Log in

No account? Create an account
and we watched you like a slide show's Journal [entries|friends|calendar]
and we watched you like a slide show

[ userinfo | livejournal userinfo ]
[ calendar | livejournal calendar ]

Final Goodbye [28 Nov 2005|08:01am]

Been awhile since I posted, but here goes.

"Stay with me," those eyes glistened up at me deceivingly. "Save me again?" Words I dreaded, doubt entering my heart and I knew that one of us would fuck up. Karma mocking us again.

"Yeah baby," I'd lie with a smile. "I'll always save you from the world." Uttering promises that neither of us would ever keep, and truly meaning that I would save him from himself. Again. My heart grew colder from our fake tryst, but I would wrap my arms around him anyways. I had loved him. Once upon a time it seemed, holding him high on a pedastal in the clouds of my mind. I had loved him deeply. But, once upon a time I had loved myself too.

Then I'd hold him through the night. Wooing and crooning sweet nothings. I sang his praises and drank his tears away. Calming his senses. Frightening the monsters that lurked in his past, driving the shadows from his haunted mind. A large frame would press firmly to my much smaller one in the darkness. Making hate and corruption ride through our bodies, we used each other for a moment of ecstasy. And I held him still, in our private lie.

Settling against me, his large head would nuzzle between my breasts. Seemlessly wrapping his body around me. Trapped. The sun rose and dried our sweat, streaking across our bodies until it faded into nothing but shadow. And I held him still.

"Everythings going to be alright" became my mantra to him. Became the strength that I had left to yield, all that had been me lent to him. He leeched my soul, my praise. And still it was never enough. Blessed sleep consumed him, taken from my arms and placed firmly into sleeps sweet embrace. The whimpers faded, the shaking stopped. Quiet. The tears dried in the hollow of my breasts, sleep evading me. Fate was not my friend.

And I hated him in that moment, almost as much as I hated myself. Same cycle, same meaningless lies thrown between us.

Always the same story. "I fucked up, thought of no one but myself. I'm sorry and it'll never happen again." Then we'd smile through our teeth at each other and our lives would start again. Loathe and hate permiating my existance as I bought the bullshit you fed me, knowing the truth but never strong enough to break free to it. His eyes would sparkle with such intensity as he looked upon me, but truly seeing through me and always looking for that something new.

New breasts to hold, new ass' to fondle, new pussy to encompass his every waking thought. The chase never ended, the latest playtoy was always out there for the hunt. But I was always there to give him strength. Resurge his body and boost him back onto his feet.

Never enough. I could never distract him for very long from himself. Self destructing, his past haunted him. Rotting and destroying his mind, he ran from it. He ran from me, when the distractions fell apart- when the waters were too calm. Stories left untold, foul deeds he had run from already. And our cycle would begin again. The hurt we heaped upon one another, the lies that slipped from our lips so easily. Reconciliation always a step away, when he needed me to save him again that is. Always changing, always the same.

And then I stopped it. I said no and sent him from me.

He still feels like home. His face haunts my dreams, his smile and every joy lit my heart. His childlike glee and melancholy laugh, the way he held me close. His scent, his vision, his passion, and his madness. I miss it all, I miss him still. He'll always own a piece of my heart, the one he stole. But I won't willingly drown again in his gaze, I won't cower in his shadow. I won't let him lie to me, use me. Steal my strength, and steal my voice again.

I love you still. Goodbye

Xposted all over.
post comment

“Join My Cult!” help promotron [18 Dec 2004|02:41am]

If you find this interesting, or already have a copy in hand... please
post this to your livejournal, myspace, etc... and pass it on. It's worth
checking out.

“Join My Cult!” Released By New Falcon Press: 10-23-04

In an age of Corporate-defined culture when even rebellion is
pre-packaged, what happens when a group of young suburban adults who
refuse to join any established genre band together?

