a free ride inside my diseased mind.

Archive for the tag “art”

The Nocturnal Art Journals # 5

Blue City Veins – The Nocturnal Art Journals – In through the out door


In through the out door
November, 17 2001 8:00 am
My door has 3 locks.
1 lock is a chain.
The other is a dead bolt.
And finally, the key lock.
This week has been weird to say the least. The old Russian creature has been driving me nuts again. On any given day it will stomp up the stairs from its basement hovel to the front porch of the building, and check all of the mailboxes at least 6 times a day. And not just check them all once, no that would be to easy, it will go through them all, wait a few minutes and check them again, you know just in case when it blinked the mail man showed up. What is that Siberian whore looking for? Its no use trying  to talk to it, it doesn’t listen, and answers in some unintelligible dialect. I’m beginning to wonder what language it actually speaks, actually I’m beginning to wonder if its even a language at all. (Did I write this last week? Who knows anymore.) Maybe it never learned a language. There is also a distinct possibility that it speaks English better than me. I am trying to sympathize with it, who knows what atrocities it may have escaped wherever it came from. However it seems soulless and the more I give the more it takes.
I have been watching Naked Lunch over and over lately. Some days I will watch it up to 4 times. I like to have it on when I write and paint. Its a great film. It inspires me. I listen to lots of music as well. Silence makes me feel vulnerable. I feel as though the whole world can hear what I am up to if I don’t have music on or a movie.
A pair of ragged claws scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
I have been frequenting a weird secondhand CD store lately. Its  downtown. Tucked away in an office building on the main floor. Everything inside this building is painted shiny red. Shiny red paint on glazed bricks. The “Arcane Building” I think its called. The owner of the store is even painted red. She has a reddish orange frizzle fried afro, red smeary lipstick, and red paint on her cheeks. She smokes like a maniac, even though she’s not allowed to. She simply closes the glass sliding door, and hot boxes whatever poor bastard that happens to be lurking around in her store. Perhaps she’s drugging the customer into purchasing stuff. The entire store is yellowed from years of smoking. Yellow and Red. Reminds of some strange McDonals afterbirth.
The store is pure madness. Piles of teeter heaped CDs. Rows and rows of moth eaten records. Collapsing towers of old faded VHS movies. If you touch any of her piles she freaks out. She claims she knows where everything is, you just have to ask her. I don’t believe that for a second. She makes me feel like I am a criminal, like I’m doing something wrong. I wait for customers to enter the store, and when she is distracted I quickly  dismantle her piles to search for what I want, and carefully put them back together again before she notices.
She’s like a dragon protecting its treasures.
I spend lots of time there. Its weird, she knows almost as many rare punk and metal bands as I do. I’m guessing she’s anywhere between 65 and 120 years old. She doesn’t particularly like the music but she makes sure to remember all the bands, she does her research. I respect her for that. I picked up a Slayer CD, Jesus Lizard,Fugazi, and Motley Crue “Shout at the Devil” on vinyl this week. I spend most of my text book and school supply money at the CD store and on booze.
She makes me very nervous, it seems like its this way with everything I do. I need to be more aggressive, I just don’t know how to without going over the top and acting like a dick head. I have no in between zone. I waste so much time being polite and listening to people talk about nothing. I feel paralyzed. Caught in a web of nothingness. They suck the hours of my life away in slow slurps. Time vampires. Why do I listen to her, I feel compelled to, guilty for even being in her store. That’s not how it should be , I buy stuff, its her job to listen to me. AAAAAAAAAAAAAhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!
I’m currently working on a sculpture for school. I cant stand this class, I also don’t get along with the teacher, she’s a total femme Nazi. I had to sculpt a human eye. I decided to make a weird alien throbbing dink with an eyeball on the end. She didn’t find it very amusing. I’m currently making a vacuum cleaner sculpture called pervatron 2000. It is a sexual cleaning device. Its comprised of an old broken boiler, a vacuum hose, and other odds and ends. It also has a functioning light bulb on its head. I have a tape recorder inside of it that’s says strange and perverse things. It secretes two kinds of intoxicating fluids when it likes what you’ve written…..
Someone’s at the door. I have to go.
bye.Image,slayer,metal,punk,pink floyd,ALL,descendents,sex,vhs,1990s,iron maiden,poetry,literature,comedy,autobiography,journals,perverts,weirdos,art school,fugazi,snfu,

Aculade (part 1)

Somewhere, Sometime, Out there…….

