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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.
my animal
when you're
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.
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." 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