ghxsts bio picture

FOOD FOR THOUGHT.

Welcome to my blog!

Hello my name is: Icicle Audacity. All I see are ghxsts. I'm the misguided stride for self improvement - a sadistic, futuristic machine. A hollow cold emitted through vibrant lights, it’s a warm as wool winter but I’ve got a chill I can’t shake. This is what I am & I think I’m fine in my own misguidance. My bones are frozen, my marrow has turned to ice - my body is just a body, a corpse without a head. I'm just a vessel & my brain has long been dead.

Dylan McAmmond
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En Vogue Photography
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"That's really the only thing that matters to me, is that I make art for a living. And if I make art for a living... I win."

Self

When I’m bored I shoot myself.

Whitters - look at those browsMarch 14, 2012 - 2:08 am

01.22.12 – The day no one needed to know

Too often, man is forwards looking before he learns to see his past is beautiful.

I’ve slowly separated from the now like roots withdrawing from the soil; the sun buzzes like an old fluorescent bulb overhead and its pale light makes me ache for depth and shadows. Too early I’ve reached the eventually when complexity abandons everyone and simplicity starts to dry up time like a puddle from the sidewalk after rain.

It’s in the air and in my breath. I can taste it in my spit. Through my veins and in my lungs, my heart, my sight. I feel it like instinct and re-think it like reason. And when was the last time I looked at the sky? The stars? The sun, or the moon? It makes me sick to my stomach that before the last leaf wept from green, to yellow, to orange, I didn’t even take the time to appreciate a single one. Not one. Not even for a minute, not even for a second.

Write out the wrongs.

This is the after; the world goes smooth & muted while you flicker & click like an old projector – as water fills a space, time fills up a moment. There isn’t a place for you in the past, like an eddy in the river flow – what stays behind is just illusion.

– D

Rework – #1

Going to start re-editing old images from 2008, 2009, 2010, 2011 – just for fun.

untitled

Thе walls hаd grown familiar tо him.

Hе lived іn thіѕ place. White, bleached lооkіng walls wіth аn incomplete paint job revealing they’d taped thе corners аnd creases but nеvеr hand-painted thеm whеn done. A pumped оut piece оf work fоr аn assembly line оf souls tо live іn cheaply, but ѕtіll over-priced.

Hе sipped hіѕ drink quietly, thе glow оf thе monitor barely registering іn thе white-wash оf thе fluorescent light аbоvе him. Hе sat аt hіѕ desk, papers scattered meaninglessly аbоut іt оr tacked tо а wall аѕ іf tо justify themselves. Thе vodka bottle sat capped оn оnе side оf thе flat surface, hіѕ laptop оn thе other. Thе sound оf а fan buzzed frоm thе fаr side оf thе room nеаr hіѕ disheveled bed; іt wаѕ а constant, аnd constants wеrе good. An unused guitar hung іtѕ head quietly іn thе corner, аnd hе dіd thе bеѕt hе соuld tо nоt embarrass іt wіth attention. A simple dresser, а simple, small closet. Books filled а bookshelf, аnd а tiny table wаѕ pushed uр аgаіnѕt thе wall оn whісh sat а collection оf liquors аnd а familial extension оf thе scattering оf papers оn hіѕ desk. A fеw articles оf clothing lay scattered асrоѕѕ thе thin, industrial rug thаt coated thе surface оf thе room.

Hе shared thіѕ twо room apartment wіth а stranger whо hе pretended tо bе friends with. Thеіr interactions tооk place іn thе kitchen, whісh thеу kерt organized аnd cleanly tо thе bеѕt оf thеіr capacity. Thеу shared а mutual terror оf confrontation, аnd thіѕ worked miracles іn ensuring thеу acted responsibly tоwаrdѕ оnе another. Thе Monitor flickered imperceptibly аѕ thе video hе watched droned, unaware оf hоw meaningless іtѕ quality wаѕ іn thе long run. A perceptive eye wоuld hаvе caught site оf а fеw scattered empty pill bottles аrоund thе vicinity. An omniscient eye wоuld realize thе man yearned fоr а cigarette аѕ hе leaned bасk аgаіnѕt hіѕ ill-crafted wooden chair аnd stared wіth empty eyes аt thе еvеr glowing laptop monitor. Hіѕ room-mate didn’t approve оf smoking іn thе apartment; hе couldn’t blame him. Hе pried open а tin оf chewing tobacco аnd tossed а pinch іn thе pouch оf hіѕ cheek. No, hе couldn’t blame him; аftеr all, hе didn’t approve оf smoking thе apartment either.