In "Join My Cult!" (http://www.joinmycult.org), underground artist James
Curcio invites the reader to join this unique band of explorers as they
experiment with shamanism, magick, vision question, hallucinogenic drugs,
and what legendary novelist Robert Anton Wilson describes as "guerilla

The approach is already working. Guerilla ontologists have already
planted the http://www.joinmycult.org meme in many places from mainstream
publications like JIVE to on-line outlets such as disinfo.org and

Curcio is known in some circles as a musician (Babalon). Others know his
work as a visual artist, (http://www.jamescurcio.net). His novel "Join My
Cult" is now available from Arizona-based publisher New Falcon Press.
Curcio's name now stands alongside such New Falcon authors as Timothy
Leary, Robert Anton Wilson, Dr. Christopher Hyatt, and Aliester Crowley.

Curcio's release of "Join My Cult" coincides with the kick-off of a
related multi-media project and New Falcon's new e-zine, Digital Falcon.

Here's why so many are rushing to "Join My Cult!":

"Join My Cult! reads like a stroboscopic MTV docu-drama of Ulysses and
--- Peter Carroll, author of PsyberMagick, Liber Null &
Psychonaut and Liber Kaos: The Psychonomicon

"The slick site for James Curcio's occulture novel Join My Cult (Tempe AZ:
New Falcon Press, 2004) offers a multimedia exploration of characters,
essays, journal entries and soundscapes. With a nod to Robert Anton Wilson
and the chaos magick school, Curcio offers his insights on Tantra, Babalon
and the Parzival mythos"
--- Website review by Disinfo.org

"Did I read Join My Cult? Or was it just a strange and wonderful dream?
James Curcio has created a lunatic narrative that haunts and teases with
the promise of revelations to come. Open this book only if you are
prepared for a reality-wrenching journey into the secrets of the Invisible
--- Philip H. Farber, author of FutureRitual: Magick for the 21st Century

"James Curcio has one hand on Pandora's box and the key to open it in the
other. Join My Cult is an invitation to chaos, treading the thinly veiled
landscape between madness and genius. Once you make the trip, there is no
turning back."
--- Devon White, certified hypnotist and founder of Synergy Media Network
& LIAR magazine

When James Curcio (a.k.a. Agent139) isn't secretly mind-controlling
impressionable youth, he poses as the creative director of a number of
media companies and projects. He is currently working on pre-production
for Fas Ferox, a multimedia graphic novel project with a team of artists
including creative consultant multi-award winning novelist Neil Gaiman. He
resides in Upstate New York when he isn't traveling.

post comment

In case if you weren't wondering. [07 Nov 2004|04:16am]

Thee essays have gone live.
post comment

10-23 : A day to live in infamy [23 Oct 2004|04:56pm]


A project 10 years in the making is finally complete, and available.

JOIN MY CULT! has been released to the masses! God knows what will ensue. For those of you who somehow have missed hearing about the project, it is "about" a group of young adults in suburban america that fall through the cracks of the ad-culture and start dabbling with shamanism, visionary drug use, magick, etc. and wind up well over their heads. Much of it is told from within the walls of a mental asylum, that final arbiter of real/unreal.

Pick up an early copy at a 10% discount HERE. Spread the word.

This has been a public service announcement of the Mothers of the Cuban Revolution and Larry Snodgrass, et al.
post comment

Calling Artists & Writers [09 Sep 2004|10:30pm]

As many of you may know by now, the collaborative novel - headed by Agent 139 - entitled Join My Cult! will be hitting the market in 2 weeks. This has been an effort spanning 9 years, and many co-authors, incarnations, and of course the endless trials of getting a book published.

I ask you to check out the Website and if you think it is something you are interested in, please help us spread the word by posting about it in your own journals, blogs, websites, mail lists, etc... It would be very much appreciated, this is the kind of thing that does best with word of mouth, especially as the 'target audience' is so specific.

The blurb on the publishers page is Here.

post comment

Vanity [10 Aug 2004|11:08pm]
It says to post something for your first time here, so I'm in need of the experienced hands to terrorize me.

Behind an LJ because of length and sexual circumstances.

Vain like a mirror broken in seven equal pieces.Collapse )
post comment

Cheggitout [26 Jul 2004|02:00am]

Just got some of my stuff shown at Heavenshell.net




Most of these are excerpted from Join My Cult!
post comment

Visual art [24 Jul 2004|12:57am]

These are a few of the images I've been working on for a (very "hush hush") upcoming project.

