MaksCorenWylt

Attempting to find a friend at a tattoo shop. Driving isn't an option. Oakland streets are hot tonight.

I began writing to send you kinder notes of giving and loving. Only, it wasn’t kind of me, not at all, to not give of that which physically lent to you. But, if I ever gave again, I’d have a reason to doubt my good intentions, and if it were a choice, to send evil your way, I’d be a different man. Instead, TakuT! I’ll bring fear breathing down your throat, as you inhale your last breath of clean air, your last. Slow driver of nails, I meant to say to you, hold in what you cannot bend, and let it out on a line of paper. These words and the left hand will find a way, my darling Simone. Maks Coren Wylt

At least, we could slow it down for graffiti tattoos, like nice Oil memorial throw ups, but I think the effect has been made.

If fourteen years of growth wasn’t enough for a writer, I’d miss a lot of time off work. I don’t know if I’d read another book, or write another loving thing about her. In fact, I think I’d write a dream sequence that I could send to her father, to a whole host of witches at a very small, precise location in a city that I love, so they could sing of our loss of a friend, and I’d pray, and I don’t think I’d let on who I ever prayed to in these circumstances, not to anyone but those who could write the verses in a book that I could see later and send across streets and dive bars’, in every city I cared to visit. Maks Coren Wylt

Kit of Foxes and Lights in The Black There was a woman, in the house of Sweetwood, she decided to bring a boy that she had known for some time into the woods, the woods where things were a little strange, and it was for a purpose most unlike that the boy had seen before. The woman asked the boy what he knew, and as there was no response, she decided to find out. The woman told the boy that it was strange to see him in the light of the woods, and that she wished to take him to a place where there was previously a house. A lot, overgrown with beds of ivy, thin, twisting stems, tangling their way through the plane just above the ground, and it were as if it were floating through space, unattached through roots, or any other connection to the unseen dirt. The girl, as wistful and delighted in the cold air, said she wished to make the boy an initiate, and it was at first a strange occurrence, as the boy had never wished to be anything, but. Oh, as it were, though, time became an issue, and the girl had to be a little crafty with that, because, as we know, time is a fickle mistress, and if the boy were to be caught in the eye of a storm, it could not be that the waters would be warm. So, it was a meeting of the witches, and in the dark, there were two. The boy listened, and a circle was drawn. As the boy saw a path previously blocked, he went through, without fear, through a gate, and when he reached the other side, it were as if five were four. So. When the woman wished to see his countenance, turned to him and the two were sharply drawn. Though, it was not that the boy and the woman from the house of Sweetwood ever saw themselves as being that far from what they had been before the turning of the light to the dark. A game then. They drew a green plane, saw that when one card drawn was more than the other, created a kind of balance, that were as if it were to add a weight of purpose to the defeat of the lesser. The boy had to take a step back, and with the step, he drew the girl to him, but it was unclear how he had done it. A memory formed, where there were no previous lights to shine, and when the boy spoke, the woman smiled. She remembered feeling as if it were not a memory at all, and the boy saw that he had indeed become something darker than before. It was memory that made the boy what he was, and in the light, a song. It was a song meant to send a whispering intent, sent on metal, thinly folded to an singular edge. The wound was not known to be so cold in the past. Sleep came easily, and it were that the boy had not dreamed. In the morning, it was apparent that if the boy knew what to do, he would see another. And, as it were, morning after morning, that the boy brought his painful eye’s gaze to the light of another weak sun. Nothing hit his face like the light of golden dawn when it came, in a flat land of grey buildings and past flights through dark alleys. She was there when he arose, and asked him if he was even still coherent, from all those binges on cheap beer, weakened lungs filled with lightning and cold, cold air. It was a while before he spoke, and when the chest rose that spat out his response, it looked blackened and bolder than it had in past utterances of speech. Marked, as it were, by a wound, an accepted fate of diseased purpose, although, not yet finished in only dark places. He sent only two words, fuck you. She didn’t exactly know what to say about it, so she retreated a little to the back of her mind. It only drew up a portrait of his evil intent, and not the smile it carried while cursing her right as his erection was subsiding in its morning swelling. This was both hilarious, and absurd for the unspoken and unseen hate between them, because of this unexpected end to the painful healing process of sorrow and extinctions and burials. Bodies, bodies, and bodies of dead skeletons, rattling in the night before it would heal the morning glory. She drew herself into its skull and the snake’s lily white death throes made her laugh and laugh. Some song rang in the echoing, coming response from the woman’s phone, signing a line under the title of her inbox, full. Written words were the poison in her blood more often than the darker reaches of any man, especially the one in front of her. This man had the gaunt audacity to speak that couple of words to her today. Her fucking trip to Napa was today, that fucking bitch, as if it weren’t the last thing he needed to hear, this cold morning, as if it was never the life of a person, to take, that couldn’t destroy everything that person could never be in the end. If there’s life in his blood, she thought, and looked, next, to the phone, knowing what was written before it could reach her eyes, and knowing that she would have to take the life of either her new initiate, or the writer of the letter. It escaped her company’s mind that he had forgotten that this was ever not permanent. I’m not sure that the whispers of smoky pepper ever missed their mark when that bloodied vodka poured into her glass, every morning that she couldn’t stand to her feet, was not something she knew the man in front of her naked eye’s beliefs. She believed he knew. Knew that this payment of alcohol, as it were’s, content, would leave him not aware of the painful night’s toll on his relationship. The pepper’s small, wisps of black and white haze came across his palate first, never through anything but a passing from nose to consciousness of future tastes and effects. The words themselves, in the letters and emotionally charged sentences of poetic justice sent from the beer influenced sleeping hours of the man, that early witching hour about seven dream sequences and cycles ago. Round and round, the hand went with the bottle, as she thought of each letter, each messages content, that the man on the other end of her phone had sent, in the previous few days. Whether she was presently ever not aware of his influence on her it would escape the drink’s effect on her initiate’s hangover. The long cold hours of sleep hadn’t shown her dreams any kind token of his weight on her shoulders, and it was not an intentional initiation that ever went perfectly, she knew, she knew he had not been brought through correctly. Maks Coren Wylt, written in the prayer room, Oakland, CA. 2001

