Thursday, September 14, 2017

Cocaine Blues

There it was. The faint glimmer of steel, a lost treasure of old buried within foreboding ruins... or in this case weeks old food and cigarette wrappers. My hands after finally reaching the uncharted depths of my trash-can, clenched the orange crowned prince and after haphazardly running it through some lukewarm water I was ready to go to work.

My arm was on fire before the needle broke my skin (cue some long-winded post-structuralist rhetoric about the symbolism of the phallus penetrating the human form and bending it to its will through sex and endorphins). Once I registered, the icy, chemical taste hit the back of my throat and the all mighty bell ringer weaved its way between my ears. For one fleeting moment, I was a god among men. My meat, straining to make sense of it all collapsed on my floor. I heard the scurrying of roaches and God-knows-what-else on their way to gobble up the strands of blackened deli meat at the bottom of the same trash an that I'd dug my old rig out of before blacking out.


I heard her voice. An unnamed woman lying next to me. I didn't know her name but didn't feel like I had to. A primal thread ran through us, un-quantifiable but present. Something that felt more real than anything else I'd encountered in... a long time. Can't be bothered with specifics. I've enver been good with those... Anyway.

"Yeah," I said groggily.

"Are you okay? You were tossing around and yelling again."

"Ah shit. Must have been another nightmare... sorry."

I flipped on the lamp and grabbed my glasses from the nightstand.

"It's alright. I wasn't asleep. Just reading."

"Oh yeah, what about?"


"Jesus, now that's the stuff of nightmares."

She laughed.

"I don't know. He was misunderstood... I've always thought his ideas were hopeful or you know, wanted to be hopeful. He's not nearly as bleak as he's made out to be."

"I haven't really delved into any of his books since college... or many other books. Fuck grad school"

She laughed again. There was something so organic about it. That un-quantifiable thing that made me feel at home.

"Yeah, it sort of ruined reading for me too. Save for a select few. I mean... listen to this."

“What, if some day or night, a demon were to steal after you into your loneliest loneliness and say to you: ‘This life, as you now live it and have lived it, you will have to live once more and innumerable times more; and there will be nothing new in it, but every pain and every joy and every thought and sigh… must return to you—all in the same succession and sequence—even this spider and this moonlight between the trees and even this moment and I myself. The eternal hourglass of existence is turned over again and again—and you with it, speck of dust!’ Would you not throw yourself down and gnash your teeth and curse the demon who spoke thus? Or have you once experienced a tremendous moment when you would have answered him: ‘You are a god, and never have I heard anything more divine!’ If this thought were to gain possession of you, it would change you as you are, or perhaps crush you. The question in each and every thing, “do you want this once more and innumerable times more?” would lie upon your actions as the greatest weight. Or how well disposed would you have to become to yourself and to life to crave nothing more fervently than this ultimate eternal confirmation and seal?”

"Huh.. you're right. That is hopeful... In a roundabout way."

Her hand grasped mine.

"If you look hard enough, you can find hope in a lot of things."

I leapt up from my kitchen floor in what could only be called a reverse crash sequence. My heart was still racing as I let out a series of equally violent breaths. Two-steps away from hyperventilating, I made my way to the medicine cabinet in search of Xanax... or benadryl... or seroquel or... something. No such luck. I stripped, sat on the toilet and let a stream of cold water run from the sink (my utility bill be damned). It was withdrawal time.

Some time passed, and I eventually slept. The next morning (or was it past noon at this point?) I found myself in the kitchen again digging around in the black sludge/dead roach filled trashcan in hopes of finding some however-many-days-old residue that I could throw into a spoon for a little fun.

"Would you not throw yourself down and gnash your teeth and curse the demon who spoke thus?" I said to no one.

I guess you could say I was hopeful... Questionable motives aside, I was hopeful.

