7 March 2005

Darryl, You Left Your Bunny Head on 'Deep-fry' Again

Then the rosary beads count them 1 2 3
Fell apart as they hit the floor
In a garb of black we must pay respect
To the color we were born to mourn

Come back to the airways like the solid gods of pirate media, microwaving my snackfoods on the radiation arrayed antennas from the farms to the fields to the towering steel eyesores, and half a world away, you can't wash away this stain on the velvet steering vessel south by northeast to home. Subconsciousness seems like a bitch when we hear the words ringing in 3D peals on some rope strung film reel that ‘our greatest fear is not that we are inadequate, but that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that frightens us... as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same... as we are liberated from our fear our presence automatically liberates others.’ Sickening this rumour roaming like ice around the corners of my brain freezing off my own mortality into dribbling stew of digital comatic textual form sopped up by god knows who in god knows what forsaken fissure on the left side of the corpus callosum. Flared and fired and silenced by our repetition aren’t we all so shivering-ly fucked into submission as to be tantalised into graphic seething of light and power and transcendence. It's not that I want to FUCK every person that happens to leave me as a passer-by, I'd rather leave them all with a fragment of something burning, a mirror that was more true because it never relied on the eyes, I want to leave every wretched welp of them with a piece of myself until there's nothing left to cry over or hate for, just to be inspired by, pondered, wondered, spectacular dreams to be had.
Check your airways... check the 711, the local newsstand... check the Barfs n' Ignoble down the highway, cos what you're reading, its just rubbish, a dried up SOS thirsting for blood of a different sort, calling out on the waves of ingrained spirit that we've deridden but now must ride. Smooth. Take it as it is. A challenge to all authority and religion, a challenge to all ideas and systems. Cos we are an ASYSTEMATIC set of animals that create order that is so out of place from that which is natural, yet we're stunned to find it decaying and rotting and ruining ourselves and those around us. A mutual affliction is what they call it. We eat away at it while it sucks away at us. Yeah tune in those radios to a different network, navigate your little browser away from my bodiless domain, run and scream and cover your ears because what I want to hear the most is the very first word that comes to your lips when I tell you to beat down every wall, every psychosis that is in your head, to do every stupid thing in the book and yet to be written, to shamefully bear your soul to yourself and tear down what you have become to yourself. Then build it again. Re-compartmentalise, re-evaluate, redefine and compose with fewer and fewer parts. Then do it all again. I want you to be simple, not simple-minded, at ease in the feverish assaults that everyone endures working their way through the streets and sitting at home, all the far-flung, far-fetched titbits of lies and hatred and love and consumerism, or catholicism and nirvana and atman, all the speeches of well-to-do, never-before-common people that say they will do THIS for us. Don't do it for me, I'll do it my fucking self, I'll do it right the first time, and it WILL be beautiful. Don't do it for me, do it for yourself, you mindless wad of over-chewed gristle, do it because you want something more for everyone including yourself. Fuck altruism, fuck personal agenda. Bay at me what you will, turn your radios off, unplug your TV’s, disconnect your internet and smash the monitor to a thousand pieces of electrically charged plastic, but what good will any of it do. They're already in your head, kicking around the morality switch, pushing your partiality button, turning on your pleasure centre that tells you to stay at home and masturbate. They've got you. In the back pocket of a pool hall is all the world can ever be, an orb among orbs tossed around carelessly, and while you jab at her wet spot, they're jabbing at your side of the world, hand on the nuclear disaster of a cue stick, scolding you for not spinning anti-clockwise into winning them a million units of instant gratification.
Check please.

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