Gregory Isaacs made a song about a night nurse, being his attending care of the thirst in his soul, and I’m not really ever sure of whether he meant Marijuana or his courtesan for comfortable cunnilingus, between nightly, horizontal reminiscing of moments that we shared in dark lighted rooms in the past. I’d miss your morning moans in my evening passing about town and wanderings through darker and darker shades of leafy green ashen oaks, in the land where I am willed to be a heart unlike an ownership over any lesser, as if there were any, parts of you. Your nights are like ours, my brothers and I, just exactly how I imagine comfort is another story, for unlike you, I hold on for dear life, when I can only let my heart ill-advisedly send my thoughts of you to my finger tips and into my letters. Good god, I think I need an escort to the halls of older palaces, steeply vaulted ceilings never echoing past an era that kept them timeless, closing ever so gently and forebodingly towards the top of your head. Ash to ash, as the bowl burns past and through the midnight oil. Maks Coren Wylt

I told her to be wary, and it was only because it was an unnecessary thing to do. I was bouncing a word across the four square, which only saw her hands, not her ears, as the reverb sent it towards the next set of hands. Dirty paws that sent me back an opiate dream, heavy enough, safely, destructively enough to read as lack of caring a second time, about where I end up, so I kissed her goodbye, said goodnight to my brother, and Nick Cave came to my speakers, Eliot Smith, soon replied to wake me up, keeping my head afloat in the morning hoodie that hasn’t been washed in a few days. Thursday's Masacre, Maks Wylt

You're The Queen Light the introduction fire, send a readied hand to set a word against a plane. Lower body, left to sights of bone white, a writing of a curse, meant to hit nothing of blackened but a thin lines even weight, alchemical in xhost walls writing, sent across to all, let’s lines through the black gate. Maks Coren Wylt

When work becomes a mastering of a necessary hiding of false paradigms, it becomes a strange thing to know anything at all. Like, when you go to sleep at night, or whether you’ll sign back on to anything agreed upon in darker corners of our mind. She’s turned to dust, Anne Frank. Hidden boxes of booklets against a frog’s croaking in swampy sites of burial. Speak of the master’s purpose, and it might just mean your life Untitled, Maks Coren Wylt

I like this Morpho beer. Herbal and free.

The Get Down

High School shit is cannon fodder

I’ve sent whipping light around a telephone pole, screaming death into my rear view mirror, as I remembered all those close calls, the ones that never were about anything other than a little smile that I saw in the eyes of a tattooer as he invoked the writing from my pocket to the Reaper’s. Sending crows a message is easy to do, as long as it I see, said the bear. It may have made me close an eye, the smoke, of a name written on the ground, instead of the wall, so I turned my head towards the light of snowy mountains, sent from a vastly different water source. Hatred, once I got to a certain point in life, turned into a memory of a known unknown. Those predisposed to be sneaky rats seemed to have just ignited a fire in my grandmother’s house. I’d not send your spells tonight. If I was looking for safety, I’d have to trust the house to carry a wind out. If I closed the windows, I’d have to read into the smoke signals, surrounding a big bag of bones, and learn how to move it out of her eyes. Jackass. Doesn’t even want to take a hint as to what the place is that spoke so smoothly to him. The reason I turned from such mundane items of commerce, was that I had been done away with, waxed over by a moon brighter than the white of my skull. From The Top of Nothing, Cannabis Prayers for Forgiveness

large.gallery_566_31_1461689741_6436.jpg.cbbee0984 Sarah Carter

I know this photog from Berkeley who does similar.

Sticker name, actually. JAKE SUX

Small Time Gangster Watch from the beginning

Who was that guy that made the bdsm zines and put them in peoples' mailboxes? Occult Vibrations.

I'm scared of these kids with their egos nowadays.

CALIgula, There's a Muslim family in the floor above us, and I just want to know what they know sometimes. So, I'm listening to Zechs Marquise, and watching The Pink Panther.

Water chestnuts in a can that obviously went through a black fucking hole from the 1950s/a tin of kipper.

Let's not and say we did.

You lost me at throw down. I'm so tired of white boys in Oakland and their satanist shit. I'd want to know how many have hit a man in the face.