the key to writing: you gotta just roll until you don't know what the
fuck you're saying anymore. but while you're writing, have a sense of
the god-damn pacing. don't pull a kerouac and just let the line go on
for the entire page and do the exact same thing the page after that, and
the entire book. nobody reads like that unless they blew an entire
snowball of crack heroin with gummi bears.
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Friday, February 13, 2015
TOZAN SHEET #9 GET HARDCORE
Stealing passion from God in the blazing fire of alchemic imagination
ImaginatioI went through hard shit for this.
Take your fucking leave of me. It's past your bedtime or something.
You make people comfortable. You do your best.
/
Your mind.
Fake people take their leave of you.
TOZAN SHEET #1
ode to my bright fucking halo
use me like a pen you found wherever and jacked itit's yours and you can make it say anything
i'm a custom muppet you designed and built yourself from rubber hoses and discarded bottles of reishi extract
peer at me thru the miron glass
meditate on the vortices behind the sun
WE FUCKS YOU UP LEBOWSKI
god,
i fuck you in the god
fucking ASSHOLES
/
you can't actually see me
you didn't see the actual grenade
the symbol employs the power
if you want to figure out what symbol you're interfacing with you have to come and fuck me
/
I'M THE FORCE
I mean I use the force
Which is part of me
I'M THE FUCKING FORCE
OOOooOoOOO watch Vanilla Sky 3 times in a row
Think about the mask you wear
You could be fucking hot people right now
/
I TOOK A STAND
the meaning of TOZAN
have taken the dharma name "TOZAN" which means nothing so you can stop thinking about it.
If you're bored break up with your boyfriend and come fuck me, I guarantee you it would be interesting.
Stop going to spiritual gatherings, if you're going to pay money get somebody from taskrabbit to bake you a cake or paint your bedroom orange. Here is the only problem with going to shit like that, it's like telling your subconcious you aren't at the highest possible level of evolution.
My music is going great & etc etc i won at life etc.
Increasingly breaking the habit of living with any kind of limitation whatsoever, I think for me for my personal lifestyle the only sin is conceiving of rules or limitations. When I operate outside of that it's creativity non-stop with no judgement on anything.
Studying Picasso a lot, or looking at his eyes anyway. He quit art school furious with establishment & with his father and he would look at other successful artists and get so furious and enraged and he was competitive. He knew within himself a dragon lived there so he woke up and painted 3 masterpieces before breakfast. It was easy for him b/c he didn't think "is this a masterpice" he thought "IMA LAY MY FUCKING COCK DOWN BIATCH*******************) and then he went and fucked gertrude stein or 7 ballarinas or whatever. He had a Dauschhund he named lump.
Spirituality is the study of the force behind the thing. I look at Picasso and I meditate on his animating energy, the force that drove him. I do sungazing and think what dimension is the sun EMANATING FROM that's where you DL the information from. ETC. That's why "reality is a dream" "maya" etc it's that the world is in things behind things. YOU CAN TAKE THAT TO THE BANK
<<XXXXXXXXXXXXXX
3X's
I'm good in bed and I have stamina.
-Tozan
If you're bored break up with your boyfriend and come fuck me, I guarantee you it would be interesting.
Stop going to spiritual gatherings, if you're going to pay money get somebody from taskrabbit to bake you a cake or paint your bedroom orange. Here is the only problem with going to shit like that, it's like telling your subconcious you aren't at the highest possible level of evolution.
My music is going great & etc etc i won at life etc.
Increasingly breaking the habit of living with any kind of limitation whatsoever, I think for me for my personal lifestyle the only sin is conceiving of rules or limitations. When I operate outside of that it's creativity non-stop with no judgement on anything.
Studying Picasso a lot, or looking at his eyes anyway. He quit art school furious with establishment & with his father and he would look at other successful artists and get so furious and enraged and he was competitive. He knew within himself a dragon lived there so he woke up and painted 3 masterpieces before breakfast. It was easy for him b/c he didn't think "is this a masterpice" he thought "IMA LAY MY FUCKING COCK DOWN BIATCH*******************) and then he went and fucked gertrude stein or 7 ballarinas or whatever. He had a Dauschhund he named lump.
