Category: Detritus

The latest Corbidful mix CD consists of the following:

“Lisa Says” – The Velvet Underground
“Dirty Old Town” – The Pogues
“House On Fire” – Boomtown Rats
“Cupid’s Got A Brand New Gun” – Michael Penn
“Speak My Language” – The Cure
“Oh Me” – Nirvana (Meat Puppets Cover)
“Unwashed and Somewhat Slightly Dazed” – Bowie
“Hey Jack Kerouac” – 10,000 Maniacs
“Father Lucifer” – Tori Amos
“Julie Anne” – Ben Folds Five
“Elephant’s Graveyard” – Boomtown Rats
“Spare Ass Annie” William S Burroughs w/ Kurt Cobain

Dreamt I was on trial for crimes of being human in a soulless world.

(detritus)(poetica)(myth)(opinion)(divination)

Corbid.net

With some of the best lyrics that I have heard in ages…

Holding Your Hand

I’m gonna haunt you

I’m gonna haunt you

Through the playgrounds

Through the fires

You’ll be saluting at the stars

And I’ll be holding your hand

I’m gonna haunt you

I’m gonna haunt you

Out on the other side of luck

Where every business deal is struck

I’ll be holding your hand

Yeah Yeah

I’ll be holding your hand

I’m gonna haunt you

I’m gonna haunt you

In your ashes and your smoke

Like the punch line to a joke

I’ll be holding your hand

I’m gonna haunt you

I’m gonna haunt you

On every knife edge

Every trip

And on every needle tip

I’ll be holding your hand

Yeah yeah

I’ll be holding your hand

So I met a guy at a party the other night and, not that I’m back in the dating

pool or anything yet, god forbid, but still I’m not dead. Anyway this guy

was cute and witty and interesting and just had sort of a general attractive

vibe to him, right? Had read the Sandman series, knew cool historical trivia, gave a fucking excellent neck massage if I do say so myself.Don’t know what it was, I just really was intrigued. So

we converse a bit.Turns out he’s in his early forties, lives in relative

poverty and admittedly has a depressive disorder. I didn’t ask if he was

Irish. If he’s Irish then that makes it official: I have a type: depressive

low income Irish American men in their early forties. I am predictable as

the tides. It’s fucking tragic. And also it’s a shame because I’m totally and unfairly ignoring the whole White Male Geek aged twenty five to thirty five crowd to whom I am apparently most desirable.

The words “I love you” are supposed to be a spontaneous and fleeting declaration yet somehow in today’s society they have evolved into a question or a command or a tool with which to bully.

Sometimes thwy just mean what they mean in that second and that context for just that moment and it sucks that the big bad world has to go and suck the sweetness out of all tha just liek every other thing…

Apparently I can taunt the cable modem into letting me online. I got halfway through setting up a dialup connection and viola, back in business. For now anyway.

I’m not dead, I swear.
But I’ve been offline at home now for 6 days and counting (minus about five minutes on Saturday.)
And I’m not supposed to be posting from work, so.
See ya when I see ya?
Thank you for your patience.

The Corbidful One.

http://www.members.cox.net/corbid/exponentialdetritus.html

Saturday 7:00 am she wakes.
No energy and the weight on her shoulders of too much too late.
She’ll never catch up with life in a million years now.
Might as well just fucking give up. Heats up the skillet.
Looks for the package of potatoes, finds she left it out in the night.
Weighs the odds of eating them anyway, but chickens out and dumps them in the garbage. What the fuck’s she gonna eat now? There’s a tiny bit of shrimp cocktail left from the other night. Breakfast of champions. The dog starts whining for it. The dog whines like a fucking hyena sometimes. You’d think he was dying. He’s just been fed and everything. Babies are still sleeping at least, thank god. Fucking internet’s out again like it is practically every Saturday. Tries to call the one friend she knows will be awake but the damned ringer is off as always. Everyone else will be sleeping. She has to have caffeine. She wishes she could just have whiskey instead, but makes a coffeepot full of strong black tea. There’s a pain low in her back from cramps and from sitting oddly and from sleeping at the foot of the bed again. Curls up in the corner with a Vonnegut book that her ex said she’d hate but which she doesn’t. Puts on a Bowie/Eno compilation to complete the dissociative experience. It’s almost time to get out the spoken word William Burroughs even. It’s a cynical surreal disjointed sort of morning. Somehow she’s got to buck it up today. Pay some bills. Do some laundry. Start digging her way out of this apathetic dusty smelly mess. Has to be real again. Has to be real again. She hasn’t been real in about a week now. Forgets how she managed this the last time. Somewhere there’s something that’ll lift this grey. Someone somewhere knows the magic word or maybe there’s a bit of music that’ll do it or something on the television. Can’t find the fucking remote and it’s been ages since she watched television. It’s July and the fucking mosquitos are back and she’s itching like mad. Covered in mystery bruises as usual. Sallow skin, dark circles around pretty eyes, ugly little feet with calloused little heels, sitting there in her purple faery t-shirt wishing anyone in the world thought she were remotely important at this instant, not that she’d believe it if they said so. It’s probably just the hormones talking. Tomorrow, she’ll be an egoist once more. Today she is wretched and sad and lacking in energy and full of words that no one wants to hear. And nobody loves you when you don’t love yourself, they say. And she just fucking loathes herself right now. For being weak and beaing helpless and feeling sorry for herself instead of just getting up and fixing it and because no one needs her. She’s merely an interesting afterthought. A footnote. Best supporting actress in the movie version of everyone else’s life.And everything irritates her right now. And she wish the sun weren’t up right now. The cooler’s too cold, but if she turns it off it’s too warm. And isn’t that the story of her life? She’s tired but she can’t go back to sleep and sometimes dying sounds nice just for the rest that that involves although she’d never do it in a million years. She could sleep for a million years if only she could sleep at all. She could scream for a million years but no one would ever hear it.No one’s listening. No one’s home. Go back to bed, little girl. We’ll tell you when you’re needed. It isn’t now. It’s never now. You’re a lifetime benchwarmer is what you are. You’re fucking royalty, all the same. You’re Princess Afterthought,. Queen of things that people shove into desk drawers and forget about and books they mean to lend you but never get around to and invitations that get lost in the mail. Goddess of apathy and indecision and three quarters of a job well done. And now the babies are up and it’s time to smile and yawn and pretend you’re trying. Pour the cereal, turn on the cartoons, go into autopilot, because sometimes love is robotic motions when you’d rather not move at all. And so it goes. Thank you and good night.