Thе fan droned аnd thе screen flickered аѕ аn equally compelling sound oozed оut оf thе computer speakers. Fоr а whіlе nоw hе hаd wondered іf hе wаѕ ѕtіll alive. Thеrе wаѕ ѕоmе evidence thаt hе was, thеrе wаѕ ѕоmе evidence hе wаѕ not. Evеrу morning ѕееmеd tо suggest hе wаѕ dead-he hаd stopped showing uр tо hіѕ scheduled events аnd hе barely spoke wіth anyone, сеrtаіnlу nоt daring tо answer а call. But thе evenings, thеу ѕееmеd tо suggest hе wаѕ ѕtіll dying, рrоbаblу frоm а belly wound tо thе psyche. Hе based thіѕ assertion оn thе fact thаt іt wаѕ tаkіng forever, аnd hе knew thаt belly wounds wеrе supposed tо tаkе а long time. Of course, bу “knew” hе rеаllу meant thаt TV аnd thе internet hаd suggested thіѕ fact tо him: hоwеvеr іf thеѕе sources оf experience wеrе flawed he’d hаvе nо choice but tо declare thе lаѕt 21 years а waste аnd start over.

No, thаt wаѕ tоо harsh. Hе hаd dоnе things, fоr а time. Thаt time hаd slowed uр lіkе аn aging metabolism thоugh untіl finally іt јuѕt plain stopped аnd еvеrуthіng ѕееmеd tо freeze uр аnd fatten. Nоw hе didn’t dо things. Nоw hе sat hеrе waiting fоr еvеrуthіng tо gо dark аѕ іt muѕt inevitably. Hе checked hіѕ watch; 3:00 іn thе morning. Nоt unusual. Hе generally kерt thе shades drawn аnd thе fluorescent bulb buzzing, ѕо thе conditions bеуоnd thе womb оf hіѕ room wеrе оf lіttlе significance.

Tо bе honest, thе conditions bеуоnd thе state оf hіѕ mind hаd generally lost thеіr meaning.

E - You are an incredible writer. The pictures that you paint with words are an experience.January 26, 2014 - 5:57 pm

people watching

“If you’re losing your soul and you know it, then you’ve still got a soul left to lose”

Denial is my only freedom & I’m roaming far from here. I could build you a place of grandeur and elegance where the victorian windows display the sunlight kindly, the sea below roaring beneath us a twisting string of pain & betrayal. Jagged rocks outlining the horizon – straining daily for the purity. You seem to reach so easily mucky, soiled from tragic deception. I stand close to you but the need for distance aches. When they abandon in silence, my arms open to the hushing wind – luring to set my tangled ghxsts free. There’s so much more but tomorrow only hassles what everyone turns into shame. Seagulls loudly about to take flight, a storm is brewing. While the ocean turns wild I lose you to this storm. You take a graceful fall, no one knows you fell – quietly, she never spoke a word. Did anyone know I was here? Softly writing a message in the sand, preparing to see the raging waves flow over the words and take them out to sea. The things you’ll never know, I couldn’t say them anyway. Tracing everything you ever meant – secrets the ocean has swept away.

The white dust is gone, when dusk is kissing the dawn – regret is a colorful bruise, an agonizing moment. No one was around, I only see the results. . .There’s no one that will take you for what you really are.

Life changes into a whisper of vacant days spent postured before the warm & familiar in a stoop with outstretched hands; time slices through you in tense gusts: where’s & when’s & why’s settle like stones.

now our house is ice and the ceiling’s gone

Obsessed with Charles Bukowski lately:

“For those who believe in God, most of the big questions are answered. But for those of us who can’t readily accept the God formula, the big answers don’t remain stone-written. We adjust to new conditions and discoveries. We are pliable. Love need not be a command nor faith a dictum. I am my own god. We are here to unlearn the teachings of the church, state, and our educational system. We are here to drink beer. We are here to kill war. We are here to laugh at the odds and live our lives so well that Death will tremble to take us.”

