figure, eh?

Here’s to summer. May I drink it fully before the cyanide kicks in.

- R.o.A