Spirituality is the study of the force behind the thing. I look at Picasso and I meditate on his animating energy, the force that drove him. I do sungazing and think what dimension is the sun EMANATING FROM that's where you DL the information from. ETC. That's why "reality is a dream" "maya" etc it's that the world is in things behind things. YOU CAN TAKE THAT TO THE BANK
<<XXXXXXXXXXXXXX
3X's
I'm good in bed and I have stamina.
-Tozan
half-drunk in palm springs
Do not hold on to your robes. -Rinzai
perspective
"Hey Tawny,"
"Hey Golilocks," hispanic and black people love to call me,
even when my hair is greasy and I haven't washed it for a week,
which is why I'm in a salon where these people resent a guy with hair
down to his ass,
drowning in prayer beads,
wearing a brand-new white haynes undershirt from Rite-Aid,
soon to be ruined by rolling in the desert,
getting your Frank Sinatra on,
palm springs, the true writer's hideout, the edge of the barren brutality, the bare minimum of society
of crunks, genuine layabout crunks.
tawny.
in a past life some witch doctor shrunk my head,
and i reincarnated with half my brain missing,
the half that's supposed to care about society.
buddhism and karma and compassion and all that crap, i get it.
i love it. it's an object of affection, like a shaved pussy, it's beautiful
and unattainable. we fixate anyways. we gravitate to it anyways.
in the ocean of desert and broken martini glasses shaped like inverted UFOs,
invented by aliens who flew their spacecraft drunk and upside-down
or maybe space is their ground, and this planet is heaven,
and they just like to keep it in perspective.
/
afraid to write anything good
the last line of my poem is usually the best line, and i just give up.
that's the marker that i'm finished warming up and now the real writing begins.
you don't give up when your cock is finally hard. that's when the party STARTS
can't they just teach this in writing class?
comparing cock to writing would really put it in perspective.
i want a cock-shaped yacht.
the toilet-bilge can come spurting out the tip.
my boatswain's whistle in my mouth between the j and the cocktail
as the captain, abusing my whistle priveledges,
none of the crew hear it anymore, like ambulances in NYC, subliminally encoding us in a state of ongoing crisis,
the rivers of concrete molting like diseased cockateil,
young girls splashing and floating their breasts in the reflecting pool
that was originally for meditation.
meditation attracts floating breasts. the more sincere my zen practice, the more breasts will manifest.
monks must be ordained pimps. the conclusion of an impossible living
in the tar pits, the obscurity within obscurity,
the noble and pure obscurity,
never writing anything good.
/
giving up is the point
the entire point of going to a zen monastery
the entire point of being a zen master
is to get your disciples to give up and leave.
anyone trying to get enlightened is an asshole.
like these people selling secrets to make money
and they make money from selling their secrets, not from the secrets themselves.
giving up is the point. give up trying to do it and do it.
Master Unmon asked Tozan some ordinary questions.
Tozan gave simple, straightforward answers.
The Master said, "I spare you 60 blows."
/
the medium is the message
if you keep your saké in a plastic bag,
somebody will put a goldfish in it.
you can piss in a fancy bottle,
and eventually somebody will drink it.
you should contemplate this thoroughly.
/
if my dick was jagged
a love poem to a rock i put in my mouth
mick jagger and my jagged theoretical cock have something in common.
horsetail and nettle tea and rudolf steiner's fucking around in akashic records
the sun dips below the mountains, finally, i realize it's after 6
drinking, i thought it was noon, and thought badly of myself.
it's a number on a digital liquid crystal box built in china by girl with small hands.
mt. olympus and the himalayas and my jagged cock rising from the ocean.
you remember the altitude hypoxia, as though from another life.
a queer polaroid flash later and you're invincible, and 10 gluons moan and rearrange at my will.
if i can jedi a masseuse's hands to heal my divided, jagged crotch
if i can manifest two specific cars in the whole foods parking lot by watching youtube vids the night before,
if i can bring anyone to my door just by talking to myself in a mirror,
then this universe is a cosmic lucky charms
i get to call the charms as i see them,
alphabet soup,
corny witticisms and drunken geeks and tarantino marathons
and gold coins horded in slashed mattresses and coiled snakes in dreamtime olfactory mesh
and byzantine neuropathways flooded with seratonin from hysterical laughter
with a paper bag over my head with cut O's for eyes and mouth
hyperventilating into another bag
a stone is spent after cumming in lava 800 million years ago
you can get through a desert sucking on it
just convince it you are that lava.