Read more...Collapse )
post comment

Black Wings [12 Jul 2004|12:24pm]

[ mood | jubilant ]

He laid a hand on his troubled head and drew his knees into his chest, perched on the desk. Gun in hand. The white walls had portholes of pictures strewn around like reasons to live. The curtains were drawn and the door locked, wooden tracks were veins that ran down the length of the oak exit.
“So let me get this straight.” He said raising his head to a slant.
“You’re here to make the world right and good again?”
Strapped to a chair opposite him was an angel with huge, black ragged wings that twitched with every hoarse, beaten breath the angel swallowed and spat out.
“It was never right. Or good. I’m here to create a new world. A better world.” Said the angel with difficulty; his brutalised face stared at the gunman with black eyes that were dead to his face. The angel’s hair was matted and bloody, far from angelic.
“So you came to me,” He pointed at himself with the gun inquiringly. “For help?”
“Yes. Stitchlip, I don’t know what’s happened but you’ve become something…”
“Evil?” He filled in with a rye smile.
“Helpless” Corrected the angel with a shudder and shake of his wiry wings. A black feather fell out and twisted through the air, and landed with the other casualties of flight.
“I just don’t understand.” He said as fresh blood crept out the corner of his mouth.
Stitchlip stood up, he seemed as if on strings. He looked weightless and poetic in his movements as he glided over to the angel he rested a hand on his shoulder. The winged seraph never removed his eyes from stitchlips’; He inclined his head and whispered.
“Now feel reality.” Stitchlip hit him for the life he’s led, throwing the angels head back and flicked blood over the wall behind him.
“Hurts, doesn’t it?”
The angel tried to create energy in his hands but he was tired and wounded and he felt his wings burn. He let his head fall limp on his neck and his bound arms bled for the restraints were cutting into him. Stitchlip was pacing the room in front of the angel. He spun with grace and sat upon his desk again.
“Did God send you?”
“Yes. God thinks there is world enough to salvage amongst the carnage.” Replied the angel in a remorseless, indifferent tone. “Stitchlip, why do you hold me here? Why do you feel hate for God?”
“So God thinks the world isn’t a lost cause. And now, after thousands of years of destruction he has decided to give humans just one last chance?” He said with malice on his tongue.
“I am not a one man army. More will follow.” So this is the reconstruction of the world: a flow of angels to plug the wounds that have been opened.
“God is real.” Stitchlip laughed out. “I always thought he was just a scare tactic.”
“If it’s been thought, it exists.” Replied the angel, now raising his bruised face again to meet his. “You will pay for your sins. The world will rise to meet heaven and a bridge will be built.” His words carved nightmares out of the air for Stitchlip, he held his head where the lurid dreams were erupting then fell to the floor. The angel just watched him writhe in the terror and the pain. Stitchlip span up from the floor and struck the angel in the face again knocking him and the chair down. Stitchlip picked him back up from the floor and they were face to face. Not even air between their heads. Only hate.
“What are you?” The angel said as Stitchlip imagined biting his face and crushing his windpipe and tearing his wings apart and destroying this beauty.
“What am I? What am I? I am the troubled kids. I am the problem with society. I am the rise in population and fall of gods. I am the pollution that chokes the world.” Stitchlip was energetically creating scenes of devastation with the motions of his hands. The gun was still clenched tightly in his fist.
“WHO ARE YOU?” The angel screamed.
“I am Seb.” He raised the gun and shot the Agent of heaven in the skull. Its head flew back throwing blood over the walls and spattered on Seb’s apathetic face. He held the smoking gun motionless for a time. For a small eternity the grey air crept out, twisting and somersaulting from the barrel. Then he lowered the gun and stood over the angel’s body, blood pooled around his space-black wings. A crimson tide washed over Sebs feet. His voice was cracked and lips were stitched.
He scrambled over to the door and fumbled for the handle. He swung open the door and stopped short of leaving. Beyond that room, nothing existed. A white wash of infinity. Not even a star could be seen in the endless nothing. Seb turned back to his room-turned-cage and collapsed to the floor, through the curtains he could make out the same indescribable nothing that stretched on forever. He looked down at the angel who was smiling in death. And the air that didn’t subsist tasted stale and everlasting. And he was forever forgotten as the boy who destroyed the world.