Tuesday, August 29, 2017


"Peel the skin from my face"
I tell surgeon's tools
Counting the moments til another quiet rape
Nerves scream to feel alive
Amidst the backdrop of B-Movie horror music
"I asked for this... It was in the mail from day 1."
The scalpel's cold knowledge slices away at my human form
A substrate born of milenial angst
Encrypting its morbid poetry upon my shrinking surface
Cold skin licks the sun and (to quench its dead thirst)
Drinks an ocean the size of a continent
Some far away land
Where pain meets pleasure
(A senate of Centobites)
Wher the end of the labyrinth lies
 At the bottom of a tombstone
As above
So below 

Thursday, August 3, 2017

The Metaphysics of Anarch(ism) X-Post from my Wodpress (also featured by Keith Preston on attackthesystem)

One critique of anarchism comes down one to metaphysics. As a movement there is nothing tethering anarchism (in its various forms) to reality. No culture, no legs to stand on, a verbose and detached intellectualism (ironically akin to that of the petty bourgeoisie) and thin moralist narratives run wild. We have Jesters, we have scribes and scholars but what we lack are kings. Not kings in the sense of despotic rulers of course. No, anything of that nature is clearly antithetical to our way. No Gods. No Masters. No Slaves. This still doesn't change the fact that anarchism lacks an overman. A new virulent breed divorced the trappings of antiquated ideas about "the working class" and romanticized stories of the CNT in revolutionary Catalonia (which have long since passed away and offer no substance in today's world. I would even go so far to say that we owe no loyalty to the dead...) Fortunately there is a fraction in our midst who are able to look past this and recognize our need for sovereign individual(s). Kings and warlords which through self struggle and rigorous discipline have become so hyper aware of themselves and the material conditions they live in that they no longer feel the need to fight, only to dominate their own minds, exert their will to power on themselves as sovereign individuals and by peeling away the festering layers of the state allow themselves to experience the liberation that this "Gnostic Awakening" brings quietly and with dignity. Of all the great thinkers who played their parts in developing egoism as a philosophical discipline, Ernst Junger's "Anarch" is the first to come to mind that paints a picture of the spirit of this liberated individual might look like.

"They found no mischief in me. I remained normal, however deeply they probed. And also straight as an arrow. To be sure, normality seldom coincides with straightness. Normalcy is the human constitution; straightness is logical reasoning. With its help, I could answer satisfactorily. In contrast, the human element is at once so general and so intricately encoded that they fail to perceive it, like the air that they breathe. Thus they were unable to penetrate my fundamental structure, which is anarchic."

"That sounds complicated, but it is simple, for everyone is anarchic; this is precisely what is normal about us. Of course, the anarch is hemmed in from the first day by father and mother, by state and society. Those are prunings, tappings of the primordial strength, and nobody escapes them. One has to resign oneself. But the anarchic remains, at the very bottom, as a mystery, usually unknown even to its bearer. It can erupt from him as lava, can destroy him, liberate him. Distinctions must be made here: love is anarchic, marriage is not. The warrior is anarchic, the soldier is not. Manslaughter is anarchic, murder is not. Christ is anarchic, Saint Paul is not. Since, of course, the anarchic is normal, it is also present in Saint Paul, and sometimes it erupts mightily from him. Those are not antitheses but degrees. The history of the world is moved by anarchy. In sum: the free human being is anarchic, the anarchist is not."

- Eumeswil, Page 41

The Anarch is, on the surface indistinguishable from any other lay-person. They do not indulge in long winded discussions in radical debate circles, nor do they participate in the idpol wars but keep their rebellion confined to their core. The Anarch is not allured by any cause. They see concepts that both hinder and enrich the human experience for what they are and are content to watch, to listen. Content to be at one with their inherent nature, a design far preceding our evolution. A carnal desire against all external authority.