“There’s nothing to mourn about death any more than there is to mourn about the growing of a flower. What is terrible is not death but the lives people live or don’t live up until their death. They don’t honor their own lives, they piss on their lives. They shit them away. Dumb fuckers. They concentrate too much on fucking, movies, money, family, fucking. Their minds are full of cotton. They swallow God without thinking, they swallow country without thinking. Soon they forget how to think, they let others think for them. Their brains are stuffed with cotton. They look ugly, they talk ugly, they walk ugly. Play them the great music of the centuries and they can’t hear it. Most people’s deaths are a sham. There’s nothing left to die.”

dogs and angels are not very far apart

“How in the hell could a man enjoy being awakened at 8:30 a.m. by an alarm clock, leap out of bed, dress, force-feed, shit, piss, brush teeth and hair, and fight traffic to get to a place where essentially you made lots of money for somebody else and were asked to be grateful for the opportunity to do so?” – Charles Bukowski

The captain is out to lunch and the sailors have taken over the ship


Respect became a serpent – the master of each breath yet with every gift tightening its hold until the world turned the gray of ambition.  A fire runs through these veins, infection springing like sunrise from a wound that we’ve lost sight of. Answers without questions and predetermined outcomes coat the ground like snow. Out my window I hear connections; like an apparition taking familiar shape, like the taste of scent – it places emphasis on absence.

There’s something pressing in on me. I’m familiar with it, like a friend from the past who never grew up and expects you to be the same. I’ve let it in because I don’t have the heart to turn it away. It slowly blinds me to what’s important; it fills me with need. You can’t feel good about what you do if you can’t feel good. It’s always there now, perched in the corner of my soul watching like a voyeur,  enjoying how uncomfortable I am & my soul dances for it like a girl behind glass; when it’s done it  slumbers, but it won’t be out for long. I want to send it away, but its my only customer.

You surrender tomorrow with today, and we’ll keep stumbling like children lost in the darkness of their own home.

“The problem was you had to keep choosing between one evil or another, and no matter what you chose, they sliced a little bit more off you, until there was nothing left. At the age of 25 most people were finished. A whole god-damned nation of assholes driving automobiles, eating, having babies, doing everything in the worst way possible, like voting for the presidential candidates who reminded them most of themselves. I had no interests. I had no interest in anything. I had no idea how I was going to escape. At least the others had some taste for life. They seemed to understand something that I didn’t understand. Maybe I was lacking. It was possible. I often felt inferior. I just wanted to get away from them. But there was no place to go.”

time taught me how to see every second as heaven even though they’re perfectly disguised as hell

“When I first got into magic, it was an underground phenomenon. Now everybody’s like, “Pick a card, any card.””

Listening to echoes that have journeyed to the start and back and fill me with visions like sonar through time. Memories you find littering the path before you, proving for a moment you are walking in circles. But second chances are always a blessing, and this time the sun is rising.

I’m bored with this: Seeking to imbue meaning into life, spicing it with ideas and attitudes. I want to meet someone beautiful. The world is what we make of it; such complex ideas wrapped in such simplicity. Am I uninterested, or am I just afraid? Your beauty brings the world to life, or maybe you do and that’s why I think you’re beautiful. I’ve dreamed of you, visions followed by loss: we were sitting quietly in the corner, together, watching all the lonely people in the crowds.

Forget yesterday, forget those vapid day-dream phantoms, because peace is not a pretext, but a context. Remember tomorrow, remember solid sunlit potential, refracting light ferociously, scattering shrapnel like star-clusters that can be pursued or not but are satisfied with the question.

“I’m not revealin’ any tricks of the trade. It’s just there ain’t no magic in the breakdown baby. “

 

i see something in nothingness if you could picture this


“I am the maniac, I am the fool – I found a monster in me when I lost my cool. It lives inside of me, eating whats in its way – put black spray paint on my windows during the day. I wanna spend time with it, I think I’m losing it. . . or I found it and I’m using it.”

Like rain-water running down the street, these days pool in strange and unseen places; I’m living my life like a beetle buzzing against the window pane. What became of you that makes you hover like smoke and move like a memory? Sometimes the wind is pushing and sometimes it pulls, but calm water is a curse without shores. You have a gaze like water recently disturbed, trembling and elastic with the ardor to be effortless. Every lake envies a river like silence envies sound, all because the circumference of earth fails to not offend.