post comment

First post. Three pieces of work. [11 Jul 2004|11:43pm]

Am I good enough?Collapse )
post comment

[10 Jul 2004|03:25pm]

[ mood | working ]


Delved behind behind the cover of one of the hard-bound research texts, the young man paused for a moment before idly glancing up, the rest of his upper torso stunned into immobility as if questioning if this obnoxiously loud "hello" was directed towards him. For a moment he was sure she had merely done this out of error, but then again, what error could be made in a university library where silence was golden. The young woman that now appeared to him didn't seem at all sheepish about carrying her voice through the cavern of stocked shelves and occupied tables. In sheer embarrassment for her, he forced his eyes to return to Meadows and Hemmingway before anyone suspected the two aquaintances.

"Hey, I'm talking to you."

His irritation swelled up in his throat like a disgustingly bulbous wad of phlem. How uncouth could she be? She looked well-bred enough, clean cut and dressed considerably better than he. That in itself made him mentally kick himself for thinking he could be seen in broad daylight with a tie-dye Rolling Stones T-shirt and cut off jean shorts. What an idiot. More infuriatingly, he lifted his gaze, coldly meeting the other's and he laid down the heavy reference, cold and calculating.

"What.. is it," he whispered harshly, barely able to contain his irritation. He noticed two young freshman girls staring at them, quirking their eyebrows questioningly.

"Yeah, I thought that was you. I saw you last night."

She had short brunette hair and more notably a nosering that went through the cartilage between the two nostrils. It resembled (more than likely intentionally) of a Bull ring. His mother was always into the idea that peircing animals was inhumane. That aspect of her he seemed to like, on that note, just like siding with the Free Masons in opposition of the Catholic Church. In actuality, he wasn't siding with her at all, just her nose. He was lost in this for a few seconds before he registered to just what she was refering to.

"You were good. Kudos."

He knew where she had seen him. At the Opera House, affectionately named due to its placement in the old downtown entertainment district, boxing matches would be held every Friday night. It was a good, clean way to make a little cash on the side through bets. You got even more money if you fought. He gently touched the wrap around his ribs, faintly detectable from undernearth the cheap cotton. His entire abdomen was still terribly tender. It was a good thing he had a health plan, or otherwise he would have had to have blown all his winnings on hospital fees. It was a good investment to get one, he had tuition to pay afterall.


"Don't mention it. See you again Friday?"

"Yeah, I think so."


She didn't seem the type, now that he observed her as she turned to leave. Other than the nosering, she came off as a very normal, functioning member of society. That is what they called them now, wasn't it? "Functioning"? Some nineteen-something kid from a white-collar family willingly gets the crap kicked out of him on a regular basis. Does't sound too functional. But he had never questioned his super-hero system, the whole student-by-day and currently-standing-champion-by-night.

He watched her as she glided through the panel doors, wondering if her business suit was the same type his mother wears. You just can never tell with some people, I guess. He returned to Hemmingway.

post comment

I beg a minute of your time. [22 Jun 2004|02:22pm]

Corner of my mind

Don't try to look inside me
Pushing past the barriers I set up so carefully,
For when you tear down my defence
What you see will make no sense.
In my mind there's mess strewn across the floor;
A jumble of thoughts nobody can decipher
An ancient language you cannot read
No telling where this Labyrinth will lead.

Didn't I warn you not to come inside?
There's no escape, no way out- I've tried
It's too late now, the end of the day
Make yourself comfortable, you'll just have to stay.
Clear the mess, but don't organise
Can you see pain when you look in my eyes?
Ignore it. I've cleared a corner you can use.
A corner of my mind, for nothing but you.

This corner has saved my sanity
Belongs to you, but is a part of me
I like sitting here, a day amongst night
Watch dusk specks glitter as they catch the light.
The rest of my mind grows with fear and hate
Mountains of brambles I can't penetrate
Their thorns cut deep, but I still ignore
And as they grow, so this pain becomes more...