My Wordpress age for further reading; (

Tuesday, July 18, 2017

Dream Journal

There had been no passage of time in between me taking my nightly cocktail of narcotic bliss and arriving at... what/when/wherever the place I now found myself was. Black as the Tao an infinite nothingness, it took some time for me to regain my senses. To come to terms with it all. Suddenly, things shapes, sounds colors started coming into focus. Slowly building like some lumbering symphony until it all reached a crescendo and then boom! A patchwork of my life from birth til death. I saw everything I'd ever experienced (from my first time riding a bike without training wheels to my first time shooting up) and everything I had yet to. I looked away from kids, marriage and failed business ventures and (as all dope-fiends do) firmly planted myself in the past. I peaked into a window from a few years ago. Caleb and I were drinking. I could smell the nauseating, paint-thinner smell of McCormick's and stale cigarettes.


"Yo I spit rhymes like cyanide. No Cheech and Chong. beats like an H-Bomb leave ya dead and gone. Unmask Anonymous peer inside the void. Nietzsche's monsters got nowhere to hide."

"Ah shit yeah man. That was sick," I barked out before taking another shot.

Caleb usually sucked a free-styling but persistence and vodka certainly worked wonders sometimes.

"Thanks man... You know I'm (burp) really fucking glad I met you man."

"Uh... yeah man likewise. I'm always down to kick it with.. uh, interesting people."

"No man, I... really mean it. You're a good person... Don't do what I do. Don't fuck up with pills and shit. You should lay off of the k-pins and fuckin like whatever else. Don't (burp) don't fuck up like I have."

"Ah, it's straight. It's not like I'm hooked or anything... I'll be careful."

I pulled whatever ethereal version of myself I'd become back into the (for lack of a better term) Tao and floated around some more searching for something worth feeling nostalgic about. 

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed another movie reel. Amy lied in a sterile smelling hospital bed Her jet black hair matted into sweat drenched clumps. Her skin looked grey.Her eyes were...

"Nope, fuck that." I said aloud.

I moved on... I wasn't nearly as resilient as trippy-dream-me was.


"Go on, reel it in! reel it in!"

I'd been skimming algae off the top of the lake not paying attention my fishing line. I bolted up. My small arms grasping my Winnie the Pooh fishing pole with all the strength a 7 year old could muster.
My dad held the base steady while I cranked with my right hand until my wrist hurt. As the line grew shorter and shorter I saw something breech the water. Dad snatched up the line with his hand and tossed the 6 or so inch bluegill into our boat.

"There we have it son. You're first catch," he said beaming from ear to ear.

I felt a giddy fear as I moved my hand towards the fish. It wriggled and I immediately jumped back. dad smiled and after getting a firm grip, ripped out the hook and tossed it back.

I exhaled and found myself in limbo again.

"Enjoying yourself?" 

"Holy shit!"

In lieu of legs (which this astral body of mine didn't seem to have) my whole world shook. My vision refocused and I found myself staring at a blonde twenty-something wearing a torn up, two sizes larger than her frame NOFX shirt. She danced through the ether with a cigarette dangling from her pierced lip like it was nothing.

"Who... who are you?" I asked dumbfounded.

"It's... complicated. Your... uh, Jiminy Cricket, guardian angel, tralfamadorian you know, all of that shit... You can call me Stephanie."

"Uh..." (still dumbfounded).

"Don't freak out man It's all good. Just thought I'd check up on you ya know? Don't get to do that very often. Dream states and acid trips are really the only window we have to reach "the normies"... That's what we call you guys, normies but anyway, dreams and acid trips are usually a clusterfuck and it's hard to have a productive conversation with anyone under those circumstances so we usually end up waiting. Waiting for moments like this. When everything lines up just right and your brain opens up to our world."

"So, this is your world?" I managed to choke out.

"Sort of, this is place isn't really anything. I call it the Oneness. A collection of everything and nothing. We're outside of time here. I'm sure you've picked up on that. It's sort of a neutral ground where everything coalesces. "Spirits" your word for us. Normies, thoughts feelings. They all move freely here."

"You sure I didn't accidentally take that Ket I've been saving for a rainy day?"

"Ha, no man. This is real."


"Well, well."

"Aright so your my guardian angel. I guess I owe you one... Maybe two or three."

"Don't sweat it." Stephanie said with a wink.

