_a recap_
THIRSTY
REGIT REPAP pink hats scream REPENT in the mirror. Conned-In soon questions intention - we sit in wordless awe of how little we know. Stutter in response... survival... ummm.... whatever. Rely on these compulsions, trust in reaping... and sewing. BOMBS - POST SMALL/STONE punkrock DOC., then, travel to MORBIUS (palms thirsting plasma) releasing EPs. Certain Frustration or Probable Blood Pressure or Parent's Over Shoulder. Yes. White Vans and epic rap music.
F'REAL
WorkForThem until you don't. Work For Me into the night. T-Juiced... KILL YOURSELF, FATAL, CROSS (stand on your head for that one), CROSS STITCH (on yer head again), and yes, BLOOD LUST (suffering from 6 hour layovers days later). The Enabler - Dentist Spawn - granted (Francis Ford) Copius quantities of high life: results in the annihilation of Mexican suckersx30or40. The darkest of lights illuminate cakes and beads and flowers to our delight. Stand upon these kegs and drain them with a mighty swallow. Count to twenty 1 or 2 or 5 and stomp until your boots crumble. walk home (surely).
SADDER(est)
Awake to the PM. Stacks of Wack(s). More of the dark light and weddings and the glow-y rods and jazzy-flashing crotch goodness. CHEERZZZZZ. Thanks to Mel and DM2X. image source... Doom Field(s) / Wolf Pack(s) / Cake tower - BFF x 1Third = Jess unless... no.... of course. The Shit Children paid and traveled to witness the wretched crowds of Teh Trock ("Those are T's. Really. OMG."). Painful, but thankyou friends. Drown the crowds with bleak scrawlings dripping downt the chest. REPENT - again. yes.
Lush.Hype(r): Ceremonial Undertakers, Till-Toil Death Do Us Part, and we will do so in a timely fashion. I loathe you... Dearly Beloved. Dreary drawling darlings may we dawn this gloom as wife and groom. Dressed in black and glowing bile palely veiled defiled vile mine is yours through tribs and trial. Unbridled Hate. Finally together for never forever.
The WIVE$ grant us sanctuary - post A-troc-alypse (never again). We laughed and spoke and bathed in fire; oak burns slow. James Brown wants to rock a tramp stamp. I can support that.
SONNED Aye.
Centrifugal force defies 55. Looooop(s). Wojak gets warpainted to appease a small terror. Colt Masta Kill commands all despite his size. A leader indeed. Mud Kayaks and a leprechaun's sword. VanLagerHagaBinsBurgenismology is a big word. Holy Crap! this guy crashed his bike into a tree, bounced his head off a stump not 10 feet away. The Forrest spirit helped him up. Fuuuuuhhhh... mind blowing. Shoulda taken his picture. So Tired. Over to the largest continent with a "Z" More Fish Rapped Raw... cuz FYBS loves to satiate such indulgence.
Everything Happened at Once
"a bleak outlook on the future"
photo credit: JAWZ
earsick,
so this is what I'm thinking. for this future psciencefictionpsycedelic tipple nipple ripple.
set-ups:
(A) story - place take full of cake in a neofuturistic sinvironment. the rules
(THERE ARE NO RULES)
of the masters of the universal law
universe should be pretty pretty pinkish. oh, so not to work
the narrative into any old cobweebled corners.
i guess-guess what? for directional similarities you could make a closet
and fill it with holy clothes or robes.
connection of the worlds. ours and the other ours.
the main protagonist is an assassin/mercenary/gopher golden shower
for various variables. [he was never to be seen again - ed.]
organizations and mega-conglomerates and corporate output modules.
------------------------
------------------------------------------------ things are
bleak ---------------------------------------------------
-----------. ------------ to keep the government supplied air out
------------ this "pharmaceutical air" keeps the general population
sedated. ------------------------------- Fontleroy, either first or
last.
things ---- ------ -- ---------:
mutated toxic waste behemoths
apocalyptic military regimes
rivals
massive ship crashes (like speed 2 where that boat crashes for like 30
minutes, unreal.)