Then it's gone, everything lost.
Nothing remains. Blank, white void.
I shiver, cold from the frost.
I turn, your corner has been destroyed.

post comment

A Fairy Tale [03 Jun 2004|03:52pm]

[ mood | listless ]

Li was sitting at an old round table staring into his glass of ale, watching the bubbles dance and the world through the looking glass. He was wearing his purple satin coat with paint on the sleeve; he liked being accused of looking like an artist. A man with one eye and a black scar over the other hobbled over to his table and slumped down in the seat opposite. Li looked up wistfully from his glass of daydreams and inclined his head ‘How are you, stranger?’
‘I need a wish. And I need it tonight.’ He said in a hoarse, used voice while scratching his scraggly stubbly chin.
‘And what makes you think I can grant you that?’ Li was already inconspicuously reaching into his pocket for his leather pouch.
‘I’ve heard…things. From people who know what they’re saying.’ He hunched over the table and slid a bright green marble over the scratched surface of the tabletop. Li picked up and examined the sphere between his thumb and forefinger.
‘And what’s this?’ Li said curiously.
‘Grant me that wish and it will become clear.’ The way he peeled his hat lower over his eyes reminded Li of a fisherman braving a storm.
‘What’s your wish then?’
‘I want to know everything.’ As the stranger said this Li squeezed one of the stars in his pocket to oblivion.
‘It is done’

The gruff fisherman nodded in gratitude and walked out of the pub and out of the world forever. Li’s attention turned to his new trinket. The marble had surely enough become clear, clean and pure as water under blue skies. He buried the marble into his pocket, finished off his drink and left the pub. Heading for home.
Li woke up the next morning and crawled out of bed. His joints screamed and his head was as light as concrete. He bumbled into the kitchen and looked in the mirror. He was wooden. He was as wooden as Pinocchio. One carved expression on his face. He tried to say something. Scream, maybe. But he felt his lungs knock against his oak ribcage. He felt his birch wood heart stationary in suspension. He moved with a judder and a creak, he would of cried if he wasn’t a meticulously constructed tree. Incapable of love he fell to the floor, his hollow body echoing, he felt his frail wooden veins and arteries crumble and break inside his wooden flesh.
Li came to staring at the white ceiling. He had no idea how long he was collapsed for he looked at his hand to see if he dreamt the curse. His hand was immovable, still wooden. How long had he been a puppet? How long had he been on the kitchen floor for? He woodenly stumbled out the door of his house and the world was as desolate as his dreams: all black and charred. No world to wonder in. He walked for hours amongst the debris, heading nowhere but going everywhere. He came to a standstill at a cliffs edge, there was no water left to fall into and float away on. He could become driftwood no more. He hurled himself off regardless, whistling through the air and plunging down onto rocks and a burnt seabed. He crashed onto the platform, splintering fragments of him flying everywhere, wooden fingers snapping, ribs breaking and organs crunching under the weight of gravity. He was still looking through oak eyes. He was still living this precarious life.
Li stared at the tumbling grey skies, all the clouds twisting into the smoke from the Armageddon. His vision curled everything he saw into a marble, a small green marble being slid over the table by a rough fisherman asking for a wish.
‘What does the future look like?’
‘Like a wasted wish’ Li replied.

post comment

if it were 1950 [03 May 2004|09:36pm]

if it were 1950, gary good would be 2, maybe 1. my father would be in new york, and it would be before the conscription. gary used to be part of the translation, and he was the one to call if there was a flicker before the bulb burned out. he was the one to call if your head was speaking through a larva of asbestoses, writhing like pudgy babies in a calendar shoot, babies who were exploited before they turned genuinely fat, babies that could twist and lodge in your throat, like tuberculosis, babies that could taste like HIV if they plunked out right into your veins. gary good was in vietnam, came back a negro despite his efforts. he had sex with loose women, even used heroin irresponsibly, but only to compensate for the hole come back in his foot. what could they really give him to compensate? a clean race? blood on the door? gary good went crazy, maybe he's dead, it doesn’t matter anyway. he lived in fairlawn by the drive-in hamburgery and was the recipient of brutal accidents, but goddamn, he was a good kid.
2 comments|post comment

First Post [09 Mar 2004|11:07pm]

[ mood | energetic ]

These are just a couple of my writings, thank-you for allowing me to share. :)

dance across the glittering rim of a blackened mugCollapse )

8 comments|post comment

Just a Quick Selection :) [11 Feb 2004|09:03pm]

So you can get to know me...

