and I owe it all to skipping church!
The thread pops up again, like a near-drowned corpse in a thriller. And yet, it's edony time, hedonistic. She clapped, and I came. In my pants.
The Mars Volta are allowing this level of inspiration. Ikey Owens is playing a locked oscillation, a vibradrone, a tense groove, many beats per minute. A pretty good bootleg from austin. Cedric is singing something. Awake from your slumber. Splinter in your eyelids. Very Cedric. I can make out the words fine. Omar is doing a very omar melody, loping over the fractured verse, jaggedly, a splintered aesthetic, ennioesque at times. Holy crap, a divergence. A fantastic divergence, polythematic, polytonal, polyrhythmic, and yet perversely, brilliantly connected. Omar and Cedric playing off, in isolated caves of vision. Off and On. Ives rock. Binary fracture to the sparse bit - modulated every note vibed to crazy, amplitube. Indulgent/exploratory, glorious. "Bring it!" someone yells. Theodore is doing some kind of thing on the drums. Can't explain it. A pastiche of feels. A shiverring feeling. Strings, amplifiers, crazy glue, teflon flinting sauce. Virtansitionaclle beside the fence in syruposites'lls, back in the frame of chafed brain sandwiches, you follow? Portrassle, worth the hassle of obtaining memories of the intrisacies of hestricties, for however much soreness is necessary. Heavy feeling, great Scott, important-feeling-freak-easies that inspire me to write profound-seeming things, except in this node, heavy on the freak, little sense of irony in the intensity of ground zero of something...
buildup - the world comes back to me - the world - the world
no, it wasn't a typo
no, no no
no, it wasn't a typo
no
it was the perfect freeze frame of a music video
it was designed and destined to be that
maybe if i went back in that state
i would understand, state boundaries
meaning taking on new contexts from new consciousness
yeah, that stuff of stuff
no, it wasn't a typo
it was that sort of stuff
holy this omar track is so brilliant, i'm thinking... no, i'm shredded, shread dead. Dead in shreads.
Can't think. Blown away by the bullshit of mundane life. It's an anti-coping mechanism this minute. The ten aeon jitters. Honestly, it's quasi hallucinogenic.
Ironically, I call it a "chill"
when it's anything but being chill
it's tension, vibration - energy waves maybe
but it's feeling like i'm shaking
feelings shaking
seeing it? not sure
many ways to take things, many more to intend them, many more still to take them, taking and meaning and faking and things and many, many more to come, back when gravity was groovy, like depression era dogmatic demons that are nothing i could believe in, unless I was forced to at gunpoint - hyper-stylistic exposition for extra terrestrials, if you catch my drift, free contempt, pick it up like wattermellons, barrels full, not to fear, jade sharpening tool to the rescue - or is it just chasing after edony? Edony? Do you hear me? Clap your hands and I'll appear. If you're near me? Do you hear me? Sung to the tune of Caledonia Mission. G dominant seventh shots. Organ gliss descending. The only piano banging band I can stand. Hexagrams dramatically cryptic, haranguing me like scary strangers. I don't know them. I think I know you enough to have an unhealthy contempt, a sickness, and a sick respect, and maybe I'll live on, in you, as a parasite, be glad to infect you with negativity and doubt, cut you down with passive aggressive, or aggressive aggressive oblique comments that sink in later. When I allow emotional indulgence. Cause emotions are recreational drugs, easy to addict to. And sometimes, I allow myself anger. Wow, it's been so long since I did, regularly. Almost brings a tear of nostalgia to my eye. Along with those tears of rage and grief. Yes, this is a hideous new paradigm, pathetic, and pretty vacant of anything resembling dignity, except the unapologetic pursuit of artistic whatever, whatever this fucking aesthetic is, anyway, it's got a beat, sometimes, often, and when it does, those warm ambiant occassions, it seems to be in its element, plutonium, or something, can't commit, wavering isotope in the wastes of knowledge
the big chill, it feels too dead too soon
done with the mars volta, but something else will have to fill
japanese psyche song, another one of those items i pilfered from meth's cultural catalog
yes, welcome to the pathetic new paradigm
but i can square that with the anti-coping mechanism
the whole world's on suicide watch
let's play the suicide game, let's pretend
see how close we can get to pretending to end
how close can come conviction, the bottom of the pool
the bottom of the bottle - fade out again
wow, i am shaky
twitchy
just got this shiverry spasm sort of thing
i find it really freaky...