"It's kind of fucked up though. Where were you when my neighbors kid got raped. When that homeless guy froze to death behind the mall last week... When Amy died?"

"It doesn't work like that. We can't save people from suffering. If it wasn't for that... all of that bad shit than there'd be nothing to move things forward. Nothing to reverse entropy. Our job is to carefully balance things out. To use a light touch. Besides, suffering isn't all its cracked up to be... Everything repeats itself. Good, bad ugly it all cycles back around. We're both made of the same energy. Whatever formless blob we're connected to. Some call it "God..." I guess I'm inclined to agree. Probably the closest thing to a god that I know of. We just have different roles."

"Well if your role is to what... like oil the machine. Than what does that make me? Some kind of gear or cog?"

"No, you're much, much more than that. You're the eyes, ears, mouth... you're everything I'm not. You get to experience well, all of this. I just have a place on the sidelines. Makes me a little jealous at times. I've never been high, been in love, had my heart broken. That's the hand you normies have been dealt."

"Huh, I suppose that works in a roundabout way."

"A roundabout way. I like that... Hang in there. Things have a way of falling in place. Even if it looks like they're about to fall apart... You're probably gonna wake up soon. I should go..."

My eyes jolted open. I sat straight up and let out the heaviest breath of my life. The clock on my nightstand read 4:02 AM. Instead of taking a swig from the bottle sitting next to the aforementioned clock, I flipped on my light, grabbed a pen, opened the well-worn notebook I kept under my pillow and started jotting down everything I could remember. For the first time in a long time okay with not being able to sleep. The endless worry of minuets passing by, of being alone with my thoughts meant very little to me now. After all, what does a little bout of insomnia matter when you've had the chance to live outside of time?

Wednesday, July 5, 2017

Shameless Promotion

Greetings all. A good and very talented friend of mine is launching a new web-series (soon to feature yours truly). The channel is pretty bare bones now but well on its way to getting off the ground. I've included links to the series pilot and various social media for promotional purposes. Feel free to check it out and offer any feedback/suggestions/help that you can to support local and indie circuit writers and...always thanks for reading my scribblings. It means much more than you know.

- Alden J. Braddock

Tuesday, July 4, 2017

Lazy Tuesday

Percocet, "ecstasy" (whatever un-godly batch of poison that consisted of) and just a pinch of vodka. My ingredients for a good day. I'd started to nod off while going over exercises in modal logic, making sure to close my textbook before the drugs took hold. Like a shaman of old, I drifted away into a patchwork of visions (in between itching my nose) as the loving embrace of dopamine crammed its phallus into my brain. Not thinking about anything in particular, I let it have its way with my senses.

"Someone has to do it."

"Do what?" I asked

"Grab my bike,"

Jace quietly smoked a cigarette as I (coming to my senses) found myself somewhere... fuck, I can't remember for the life of me but it seemed so familiar. Wait! I hadn't seen Jace in over 5 years and I was shorter, lacking a beard and... innocent, or as innocent as any 14 year old could be. Caring more about Yu-Gi-Oh cards than catching a buzz.

"I'll fucking owe you big time man. That guy's an asshole and I DO NOT want to go anywhere near his yard."

"Uh..." I stuttered.

Quite suddenly, I came to. Buried under a fort of blankets. A half empty pint of vodka sitting on my nightstand. Slowly, I got up and used the aforementioned liquor to wash down a couple of Tums. Back to dream-land.

I was almost out of Mr. Filed's yard. The neighborhood "block captain." In all reality, he was curmudgeonly, piece of shit that enjoyed putting poisoned food out for stray cats. Hence the reason, Jace and I had egged his house and hauled ass to the nearby cornfield.

"What do you think you're doing you little prick?!?"

Ah, shit.

This time, it was a knock on my door that brought me back.

"Hello," I said in weak breathy tones.

The doorknob twisted and Keegan stepped inside.

"Ah, I see those percs are doin ya okay."

"What? Ah...ah yeah man..."