/
perspective
"Hey Tawny,"
"Hey Golilocks," hispanic and black people love to call me,
even when my hair is greasy and I haven't washed it for a week,
which is why I'm in a salon where these people resent a guy with hair
down to his ass,
drowning in prayer beads,
wearing a brand-new white haynes undershirt from Rite-Aid,
soon to be ruined by rolling in the desert,
getting your Frank Sinatra on,
palm springs, the true writer's hideout, the edge of the barren brutality, the bare minimum of society
of crunks, genuine layabout crunks.
tawny.
in a past life some witch doctor shrunk my head,
and i reincarnated with half my brain missing,
the half that's supposed to care about society.
buddhism and karma and compassion and all that crap, i get it.
i love it. it's an object of affection, like a shaved pussy, it's beautiful
and unattainable. we fixate anyways. we gravitate to it anyways.
in the ocean of desert and broken martini glasses shaped like inverted UFOs,
invented by aliens who flew their spacecraft drunk and upside-down
or maybe space is their ground, and this planet is heaven,
and they just like to keep it in perspective.
/
afraid to write anything good
the last line of my poem is usually the best line, and i just give up.
that's the marker that i'm finished warming up and now the real writing begins.
you don't give up when your cock is finally hard. that's when the party STARTS
can't they just teach this in writing class?
comparing cock to writing would really put it in perspective.
i want a cock-shaped yacht.
the toilet-bilge can come spurting out the tip.
my boatswain's whistle in my mouth between the j and the cocktail
as the captain, abusing my whistle priveledges,
none of the crew hear it anymore, like ambulances in NYC, subliminally encoding us in a state of ongoing crisis,
the rivers of concrete molting like diseased cockateil,
young girls splashing and floating their breasts in the reflecting pool
that was originally for meditation.
meditation attracts floating breasts. the more sincere my zen practice, the more breasts will manifest.
monks must be ordained pimps. the conclusion of an impossible living
in the tar pits, the obscurity within obscurity,
the noble and pure obscurity,
never writing anything good.
/
giving up is the point
the entire point of going to a zen monastery
the entire point of being a zen master
is to get your disciples to give up and leave.
anyone trying to get enlightened is an asshole.
like these people selling secrets to make money
and they make money from selling their secrets, not from the secrets themselves.
giving up is the point. give up trying to do it and do it.
Master Unmon asked Tozan some ordinary questions.
Tozan gave simple, straightforward answers.
The Master said, "I spare you 60 blows."
/
the medium is the message
if you keep your saké in a plastic bag,
somebody will put a goldfish in it.
you can piss in a fancy bottle,
and eventually somebody will drink it.
you should contemplate this thoroughly.
/
if my dick was jagged
a love poem to a rock i put in my mouth
mick jagger and my jagged theoretical cock have something in common.
horsetail and nettle tea and rudolf steiner's fucking around in akashic records
the sun dips below the mountains, finally, i realize it's after 6
drinking, i thought it was noon, and thought badly of myself.
it's a number on a digital liquid crystal box built in china by girl with small hands.
mt. olympus and the himalayas and my jagged cock rising from the ocean.
you remember the altitude hypoxia, as though from another life.
a queer polaroid flash later and you're invincible, and 10 gluons moan and rearrange at my will.
if i can jedi a masseuse's hands to heal my divided, jagged crotch
if i can manifest two specific cars in the whole foods parking lot by watching youtube vids the night before,
if i can bring anyone to my door just by talking to myself in a mirror,
then this universe is a cosmic lucky charms
i get to call the charms as i see them,
alphabet soup,
corny witticisms and drunken geeks and tarantino marathons
and gold coins horded in slashed mattresses and coiled snakes in dreamtime olfactory mesh
and byzantine neuropathways flooded with seratonin from hysterical laughter
with a paper bag over my head with cut O's for eyes and mouth
hyperventilating into another bag
a stone is spent after cumming in lava 800 million years ago
you can get through a desert sucking on it
just convince it you are that lava.
/
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