but i guess that's just a product of paranoia
feels so real
like my friend says about his campaign bullshit
feels so real
i wonder if it might piss him off to call it bullshit
well, i have plenty of my own bullshit to deal with
paranoid fantasies and bullshit seem to be pretty good synonyms to me
these days, which is 1 daze, which is a hilarious hilarious pun
simply brilliant, tito's odyssey, you oughta see it
well, so what, a spasm, i guess it just feels like an anti-coping mechanism
like the end result of the gag reflex was once, i guess i've seen that
theroetically, it's not the end of the world, but that doesn't prevent panic
all the time, sometimes, some stuff, some stuff is not the end of the world?
I wonder how long till the next black out? Then I can pretend I'm seriously mentionally ill, have fun with that delusion, think believe I'm sicker than I am. I don't think slashing my wrists is worth the price of disability cheques at this point.
Yeah, there's a chill, to some effect, even though I'm warming up my hands on my neck. Re-distributing body heat manually for short term relief of cold hands. Cold cold hands. Here comes the cold poetry. A genre for the season. Seems like a metaphor for the world these days. Cold hands. Short term relief. Look on the bright side. Tangerines in Manetoba. Goodbye to the cold cold part of the world. Hello to the sunny cobalt sixtie perma-spring. The few people who can see things clearly, are clearly not part of the program. Not good for the bottom line. Sustainability is quaint. This is the bender. That's why drugs always work as a metaphor for everything. Why wouldn't they? How couldn't they? Chemicals. I'm rapping about chemicals. Cause my sentimentalist bent lent a hand, and chemicals and rap are a sentiment, when I get nostalgic for what I just cursed. The bitch I wouldn't call a whore. Wouldn't dignify with that comparison. That's an honest profession. She’s just a selfish bitch. So I’ll be selfish too. Feel anger, enjoy anger, feel that it's justifed. All this is for me, is a high. Cause when I think clearly, I think, there's nothing to be sorry for, nothing to worry about. I can hate you if I want, and I will - you know hate and love are kind of the same thing. So I can feel good, about the hate. Just chill, you know, in my icy gloomdome fortress. Feel real good about everything, like I just set the equilizer controls for life PERFECTLY, all the hertz ranges fine tuned, high fucking fidelity, brutha. Everything's groovy. Except for the pretty bullshit I'm in. This sad stupid little corner of a life. Sometimes corners are bouncy and fun, and feel so good, like in that dextro music video, when I'm the corner of the universe, and I can lie down while standing up, or kind of float, and crack jokes, like "ow, my brain is burning, there goes my frontal lobe", riffing on the stereotype that "drugs" fry your brain, like an egg on a skillet...
Turning on a dime, turning to the prophecy, as told by a veteranarian's anesthetic. Ripping a hole in everything, filling that with the bouncy corner.
aftermath:
later on, the party was going on
the guests were all cheering and applauding
It led the merchants of Tunis to the gates of the mansion
or the merchants of tennis to the dates of dimension?
Probably the first
ideals of bliss synergy collective mind
while isolated, up too late, starting to dread having to go to work
burned out but still tweaked to having a good time
like a lone man with pabst, “partying”
wrapped in blue ribbons, playing stride piano
imagining jamming at the next christmas party
oh come all ye faithless
joyful in delusion
come ye to dextromethorphan
the second unnatural act of original sin
one thing you can’t get across in translation
is the nuance of sumerian sophistication
a megamix of obfuscation
as the source material for all future history
i forot how to be deluded, then i remembered
it helps – love the leather, love the love, love the anger, love the hate
i’m okay, you’re not – are you?
everyone’s in the megamix, in little bits and pieces, some are undigested, it gets bilious and acidic inside sometimes
Edony asked everybody to come on in
the rumor of the festivities was heard all over tunis
this is how is born the word hedonist
Ф