Trailing off again. Stay awake. Motherfucker please stay awake.

"I've got something you might be interested in."

"What's that?" I asked pulling a blanket over the right side of my face.

"Ambien. Got em from Joe."

"Candyman Joe?" I asked


Ah, Joe. The steadiest hookup for pharmaceutical delights on campus.

"Uh... uh yeah okay. How much?"

"I'll let em go for a dimebag."

After (half ass) weighing the implications of such a thing. I pointed to my dresser. Keegan pinched off a chunk of my quarter piece. Filling my room with the sweet aroma of Mexican brick weed. He left 2 pills in my drawer and disappeared.  The buzz was starting to fade. I took another sip of vodka and collected my thoughts. Not quite sober enough for modal logic, I decided to browse through Facebook and see if Jace was up to anything.

"Wow," I mouthed to myself.

He was. A wife, a kid and a job at a lawyer's office. I looked deep into the faded tracks on my arm from past misadventures and decided not to send him a message.

Oh how time flies


Sunday, June 18, 2017

The Cyclops and I


“I’m here to take you on a journey,” rang the echoing voice of the…9 foot tall Cyclops hunched over my bed… Jesus Christ if there was ever a time for Seroquel it was right now. Anyway…

Its breath smelled like hot garbage with the faintest whiff of medical waste. I felt the waves of its sticky body heat radiating outward as its colossal, unblinking eye gazed into what little there was left of me.

“What… what are you and what are you doing here?”

“C’mon man,” It replied, reaching into its loincloth to retrieve a comically oversized lighter and cigarette pack

“Why even ask those kinds of questions? You know why I’m here.”

 “What you mean the…” I coughed while the giant motherfucker blew cloud-sized plumes of smoke directly into my face.

“The shit over there?” I asked pointing to my trash can filled to the brim with thoroughly torn apart Benadryl and triple C boxes.


“Well… fine. Let’s get this over with. What sort of journey is it gonna be this time?”

“It’s more of an origin story.”

“Hmm, interesting… well not so much actually. There isn’t a lot to tell as far as that’s concerned. Not much in my case anyway.”

“There’s more to it than you think. There always is.”

I let out a sigh, let the cyclops grab my hand and started thinking about why I was such a sucker for cough syrup and a whole host of other vices. I thought about the first time I tried that shit and could (quite surprisingly) remember it in vivid detail.


There I was in my college boy dorm room browsing through Psychiatric journals, lying through my teeth in some vain attempt to convince the world that I’d changed. The 700 or so milligrams of DXM I’d just downed notwithstanding. The first faint signs started emerging after the typical carrier wave (a sickening nausea that one must avoid vomiting from at all costs). There was a noticeable shift in my balance. I decided to go out for a smoke. I met up with Keegan, in the smoker’s circle downstairs and we got to talking. The conversation eventually led to the topic of religion

“I’m not sold on any of it. God can’t be omnipotent. You know the whole making a rock he can’t move thing,” his perma-stoned expressionless face was melting, ever so slightly melting.

Keegan looked like a serial killer. White, tall with glasses and an all-around clean cut look which I knew for a fact to be complete and utter bullshit. Nobody can blow through an Opana 40 and a fifth of Xanax sprinkled vodka in a night and walk away unscathed. My best guess was that he’d sold his soul to the devil… who knew what else he was hiding. But despite all of that, I enjoyed his company. I’d always heard that Ted Bundy was a stand-up guy 90 percent of the time.

“I don’t know. I guess I’ve just always felt something separate from myself. I tried hiding from it, burying it but it was always there... Did you know there are 21 grams that disappear when a person dies?” I said lighting a cigarette.


Suddenly in a true Hunter S. Thompson esque moment, it hit me. My movements became rigid. There was noticeable flanging of sounds, voices of passersby and the sound of the rustling wind wriggled and merged in a quasi-sexual motion. My vision became narrow as the blue sky opened up to reveal a lizard-like entity starting down at me (possibly a representation of my reptilian limbic system. Damn our lizard brains, always getting us into trouble). I stood in horror.

