The Aleks is on the Tumblr.

I'm sick and tired of bearing The poison sac on my underbelly,  The itch of the lycanthrope, The mark of the monster,  Sown into me and onto me By ancient kings, merchants, priests,   With stained hands, Eyes like filthy needles, Cooked meat on their breaths. But who can call the dead to account,  But the gods themselves? And nobody has heard from them in years,  Not since they gave the kings their power, The merchants their wealth,  The priests their influence, And, all too conveniently, vanished.  All burdens to the weak. And who, I ask, is left to temper my poison,  Or soothe my itch,  Or renounce my mark? Who, I implore, is responsible?

Hi folks! You should most absolutely check out this album (created by a good friend of mine), if you like strange, sometimes upbeat, sometimes haunting electronic/experimental music. He's really fantastic. Track #7 (It Rained All Week and NPR Was Extremely Depressing) is now my official anthem. You can listen to it for free, and own it (and thus support this independent artist) for very cheap. Also, please do reblog if it catches your fancy.

You inscribe your melancholy, (As it always was), On your skin, Curlicue after curlicue, Slipping along the nostalgic, aromatic shiver of a breeze. The air is cool here, and still, And before you knew it, a year had passed, A whole damn year... Nearly harvest season again. It hurts, doesn't it, To have lived a year in the span of a breath, And to have found nothing To have found nothing But winter outstretched, A tired old playboy in a black robe, Bony fingers lazily picking at shriveled grapes, With one eye on the television, And one eye on the window, Night, neon, nonsense.

Update: Link should be working now :)

If you like Aleks’ work and want him to be able to produce it more regularly, consider becoming a patron. Here's how!

I'm a jack of all trades and a master of none.  I ramble and roam; I doodle and drum. And I can't make a living, and I'm awful at sums. I'm a jack of all trades and a master of none. I live in a tent that I pitch in the woods.  I strike it and wander, when I'm in the mood. And it's not all that bad, and it's not all that good. I live in a tent that I pitch in the woods. I'm a jack of all trades and a master of none. I walk by the moon, and I sleep by the sun. And most days it hurts, and some days it's fun. I'm a jack of all trades and a master of none. by Aleks Samoylov  If you like Aleks' work and want him to be able to produce it more regularly, consider becoming a patron.

To view the journal itself, simply follow the above link, scroll down a bit, and select the format you’d prefer (you can either download a PDF or read it directly via the “Online” option).

I tossed it, of course. Nothing creepy.

Even after the best of nights, On waking up, Especially If alone.

Always the hopeless manchild, I think, And, my, it hurts to understand, In this day And age, That birth is not a guarantee Of anything But, you know -- you know what -- And that your story Isn't the best story, Or even an especially good story, And that, In being awake, Or in toil, Or in resistance, There is no glory, By, oh my, ever the hopeful manchild, I think.

The steam rising from the manhole, tinged with You know what, And the fizzle, crackle of failed wires, Failed backs, failed eyes, The smoker’s cough, the scent of aftershave, On a stale morning, and the gas station, So alone, out there on the fringes, The Gas Station. Serendipity is speechless, When, among the little, spherical birds, She finds, enthroned, The horned Goddess of Wasted Breath, Bare chested and unashamed, Tattoos shifting under the light — Here a fallen gladiator, Here an alligator, swallowing the sun — With that cigar in her cracked, sneering lips, And that cool, quiet — like a morning in early spring — Compassion on her dancing face. When she beckons, Elegant, overdecorated hands, Fingers supple as saplings, One can’t help but ramble forward, Into her embrace, Where everyone is a child, And everything is lovely again, Like it maybe used to be, Once upon a time.

They've built, Thigh over shoulder -- metallic taste of private flesh -- A tower, Big, and blue, and all the way to the sky, Everyone, obsessed with holding up Everything they can. And that's what Atlas used to do, Before he retired, Now nobody really Needs him Anymore.

I can feel...reality, Reality is great. Remember I went to the hospital? Was that more recent? I can always tell when I'm being - Watched? No...