Deep down in a pepper mine…

In the not so distant future one of the more coveted spices is pepper. The pepper industry has become one of the fastest growing markets on the entire planet. A large percentage of uneducated men are employed by the various mining companies. Despite the huge profits the companies make, they still treat their workers like slaves and pay them unfair wages. Most of the men working in this trade have had past records with the law. Mostly drug addictions, violence, and theft. For the most part, the men that work here do so becuase no one else will employ them. The mines would hire almost any degenerate that could pick up a shovel…


2000 feet below earth.

The Pepper mine workers are divided into teams, each team works on a certain level of the earths core. Since pepper is such a minute material the workers are required to wear special goggles with magnifying capabilities. Face masks are also worn. The masks are used to prevent any worker to get a free sniff of pepper. A free lunch as it were.

Each team of pepper miners has a leader. Earl happens to be the leader of this such crew.

Klink, krank, klunk, the pepper tools sang. Songs of pain, sorrow, and anger rang from the clangs.The tools songs reflected the tortured souls of the workers wielding them. Slowly grinding down particle at a time after each swing of the axe. Each fragment of rock separated from its core, wore a salt sized hole in their tired souls…..

paper cuts

paper cuts

cum shots and circus freaks.

who the hell was zorba the greek?

drunk in daytime

mid week

i have dropped off the face of worth

fell 200 hundred stories

without a single paper cut.

set up a tent in my living room

getting prepared for the  collapse

life would be better if we all lived in huts.

trying to sell art is like

giving a rock a blood transfusion

messy business

a thousand words all competing for real estate in my head

a thousand sounds from ideas dying

and left for dead

rotting and farting

their last gasps

of fruition

in my overripe


jizz shots hang like icicle cave stalactites

glowing phosphorescent

in the mildew nights.

The Heavy Metal Janitor Journals (part 3)

illustration by Daniel Lombardi (click image to see Dans art on FaceBook.)

“The Heavy Metal Janitor Journals.”

10:31 am  (in the work van) winter 1998

(cell phone ringing  bzzzzzt, bzzzzzzt, bzzzzzzzzt….)

After minutes of mumbling, swearing, and scheming, Bad Cat hesitantly answered the cell phone with a mouth full of half chewed do-nut. Bad Cat perpetually and  purposely spoke very quietly on the phone just to piss of *Penis Fart.  He and Bad Cat had the weirdest work  relationship I have ever encountered. They were prone to fighting like cats and dogs (pardon the pun) during their phone calls, and personal interactions.  Penis Fart would either call back after calming down, attempting to some extent to be civil, or he would just not call for a couple days as some kind of sick pre-pubescent silent treatment. This action was borderline homo-erotic for lack of better words, I really dont know what you would call it. Perhaps it fulfilled him with some kind of weird Masochistic fetish.

Penis fart would never lower himself to saying “Hello, Hi, or How are you doing?” when he called. Instead it was  “Where are you!” in his nasally,whiny, and condescendingly suspicious voice. One of Bad Cats little tricks would be to hold the phone a couple feet away from  his mouth and say, ” Sorry, I cant hear you, can you speak up?

After a few minute of this game,  Penis Fart would grow tiresome and very annoyed of Bad Cats trickery. Penis Fart had already purchased two new phones in the last 8 months for Bad Cat, rightfully thinking something was wrong with the old ones. He couldn’t prove that Bad Cat was playing this trick, but I am pretty sure he had a good Idea of what was going on. Bad Cat forbade me to ever answer that phone. If I absolutely had to answer it, like say in an emergency,  I had to make sure I spoke very softly to keep up Bad Cats tormentitive little game. Bad Cat had kept this folly up for over a year now, and having it discovered by Penis would be akin to loosing ground in a trench war. Well at least in his feline mind it would.

