Automatic Writings

Nakeedo Sneeko

In the eye of the storm

In the Jungle now. Sorta. You know I wouldn’t go that far. I’m not that crazy.

But I’m crazy enough to desire the darkest nights, the loudest rains, to wake in the AM in witness of gutters broken and trenches freshly carved. Drive that energy straight into my veins. Let me seethe.

Let me have that demon back cause I’m still crazy enough to want it after attaining–or seeing the light–or whatever the hell That was.

Because I’ve read the stories and I know they’re true. But do I want to do that? Do I want to experience that? Perhaps I do. But then when it happened I wanted to stop it.

And maybe that’s all “I” can do–all it’s capable of.

Maybe it’s only natural.

I’m not wise enough to distinguish what the hell this is–what I’m doing–what it’s driven by. Whether this is fueled by necessity–to know the ultimate–or to simply feed my ego.

I don’t know. Do I even care?

If I’m incapable of knowing, then why should I?

Lightning cracks like a whip outside my balcony.

Earbuds plugged in.

AES DANA’s “Inks”. The same bloody album I’d listen to back up north.

But now I’m down south. And do I have anything to say about it?

I like it, but who cares?

Another flash outside.

I’ve perceived some weird shit. I’ve come to know some weird shit.


But does it amount to anything?

I can laugh at the insanity. I can perceive the hilarity. Things can still get to me, but very rarely.

But who cares?

Don’t make me ask who cares again . . .

Maybe you don’t know . . . Maybe you could use a little tune up . . .

But who cares?

Certainly not me.

I’m not in the business of giving “advice”.

I’m in the business of living “my life”.

I’m in the business of the ups and downs, rollercoaster rides, losing [redacted] in a day, making [redacted] in another.

(Editor’s note: Apologies for the redactions but Slothful Hutts plot from afar, remember?)

But that’s no flex. It’s not even flex-worthy.

Don’t be like me. Don’t be stupid.

I learnt my lessons. I made my way out of Hell, turned back to take the scenic route, then came right back out.

I have no intention of going back a third time. That’s right, Nakeedo Sneeko just may have matured.

And I feel that bite of time. I feel that need to start saying no so that I have a chance to say yes.

Yes to whatever comes next, because good god, I do get sick of myself.

I know I haven’t been publishing as of late. And it’s not for a lack of material.

It’s there, locked up in the vaults.

But as seems to be the new running theme . . . All too often, I just can’t be bothered.

Who needs to hear this? Who wants to?

Let me shatter any illusions you might have: virtually nobody in this world, in the truest sense of the word, should ever be excited to see me.

I’m not that guy. No sir. Maybe I wanted to be at one point. But now? No, kill me now.

I’d rather die than attempt to balance a beachball on my nose like some poor domesticated sea lion locked up in Aqua World. Like some of you fools.

I got nothing to sell you other than my own blood and guts and even that’s not for sale at the moment if you happened to noticed.

If I was going to “sell myself” it’d be for the big bucks.

So now that I’ve lost all desire for respect, self or otherwise . . .

Nope. Still nothing. Nothing to declare. Don’t make me say it again. Don’t–okay, there is perhaps 1% of you that still don’t get it: who cares?

Whatever I achieve, who cares?

Any declaration is to myself only, and I’m keen enough to see right through what my “self” happens to be doing and, the answer is, and will always be: nothing amounts to anything.

The chases lead nowhere. It’s true. Am I early? I feel like I’m late. I feel like I’ve got to make up for lost time–but I’ve no idea what to “make it up” with.

What a conundrum.

Even the greatest artists. Legends of their own. I will never shirk their greatness, but I just can’t help but feel like . . . it doesn’t mean anything.

It might bring people joy. It might leave a mark. That’s great . . . but . . . there is still nowhere to go, from there. Nowhere to go, at all.

Don’t say it! Don’t give me that “journey” nonsense.

If the “journey” was so great you wouldn’t feel the need to speak such greatness into existence.

It’s like I want to have everything taken away from me, isn’t it? And boy . . . that does ring mighty true to me.

It sure does.

Because that’s what life is going to do to us all. It’s what life HAS been doing.

And I’ve seen the preview. I’ve had the backstage pass. The VIP package. The golden ticket. I’m Charlie in the motherfuckin’ chocolate factory.

And I say, it’s all going to go away.

But not until it’s given you a little taste.

Not until it’s given you a little pull, a little match of tug-of-war.

Cause that’s what’s in store for all you boys. All you silly little boys that think you’ve got something worth anything.

That your silly little car, or your silly little girlfriend, or your silly little ego, thirsting.

And the silly little Twitter gurus, all of which will never be desperate enough. Never real enough.

These fools, pretending they speak as if to benefit anyone other than themselves.


Don’t make me laugh.

Don’t make me show you my infrared vision.

Nothing amounts to anything. And the OG was right: everything is a scam.

Whatever thought you have, untrue. Whatever chase you undertake, leads nowhere.

Whatever is done for something other than the thing itself, right this motherfucking second: a complete and total waste of time.

A complete and utter catastrophe.

But gobble gobble, hungry hippos.

I know you like it. I know you ain’t done.

You couldn’t be. You never will, be.

And that’s just the way it is.

Because see, guys like me. We really are a dying breed.

Hell, we basically don’t even exist.

We show up for a short while, howl at the moon, let the domesticated dogs call us “dangerous” — and then we sail off into the moonlight, off to our next adventure.