The RookeryCollapse )
SheCollapse )
UntitledCollapse )
2 comments|post comment

hit me up... [13 Jan 2004|01:03pm]

WORDs DANCE is now accepting poetry/prose/art for it's Spring Issue.

Also in this issue, we are featuring a special section for you guys to send in your favorite love poems. Please read the News page and the Guidelines page before submitting love poems or your own poetry.

Check out our Winter Issue, it has some awesome art/lit in it.

Thank you,

post comment

Stars For Strings [03 Jan 2004|02:35pm]

The Sea rolls over the rocks. Throwing white pearls over my socks.
The sea hisses happiness under the broken songs of beauty. The flaming soldier dies with grace; He screams it's his duty.
The kites fly like how I want to. The paper smiles smear like mascara in the rain.
It leaves no trace. No tell tale stain.
Just a path of metallic grass, shining like broken glass. On a field of mirrors.

A bloody name scrawled on the bathroom tiles.
A violent sign. That yours is mine.

The ships sail through their course. Plotting out the stars with hands like feathers, quavering in the wind.
The hills fall back to unveil the sea, glinting in its peaks. And my thoughts tint the grass a truthful blue. And I'm hanging upside down. With stars for strings. Astrology's puppet.
And I'm learning to love it.

Smothered in this dream.
Saving my vision like snapshots of steam. Indifferent shapes, never to be seen again. Painted in the water.

Cease to falter.

You're dancing in the shadows. Hiding in a silhouette.
Looking out an eye, motion in a movement.

Recorded in the distant fantasy of a memory.

One day my thoughts I'll feed to you.
You'll taste with a silver tongue.

Unravel in my sleep and weep my secrets. Twining itself around my kicking legs. And a girl in white shouts her mind to the jagged rocks beneath. Waves roaring, surging beneath the bare feet of wind. Catalysts of energy driving it like you drive me.
Fish catch the bait. And we run elated.

Hate like rain. Makes the wise insane. Eager hands go for gold. And it crumbles in greedy fingers. The yellowed moon flows over waves of sky.

My mind etched your figure upon the sands of time.
Odors like a pillow soaked in dreams.

Gentle metal rusts with tears from a dressed wound.
Achilles heel was a sacrifice of passion.
Philosophy is insomnia with sleep.

I was in a dark bar with cigarette smoke winding round my curious fingers, trying to test the material of death. And that's when i died.
post comment

The Stranger [04 Nov 2003|07:42pm]

[ mood | artistic ]

Sorry if you've read this on another writing community, but I'm trying to get commentary on my writing style....cause well, I haven't written anything for a LONG time & I'm intrested in people's opinions. Thanks.

The StrangerCollapse )

post comment

[24 Sep 2003|06:21pm]

The world spreads its thick layer of obscurity over the ground and I stare. Paralyzed. Behind my barrier invisible to bird and beast. The kind of curtain that you could accomplish anything in; free to let damned words flow off your tongue, serrated edges that may cut and bleed under more cowardly circumstances.
Out there, there are no clear-cuts no slash-and-burns, only fuzzy shadows that sweep their grays and transparancies across the empty stage. Devoid of actors, at least for now. The puppetshow will resume when the sky rights itself to mingle with clouds in celestial ecstasy and solid atoms lie available to be trodden on once more. Obscurity that is almost palpable enough to be real--perhaps I could just reach out a preserve a bit of this moment to keep in corduroy pockets until honmesty carries the potential to bruise and freeze, making shutters fall over wounded eyes, wounded hearts, wounded veins. Believe me when I say that this was not what I was hoping for that the edge of this new beginning, as I was still shrounded with my foolish masks of hope and naivety. My insecurities crash like waves where they lay dormant during that parallel winter, freezing into sheets of amorphous ice for two months, months that I could just rewrite endings in my head. Reform the flaws and heavy silences with the stroke of a pen.

4 comments|post comment

[ viewing | most recent entries ]
[ go | earlier ]