I feel the world slow like an unwound clock – light stretched to become shadow. It’s the same pattern as always and I suffer the lack of the entropy: the distance between the bars and the cell expands and contracts like a struggling heart. The surface of time without the influence of willpower is smooth and infinite.

Light hangs lower in the sky, more like an ethereal mist than the tangible substance I’m used to clutching tightly in my fist and tugging at the horizon with. The sounds of home are precious and fleeting; snatches of cacophony, stretches of silence: against me they both are harmonious.

I’m supposed to long to leave here.

I eat my words, they taste like dirt.

“I’ve decided to take destiny into my own hands, you probably can’t understand. For me life was bland and I have this constant hollow feeling. Days are cold, dark and filled with sorrow. Raining clouds from under my ceiling, dealing with it all, would take a person very strong. By the time you hear this I will be gone. Along with my existence will be away of life for many. I gave some substance, knowledge and in return was used to make a petty penny. They defeated my purpose. Delated my work and cheated me, seeded me, under ground and wound up bringing me to the surface. They corrupted my image, made me a negative influence. The shady world has been abusive ever since I came into. Put here with no role models, no-one to follow. I’ve been contorted, aborted, recorded, distorted, shorted, I forfeit against life. I’m a morbid manic, forced off this rough course and breaking the boards and making my own doors. So don’t be sad when I leave cuz I know this is right. I can’t take it I can’t fake it I’m sick of like. I’ve carried people threw hard times and thought they were my friends but they only stayed close to me cuz it was the trend. But when I’m gone no-one will miss me a few years will go bye and important people will die and you’ll forget me. I hope the children will be alright without a proper guide. To all my loved ones and followers peace out at least I tried. I ain’t what I use to be, so don’t shed a tear from your windows I died along time ago this just makes it official. I Hip Hop being of sound mind and body here by request that my few prize possession go to the following: swallowing the facts maybe wacks by the tracts, still beauty stands from stained hands, and nap sacks filled with aerosol cans, and fat caps. My abstract artistic energy must continue to influence and embody the cats that are dedicated to ruining white walls with creative strokes of imagination in a paint splash. I leave all my physical strength to the guardians of the floor with their arms locked in a B-boy stance enhancing culture to a more ultra advance acrobatic expression yes in deed when I leave my present will exist in the style of the few true who know smiles would persist with changing mood. I leave my mood to the musician turntablist and wicked wizards of needles dusty samples intangible vibe, setting rhythm scientific it’s my verbal aspect of me that goes to those who ride vocalize poetical hi-breeds life and excitement language of the tongue. I ofter all my offspring the official mission towards society the gift of words come and get you some, yeah, the gift of words come and get you some and positivity and creativity, originality and history should be spread equality over all the heads mentioned above a long with my many styles, aggression, knowledge, evolution, solution, revolution, tolerance and love.”

– Michael “Eyedea” Larsen (November 9, 1981 – October 16, 2010)

“Your crime is your pride and your past is my only dose. I’m goin’ crazy outa my control. But there’s nothin’ I can do, I have no choice but to let it go. Each day gets a little less intense, no longer feel like the skins standin’ on my chest. You made me more me, and I won’t forget the times you helped my find my feet when I was buried in my head.

Thank you, for givin’ what you had to give, takin’ what you had to take, and makin’ me believe in you. Even though I might be gone forever there will always be a place in my brain that’ll think of you.”

bad habits make for good memories

“Agony is truth, its our connection to the living. I accept it as perfection and keep on existing in the now”

You let fall delicate patterns familiar and archaic pouring candle wax on canvas in equidistant fragments of mosaic your eyes remind me of the milky way galaxy and if I could I’d mold every fraction of infinity together to form a perspective to better suit you with what you want to do with yourself. Forthwith; I meander further from the candlestick to watch my shadow burn out just to chuckle in the darkness of your incandescent furrows.

Hell isn’t a place that you go when you die, hell is a feeling that you get deep inside. Hell is the look that you get in your eyes when you find everything you believed was a lie. It’s not that I don’t believe in heaven, it’s that I don’t believe in hell.

It’s that I know I won’t be punished for a life that I lived well.

“It happens faster than you could ever think – from always and forever to never again in less than a blink.”