-------- navigation of megacities
Kool Keithish/Doctor Octagonal
so yeah, so yeah, so yeah, so yeah, so yeah, so yeah, so yeah, so yeah, so yeah,
so yeah, so yeah, so yeah, so yeah, so yeah, so yeah, so yeah, so yeah, so yeah,
so yeah, so yeah, so yeah, so yeah, so yeah, so yeah, so yeah, so yeah, so yeah,
so yeah, so yeah, so yeah, so yeah, so yeah, so yeah, so yeah, so yeah, so yeah,
so yeah, i don't know what you think. I was thinking this could be
sort of an ongoing book until it's finished and then maybe hand bound
hardcover or some zine shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit.
shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit.
shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit.
shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit.
shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. I've got a sketchbook i've been working in on above around.
and we could just hand it back and forth until we populate this
universe with some elaborate world weaving.
I'm also not opposed to handing it off to other people and having them
make little one-shot type vignettes that fit in somewhere in the
fictional world. this would also open an option of overlapping
characters and fresh storylines. fresh storylinez? WTF!?!
storylines and characters
gonzo/beat
i gotta throw some light now. you around this weekend?
.....
Heir-on,
I hear what you speak, and am filled with pleasing sensations...
I hear what you speak
I hear what you speak
I hear what you speak
I hear what you speak
I hear what you speak
I am presently at the Cafetto's coffee hole utilizing the "wi-fi," ya'
know what I speak?
know what I speak?
know what I speak?
know what I speak?
know what I speak?
I will be in MPLS from this moment until sometime mid-next week. This
should give ample time for you and I to converge and start this epic
adventure off...
until sometime mid-next week.
until sometime mid-next week.
until sometime mid-next week.
until sometime mid-next week.
until sometime mid-next week.
I forsee cheap beer and a nug or two in our near future...
a nug or two in our near
a nug or two in our near
a nug or two in our near
a nug or two in our near
a nug or two in our near
I do not have your #, so hit me up...
free of obligations at I'm free of the day... and night.
free most hours
free most hours
free most hours
free most hours
xxx. xxx. xxxx.
ETC...
.....
how does sunday afternoon or monday late afternoon sound for cervezas
y mota verde? que? mesa agua, amigo.
I have your number and will give you a call. before then if i hear nothing.
wird is bond.
aa
.....
Sunday?
Wird.
ETC...
and for future reference...
whats yo digits?
.....
church it up then.
R.I.P.
R.I.P.
R.I.P.
R.I.P.
XXXXXXXXXX
*this information has been chapped chopped fucked and screwed. KTHNXBAI! -Tubs
fieldwork for the apocalypse
nature and nurture
what do you see and how is it there
is it there?
can we make what isn't there?
is it worth making something that isn't there when what is there is bound to be gone
toying with unexplainable forces
When the apocalypse comes, and the melting pot is finally finished cooking
when nature is taken over
can we build like nature
mother
nurture in the way that needs to be
nurture nature
nature nurtures
the body
we don't want to hurt anybody
just blow up some of these parking ramps
that block our view of the city
GOD BLESS OUR LAME OLD FAT HATS!!!!!!!
Malignant Intellectual Advisors Mangle Aaron & Eric's Project.
All you had to do was try to pay attention to the details.
Call for help. We need more bifocals.
......./\/\/\..........................WTF........................../\/\/\.......
There is a “we” – did you know this? It’s true. We’re out there, pretty much everywhere. Minneapolis. Saint Paul. Chicago. San Francisco. Brooklyn. Chapel Hill and Iowa City and Las Cruces and Portland and beyond.
We’re not a generation. We can’t be defined by our age. Or the fact that we’re the children of a previous “we.” To tell you the truth, we’re a hard group to describe.