*that was Bad Cats nickname for our boss, remind me to explain why later….

the malfunctioning time machine notes (2)

Found this weird story in one of my many notebooks while time traveling today. Like most of my stories it was written in a child like manic scribble as though I was being forced to write it while being chased by some axe wielding pervert. Perhaps I was , who knows.

July 2003


Gordo owned  the “Raino” happy drink company. His brother Dildo owned the “Draino” sewage unclogger company. The designer that worked for both Raino and Draino screwed up the letters on the Raino bottle one day. “Draino” was selling  much better than “Raino” . One night when Mr.Raino felt defeated by the Draino empire, he said “What use is it to live in a world where people would rather buy toxic toilet unclogger than a drink that makes you happy!” He then decided to end it all, drinking what he thought was his opponents toxic toilet product to off  himself. Turned out Gordo just drank his own product because of the spelling mistake. He felt great, he accepted defeat, figuring this was a sign and mistakenly began promoting Draino to the world to drink. However it was just the one batch of Drainos that where spelled wrong and he was responsible for killing half the planet. He is still locked up to this day, very confused and thirsty.

Figured you could just waltz in and read my weird little story scott free hey, well perhaps this little guilt button will change that! ha.

the malfunctioning time machine notes. (day one)

flipping threw an old book of  my notes i found a page that says “George RR. Martin” “a game of thrones. ” under neath that “Gimsen weed” then a weird drawing of a .. well i have no idea, and then U-Pak-383-8725. the opposite page says “sylvia” with a hard diagonal black line under neath it. I cant help but wonder what i was doing that day? The book is dated Circa 2005 .

I wonder who Sylvia is, or was it Salvia? Did I some how inadvertently create the the Game of thrones TV show by eating the Gimsen weed and salvia?

file under “Q”

file under “q”

i am sure of it
for what strange purpose
i have no clue.
who would invent such sickness
a purposeless purpose
of perpetual perversity,
did i do this?
at least he’s honest
with his narcissist.

his pen
mr.feather nester,
the constant time waster.
holographic time warp masturbator
the great human elevator
glued to a moose
on the loose
searching for the meaning
of muse.
close relatives
filed under “q” for query
the filing cabinets are stored on the barge
floating at large
in the ink jet waters

you can purchase a signed 8.5×11 print  of  file under Q” for $24.00

please help feed the weirdness 🙂



helpfull she walks towards us,
she opens the door for her
she wears lipstick on its face and sticks it to you
like some kind of human lipstick glue.

she is drastically out of pitch and requires some fine tuning
do you have an eye for music?
you are probably one of those people who says defrost
i am at the top of the world
i said to her
while looking down at the floor.

she asks if i have the time
this is the good time
let it spin.
famous words
from a nervous chin.

eternal super glue

eternal super glue

half of the time is spent looking for the pen,
and the rest is for searching for the paper.
well they just write themselves.
isn’t there a shirt in this world that fits.
they all seem to itch
and have some weird static cling.
searching for my self in movies and history books
i think i ran in to him yesterday,
or was that me?
tuna and cat fish have devoured my apartment
what is this beast,
and when will it truly be released.
its more confused every day
and that’s why
i build my web
a mish mash of perversities, and organic space trash
a note floating down from zardac 2
a planet made up of
granite, and soiled mattresses.
awake in this rape, to face the day
broken fingers,
held together by eternal super glue.

you can purchase a signed 8.5×11 print  of  “eternal super glue for$24.00

some humanity, please?

some humanity, please?

some sort of subterranean human dipped in an atmosphere bath
consisting equal parts chlorine
and upholstery cleaner
you know that breed of human
the ones with that fresh car scent
they will wrap a plastic bag inside another plastic bag
and then
ask for another
just for good measure
cant escape the mind rape
being nice just doesn’t cut the ham any more
we need another
sharper knife
too carve this sick life
biting my lip
and squeezing its tits,
shove some fingers in the holes
try and get this sick job over with
sleeves rolled up
in there
up to my elbows
feel like a porn star plumber
some sort of  pity fuck
feel controlled
have no choice
told it
“here is my bizniss card”
stick it in the hole!

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