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Fuck the houses of cocaine luxury. I've got silver lenses rainbow corneas. No matter what we say you'll prove the reverse. Six A.. Seagull before the city wakes up. Strapped for beef cash at vegan deli. Rosevelt Island ski lifts to hell. Crystal suburbs of the clouds all but remain. Fuck Bob Dylan wannabe disco handjob hair grease guy. A.K.A. Mr. CLOT-STEAK. Every office that ever stuck my soul to a white goodbye. All the cloud girls, skirt tents unpacking in the sun. One last door to freeze me in. Teeth whitener hair blackener eye linener puss polisher soul patch homielove double A tap strap video game brain guy. I really do HATE you. So obvious it's the most complicated. (Somebody) taped my hair to the wind. Why won't you cry at my smart remark the birds to the caves wondered? House of northern detention clean suburb children of the sky-steak wilderness. Fly sown to wings of steam in harem closing down. Last breast of sorrowful exile. Fuck your stupid postcards I'm tired of hating you. Red and black girls with high hair fauning on internet dates. My gazelle has sex teeth. Under lamp posts and uterus clocks we met hand to cock. You were the coat check boy overseas. \\\\\\\\\\\\\\ Art website you haven't updated it for six months. Vice magazine pussy ass faggots here today gay today. Rainbow Panda got up and saw it was shit and on the 4th day he made Rainbow maggots. I crawled to leather faced houses of the rich and worked my fingers through nubile virgin skin. Fuck alien takeover since 1200 B.C.
when you're walking and when you're sleeping talk of waking up when you're dreaming of the person constantly calling in the evening wait until morning in the morning I was adorning you in excess take off the garnish wrap in paper until much later dream of drifting hopefully sailing through the bed and up to the ceiling in the sheets and past the pajamas underneath the skin is appealing smooth and white like snow in december warm to touch and equally tender when you call it doesn't mean much at all but when we touch it means so much you are my animal I will dress you up I will keep you close when you're walking and when youÕre sleeping talk of waking up when youÕre dreaming when you're dreaming remember holding hands at midnight down by the river plans and motors cabfare and taxes shows we saw and other attractions when you're walking and when you're talking talk of taking steps pursue living climbing crawling tenderly fauning on a silver star no pretending amber waves of absinthe are bending I am close but not from the center slip the gates tonight do not enter when you call it doesnÕt mean much at all but when we touch it means so much but when you fuss and fight I canÕt sleep through the night but when you say I love you I know itÕs true
Back back. Always front now. The steady hand first follows. The power of least motion achieves the science of the everyday. In steps. Logic starts at all points. Begin at the begin or die mid-drift. Hand of god is smartly, mainly, the word. This computer breathes sweat. The keys are wet. I am inside the keys. I can hardly breath in here. Between the leaves of skin and the vast cellular transfer I can smell summer. I can be small. I can talk to the first love of the waves. This bank is made of trees. I can count portraits. Leaves and portraits double the worth of owning eyes. Twice my size the keys are made of ivory. The bark of the dogs also is in here.
Citizens of a cold cold place we live in particle board shacks and plywood dog houses of the moon. Subzero handbag, thatÕs where this is. Slow orbit of silence since our exile here forever ago in agony. No talk, no nothing. I guess you'll get used to it, kid. They always seem to realize better off dead is true. And we try to prove the point. Look, for example, volcanoes of the moon are the hulking heads of dead monsters come to occupy space... My own head is volcano-like in that it is empty and useless. Once, a billion years ago, it erupted a flowering manifesto of madness and evil. The sky came down like a ladder I rode to the top of this heap and pissed a yellow rip curl of dust and sperm. ItÕs all the same. No sounds but paranoid thoughts make up the difference. Pipes bang and jets steaming so distant in impossible cadence as far away as being born. The moon is human waste. We suffer the same insane fate of silence. Mother was a sad fat thing we rolled her up the hill and popped out right as rain... came fluttering down in parachutes and feathered hang gliders crashing through the roofs of clouds, patterning the sky like insane gifts. The light is pushed on us then. The opposite of light makes us think it over. I had tried to stay dead. Crashing the hull of my tiny skeleton down deep into the thick jelly fish walls of her. It would have been nice. A memoir from beyond even existing... Going home at times I notice I no longer recognize my own face. These feet and hands are grey skiffs gliding over rock and ancient sidewalks. Going nowhere fast is hot topic. Eating cabbage and ice. I sent in July letters telegrams post cards to home. To Subzero you... From beyond the grave I write with Orpheus pen in ink thick like blood. I have two eyes, the blue one for love and the green one madness. No reply. Too much static. Planets nurse me back to death in that slow vertical climb. Never wake up, they say orbiting once in a million love letters home. Subzero me sits like a small star. Center of my cold cold heart where blood blooms once an hour in a confused electric display. See it in my eyes. Pay the price of lunacy end up here. Particle board sun, rows of skeleton trees, water like dust over the wide white nothing.
and so that's what death is like so close to the sun the tops of houses your eyes shake right out of your head
kids get up ready to rocket blue powder at the first taste of death is why convert to metric units love and hearts blackened register death letters to the miraculous one kids get up and walkman yourself to god hand me hearts or else I will kill the driver I will kill myself with paper
if there's something there to sleep with I will sleep with it. the scales bid me; create eyes to see through the blue cardiac mist of your own forcefield. I would ride those curling lashes into the mid-shadow face of that other place.
Walkman Yourself to God
It is the year 2077. In the flight of synthetic stars find yourself tied to a black van on fire with the white noise radio on. The world is ruled by carnivores of sonic control. We are chained to the inevitable night of our thought process. The collapse of fortresses of shit to the North and West brings hope to the approaching song-structures. Reptiles make the rare gifts of guitars die for you and melt. You play piano in a stream fair as autumn flesh. Sweeter still the dappled wood of the keys and foot pedals. You tune your heartbeat to a deck of siren oscilators ten stories beneath the surface of the sea. Hurry now; the princess of the crystal amps waits for us in her bed of RCA cables. In small skiffs we make it. We detach with a game of -oh hell. Her face is marble, inlay of blue pearl devil-doll eyelids. Bleached mullet, pointy toe heels with jeans, red nails peeling an orange. She says, "my father was gray bursts over the steaming splayed ovarian tendrils. This wallpaper smells of him. His gray felt hat. He spoke only of returning to this, the land of cystal tube amplifiers. With that borrowed, otherworld poetry, he continues to flood our every thinking moment. His words are blue cyrystal and stick to your heart like very small beaks, pulsing as one with your circulatory system. The flash forward songs at first will make you cough bad art and useless, powerless objects. You think you will any day record the sweetest song ever and be adored by many. Perhaps you will. But the skin you trade for the magical amps will be too orange and large; it will be stiched to fit and it will melt under the stage lights. Finally sick of singing, you will climb out and into the dark room and play one last casio samba."
CIRCLE OF DOOM
Yes this is MY weblog! Everyday I get a new message from a DJ related someone or other telling me about a rad new DJ event. Well you know what, I fuckin' hate these white ass stoopid no skill hipster wannabe musicians who call themselves "DJs"- pay me no mind true DJs, you know who you are, but get together on this one and help make NYC free of these mo-fos. I am hereafter boycotting all events featuring these so-called DJs. This means you Vice Magazine!! hey what about all those other annoying mag-fags fronting at the DJ party. Hmmmmmmm. My amp, your face. Piston Honda will kick your white belt havin' ass back to Connecticut mothafucka!
- webmaster's creed 2003