Spawn, Fawn, Jessica Hawn
Alcoholic poodle
Swilling Grappa di Barbera and Nocello walnut.
Hair stuck out like a mugshot
played for the amusement of the rubes.
Eating food cooked by surrogates of the ultimate corporate clown.
Bozo's his name.
Take it not in vain.
Watch the hand that grasps the knife,
and it'll be through your belly and 'cross your throat.
Pay attention to what is real - "its the knife, stupid".
'Signing statements'
spell out in dense obtusity
just how you are going to get fucked.
Fucked in bad connotation - no joy, no fun.
Nobody wants to get fucked this rough,
and live through it.
Raped rusty rebar rammed roughshod
bleeding from every orifice
twists the American dream in nightmare dimensions
to apocalyptic ends.
We've sold out our birthright
traded it for special sauce
perverted nutrition.
The forth estate went mute
while the balanced triangle -
executive, legislative, and judicial -
warped, crimped, and crumbled,
and just weren't paying attention
that we cared.
Thats where were going, baby ...
hang on and fear for your life.
----------------------------------------------------------------
On a lighter note, there are times when parts of my brain are running in neutral while other chunks are busy with the work at hand, and these weird juxtapositions spring forth. To whit, picture this ...
a rearward shot of a gorgeous Dulcimer player, long hair in a fall down her back, facing a window, morning light streaming in, and playing a traditional version of 'Wildwood Flower'. As the camera pulls in and pans around to her face we find she is wearing a Whitehead dental spreader, leather O-ring gag, and her pierced tongue is keeping rhythm with the tune by rapping her barbell against it.
Where did these thoughts come from? They had nothing to do with what I was consciously working on. Methinks my unconscious is a much more interesting place to be!
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Sampler of sounds sticking in my ear.
"The Fan" - Little Feat
... Wait 'till the shit hits the fan ...
... You were a sweet girl
When you were a cheerleader
But I think your
much better now.
5/4, 6/8, and 4/4 time signature conflagration, hypnotic jam swirling circles inside and between the ears, then slamming out of it, into ...
Bought a few reds from your neighborhood dealer
and you passed out in the back of a car
you were too fucked up to climb out
what if your old lady found out?
Hoy-Hoy!
Alcoholic poodle
Swilling Grappa di Barbera and Nocello walnut.
Hair stuck out like a mugshot
played for the amusement of the rubes.
Eating food cooked by surrogates of the ultimate corporate clown.
Bozo's his name.
Take it not in vain.
Watch the hand that grasps the knife,
and it'll be through your belly and 'cross your throat.
Pay attention to what is real - "its the knife, stupid".
'Signing statements'
spell out in dense obtusity
just how you are going to get fucked.
Fucked in bad connotation - no joy, no fun.
Nobody wants to get fucked this rough,
and live through it.
Raped rusty rebar rammed roughshod
bleeding from every orifice
twists the American dream in nightmare dimensions
to apocalyptic ends.
We've sold out our birthright
traded it for special sauce
perverted nutrition.
The forth estate went mute
while the balanced triangle -
executive, legislative, and judicial -
warped, crimped, and crumbled,
and just weren't paying attention
that we cared.
Thats where were going, baby ...
hang on and fear for your life.
----------------------------------------------------------------
On a lighter note, there are times when parts of my brain are running in neutral while other chunks are busy with the work at hand, and these weird juxtapositions spring forth. To whit, picture this ...
a rearward shot of a gorgeous Dulcimer player, long hair in a fall down her back, facing a window, morning light streaming in, and playing a traditional version of 'Wildwood Flower'. As the camera pulls in and pans around to her face we find she is wearing a Whitehead dental spreader, leather O-ring gag, and her pierced tongue is keeping rhythm with the tune by rapping her barbell against it.
Where did these thoughts come from? They had nothing to do with what I was consciously working on. Methinks my unconscious is a much more interesting place to be!
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Sampler of sounds sticking in my ear.
"The Fan" - Little Feat
... Wait 'till the shit hits the fan ...
... You were a sweet girl
When you were a cheerleader
But I think your
much better now.
5/4, 6/8, and 4/4 time signature conflagration, hypnotic jam swirling circles inside and between the ears, then slamming out of it, into ...
Bought a few reds from your neighborhood dealer
and you passed out in the back of a car
you were too fucked up to climb out
what if your old lady found out?
Hoy-Hoy!
clio:
Thank you! Ooh, Italian? Interesting! But I'm too pale! 