We live in old, warped mansions and shoe factories, carved into misshapen sets of three or four or eighty-four. We sit under sagging power lines. We ride bike. We drink tallboys. We smoke cigarettes. We traverse in alleyways that suture the city’s ancient and bloody wounds. We congregate in backyards, porches and stoops—lightly sweated, hoods down, backpacks full of warm six-packs, ears open. We don’t have landlines. We don’t pay for the internet. We don’t call our moms enough. We have too many student loans. We have unsavory debt-to-asset ratios. We have restless legs and arms and hearts and minds. We have things inside us that have to come out.
So we draw. We design. We write. We compose. We rap. We blog. But we’re not attempting to communicate. No, no, not at all. We are trying to stay alive.
We know the score—our own destruction is around the bend. We recognize that life is short, wild, fleeting, a precious and delicate bird just passing through. To waste even one minute of it letting ourselves be defined by the world rather than defining it ourselves is tantamount to death. To lose control of your destiny is death. To just be along for the ride is death. To answer to the whims of others is death. To simply trade time for money is death. Our friends become our new families because they understand this truth more than anyone else on earth. Our friends are everything we have, and they are our only chance for survival. Our friends are our last, best hope of staving off death for one more day.
And if this at all sounds macabre or overdramatic, then you’re probably not one of us.
So we fight, together, to carve out grand ambitions and larger-than-life dreams. We have to. We have to because the simple and important truth is that if we don’t do something massive and epic and powerful and fucking monumental and if we don’t do it right fucking now as soon as humanly fucking possible—well, then we die. We wither and we rust and we die. We’ll be dead by all measures that really matter and, and, and, and…
And this is what defines us, unities us, draws us to each other inexorably. We’ve each had our eyes opened to harsh truths: life is brief, mediocrity is tragic, and the status quo is a shallow grave. If you understand this, everything else is irrelevant. Creation is not a medium of expression, but a desperate attempt to survive. Medium and genre and message aren’t sacrosanct—they’re simply means to an end, tools to participate and prevent your one fleeting time in this universe from being a colossal and tragic waste.
So rappers are illustrators. Bloggers are composers. Photographers are designers. Sculptors are rappers. Architects are painters. Writers are bloggers. Designers are illustrators. Since creation is a tool and not an expression, it’s all a part of the same family. Empathy is king. We recognize the symmetry of desperation across boundaries. Collaboration becomes a necessity rather than an obligation. Combining forces makes us all stronger, more powerful, more effective in the struggle to survive.
But this isn’t a movement. There’s no ideology, no edicts, no rallying cries, no worldwide zeitgeist. We’ve seen that before and we hold it in respect and regard. But what we’re doing is different. This isn’t about creating a better future, a safer and cleaner world, a fair and equitable and just utopia. No, no, no, not at all.
This is a fight to save our very lives. This is survival. And we do it every day, everywhere, all the time. From coast to coast. From border to border. From hardland to heartland. And we can’t stop. Not ever. This is a fight to the death.
-all words smithed by jeffallen-
NFCKNGSHT... did you see that?
in the pocket that was the actual beginning of time. babies were not born. lives could not yet be destroyed.
crotchal hawtness.^.
I was actually unaware of what I was doing. I had been stuffed into my bedroom for the dreaded afternoon nap.
Did the universe exist before then? Big Questions?
The need to piss is how it all began.
I was lying on my stomach and I remember moving my legs slowly in scissors motion. It felt good. I continued to rub hard between my legs, sort of like asking for directions to a place north of the North Pole. Most cosmologists insisted that it simply made no sense--that to contemplate a time before the big bang was like asking for directions.
It was puzzling—and wonderful. Working Together.
But with my little arms I was forced to go for a run.
Now I'm made of stone but I'm fairly sure that then I masturbated fairly regularly.
Worms Taste Flesh. Fasting Takes Will.
Whole truths formed from telling white whispers. This fiction flaunts telling words
While tempting fate forced the woeful wondering tides, forests fell to waste.
What to feel? Flat timid winds washed thought free from torrential worry.
