The Anton Maiof Appreciation Society

I just had a mild anxiety attack. I do stress the word mild here. Today I have been ill. I spent the afternoon helping this most stunning of creatures, the kind of radiant beauty who inspires poetry and reduces everyone else to just meat.

She did not cause this...

I haven't written anything except for these entries for a while now. This is bothering me somewhat, but I know exactly why this is happening.

So that didn't cause it either...

Today I got the master for an album called The Thorns Of Love. I listened through to it to see if it met my standard of approval. It did. On this album there is a love song I wrote for someone. The work is called Horsehead Blue. Upon it's closing bars I felt an extreme rush of confidence and pride at how well executed I feel that particular sad, sad pop song is.

Then it hit me. I could die now. This would be a good point to die.



Early draft of The Thorns Of Love cover by Liz Eve

(Naturally I'm not actually going to die, nor do I want to do anything silly, I remember when all this started and I was drinking whiskey and researching suicide as any normal person would do. It's just that one thought, that's what caused me to panic.)

Then Tenderness Hunts

Slipping out like hungover ejaculate. Moments of joy ooze from that dusty misunderstood paranoia farm I call a brain. I got this condition now, hey cuz? yeah this fucking condition.

I've been sitting here in silence for a while now. Music is not interesting me, I haven't watched a film in a long time, fall out from that inevitable situation of: Things That I Used To Do.

Fuck yes I'm lonely. I'm wondering how long I've been lonely. It feels like months. You get these lovely phrases that slime out of the mouths of pricks, words to the effect of "if someone loved you once, then you can be loved again"

But this isn't the truth is it? Because someone couldn't love me, so therefore by your hand-on-dribble logic I couldn't be loved again. Which, yeah, is something I'm really fucking looking forward to.

So why not just shut your fucking mouth?

There's No Heat in my Fucking Bones

There was a time where I longed to meet someone who wasn't parasitic and eventually I did. These people became my friends. Close friends. Good friends.

That, I fear has turned me into this pathetic boner of man. Who's fantastic testicles will never be seen in public again. Become a parasite myself, not dependent on others but am my own fucking tapeworm.

Little prick that he is, my tiny face etched on the end, wriggling around my bowels waiting for the stick'n'twist.

I met people, people who impressed me, and I didn't feel inferior any more, yet my brain and it's dream-stem hucked around creating disorder, confusion and chaos for the good while. Really rambling this time, not to the point, not ever to the point.

Love was a needle-hole away in this instance. It stared up at me begging for help, for someone with the guts to assist.

The worm had eaten through the guts. It did a great job.

A Joke

that I was told:

What do you call a musician who splits up with his girlfriend?







































































Homeless

Nobody

In a world where all thumbs are fingers and all your toes might as well just not plain fucking exist, there is one last man standing. Standing above the ruins of the metaphorical old old bailey. Where that blind chick who has been asked to pose for the cover of "Scales and Swords Quarterly" has been cut down brutally in her post post war prime, he stands on the neck and cunt to prove his final point.

I once became wrapped in excitement over what I thought would be a big deal. This tender supple age did not suit me, and learned I did a lesson of pivotal importance: When the sky spirals, by golly you'd better get as fucking far away from it as possible.

Recently I was thrown up down a gigantic flight of stairs. I wept. I ran. Ran towards the drugs and the bottle. Then a light came and I followed, and I followed, and I followed. Followed until my shoes were bursting with snow and my skin was scabbed and ugly.

It's that, when I fuck up, I fuck up big. When I succeed I do fairly well. You'd think there would be a balance, but there isn't.

Wise women howl from the bottom of swamps made of jeers and bullfighters that "it's from within!" From within I bury a memory of those people I never thought I would think about but each time they rise to the surface like jizzy bile. Which I suppose is a pretty funny sentence if you give it time to sink in...

Well, I was never young

Had the most literal anxiety dream yesterday. I was in a total panic as Dario Argento was giving a lecture in Berlin and Goblin, Tangerine Dream and King Crimson were all going to perform afterwards and I didn't know what to do.

Yet in real life I had an incredibly positive day, got a great deal of things sorted and ended it with an incredibly positive loving conversation.

I also had my hair cut in real life today...



as it was happening this song came on, later I found a video for it made up of UFO footage.

As this sentence ends, so does another...

To Thou! Sand & Ten...

I remember staring at a full moon thinking about the woman I love, and watching a documentary about serial killers.

I'm the worst goth in the world.



...really the song is about transcendence over those who see the world as only earthy and finite. The horses represent the five senses from Hindu philosophy (The Bhagavad Gita) and the ability to lift one’s perception above these physical limitations and to see beyond this limited Earthly perspective.

SO YES! NEW YEAR!