“Damn you’re fucking gone man. Be careful,” Keegan replied tossing his cigarette down stomping out what remained of its life.

“Bye Ted.” I said, unable to control my laughter.

I somehow made it back to my dorm, afflicted by the infamous “robo walk” a constricted series of movements akin to advanced Parkinson’s disease. It felt like I was travelling hundreds of miles. My vision filled with a plethora of colors and shapes ranging from psychedelic to cyber-punk. I eventually got my bearings and returned to my room. Some time passed. I started to hear beautifully complex music in the background (auditory hallucinations were a trademark of DXM for me, a winding labyrinth of sound somewhere in between tortured and heavenly… it was all part of the magic), as I made my way out to try and find the source. I then stumbled upon a group of Russian exchange students, eating in the commons area. I was shocked to see this for some reason and then it happened.

I let go of myself completely. My body became for lack of any better word, cosmic. I couldn’t tell if I was a thousand feet above the ground or an inch tall. As my ego dissolved I yelled.

“All of you are me…and I am all of you!”

I was then carried away to a world of closed eye visuals where I met God himself…I guess I was right all along. I had ascended. Feeling as if I had merged with the consciousness of everyone else (as they drank and shouted at each other in crazed demon tones) around me. I took some time to calm down and while walking back to my flat, mistook my very large, very Mexican neighbor for Jesus…Overall, it was one hell of a day.

The Cyclops had vanished (as the hallucinatory whims of a seriously damaged mind tend to). I now found myself in a crowded, dimly lit room. People walked past me at varying paces sometimes stopping to respond to texts and check their emails. The culmination of their footsteps and chatter was deafening then suddenly… it all stopped.

“Hello” I said to no one.

They’d all vanished. I felt the cold, emotionless pavement beneath my feet. Wherever I was had gotten a jump start on the apocalypse. Crumbling skyscrapers and war-time shrapnel filled my eyes shifting away as the sound of a film reel followed by yet another disembodied voice, broke the silence.

“You… have led a life of sin.”

(Well this should be interesting).

“But you have always had hope.”

“Well that’s almost certainly bullshit,” I said under my breath

“It certainly isn’t… find hope. Find hope in the darkest corners… Hope just like the hope you had before death crept in. Just like the hope you after it left. Find this kind of hope again.

An unseen projector shot out streams of light, buzzing to the symphony of a long forgotten home movie.


“Happy New Year,” I whispered taking another shot a Jameson. My head tilting back at the perfect angle. My eyes closing to savor the bittersweet experience (if I was going to drink tonight, I was going to do it as melodramatically as possible).

It’d been a few months. I knew that. Though I hadn’t really been keeping track of the days as of late. A photo of Amy, smiling her impish smile, stared back at me. Motionless and silent on the surface. I knew that underneath it all at the sub-atomic level there was more unbridled fury than this world could handle. Particles appearing, vanishing and colliding with each other creating a collage of shimmering worlds, blinking in and out of existence, destined to be continually reborn and torn apart. I took some comfort in that. In the whole, life going on thing...but only some. Not as much faith as I had in hard liquor anyway.

“I think I’m gonna go back to school. Maybe study psychology. I’ve always liked it, well, the ideas behind it anyway...all the academic shit. It’d be a good way for me to figure out why I’m such a fuck up if nothing else.”

Another shot down the hatch.

“I miss you… really miss you. I think I owe it to you and myself and so many other people to… I don't know, actually do something. I wana get out of this town, get away from all of the demons out there… all of our demons. Just like you always wanted.”

I put the bottle down knocking it over as I grabbed for the well-worn pack of cigarettes on top of my nightstand.

“Happy New Year,” I said again.

I was back in my room. The Explosions in the Sky song (First Breath after Coma maybe?) I’d had on repeat was still playing. There were no Lizard Gods or crowds of imaginary people. Just me, alone with my collection of deformed memories.

“Find hope,” I said to myself.

If only it were that simple…