i've lived the rebel days, my glory days, the punk days of idealistic youth. fresh, enigmatic and imaginative, we were unknown explorers of the left sidewalks on abandoned streets. taste the night; we'd wander and hitchhike through not only our own minds, but likeminded few that managed to come out on the island and connect. produced, recorded, remixed, re-formed, music (opinions), only makes so much noise when you're hearing the rainbow in five varied languages of love, and the beat boxin' is always primed for tangos. as mickey knox said to insight one of the largest grand scale prison riots in US history, 'we are just natural born killers, baby'. now tell me, sons and daughters of the corporate, mashed world; are you aware of your imprsionment? can you drag yourself out of that horrible drugged out existence of merchandise, consumerism, and stotic existence?
can you now feel your stagnant breaths, or do they still taste just as sweet?
have you strolled the underground sewer systems of liberty's mind?
we are the dream weavers, the forgotten skids, your next author to add to the new york time's best sellers. (we'll make those quaint book lists, and number them wrong on purpose just to create an alternative sense of right.) masterfully, someone'll explain the phenomenon in between so many metaphors that you'll be content to think that you've just finished some novel, straight out of oprah's book club, about a surburban mom and her two adorable kids; a knack for getting in (and out!) our trouble, while learning life's most valuable lessons reads the catchy paragraph with witty one liner's on the back. your next expensive art gala opening won't be portraying the politically correct middle eastern influenced by dominant western culture; look deeper in those oil tanks, and find the idealistic syringe every junkie has used to shoot up curiosity, injrigue, desire and need (all in that order). we run the world, you're just too plugged in to notice our small scale take over, our joie de vivre that happens to be youthfully cliche yet strangley effective.
and when all that eventually fades away, all that's left is to become the virus.
except that while becoming the virus, we already know the cure.
it is only through sacrificial destruction that we attain a pure creation and rebirth.
i want to tell the man wearing a faded out and painfully pouffy sports jacket that he shouldn't be fucking looking at the accident we just passed on the don valley parkway because it doesn't matter if he looks it isn't going to do any good the good samaritian puppy dog curious eyes are just an act for every avaliable woman around him on this damn stinking bus of feces, shite and travellers vomit i'd also like to mention that in the case that his 90's hip ass actually cares about fellow mankind and that if i have made a mistake in reading his intentions it won't do the world any good anyways if he sends a song of pity out through his emotional core because fraknly those people are still dead that car is still crashed and i am still fucking high out of my tree judging everyone in this reeking bus (did i already mention that it was more awful than lou reed's greatest hits album i mean come on the song ocean didn't really connect with me on an emotional level when it opened up with a sort of chinese sounding soft gong rumble since the ocean hasn't ever represented anything remotley oriental since i first figured out what an ocean was all wet sloshy sloppy and mystical) with all these thoughts slowly popping up unawares into my subconcious before oozing and evolving into tangible thoughts i'd like to announce that yes everybody i am pretty high and am enjoying my european chocolate rice cakes they come from a delicate little deli right down the street you should all try a few they are quite cheap when it comes to comparisons concerning the material world today of the western nations this brings on the long winded debate in my head where i bash the hell out of my musical judgements that fucking lou reed record it was a vinyl and now i feel quite cheap and sodomized by this man who i thought was a great performer of the velvet underground why did he have to prove the man right and during his solo career basically lick the crap that leaked out of everyone's ass to collect into that little chodah area by their genitals to prove that when you go outside the group or main structure of something anything your ass is grass just then i am freed from his disastorous but supposed musical moanings in which i am sure that he realizes just how worthless his life is as a performer and that it is professionally going nowhere fast by the melodic sweet caress of some downtempo mixes by cpi these tunes stimulate my little brain nodes i think and then realize i thought so obviously my theory must be right and i am all in a happy huff about a correct theory when this exclamation of genious is interuppted by my brain nodes again pulling a little naughty dance with corsets and high heels making me wonder if anyone shares my opinion that the supposed evoltuion of mankind is pretty disguisting considering people sit around me in their 90's hip jackets and talk on their cellphones or get drunk on whiskey (yeah there's a guy in the back of the bus with a little of a lot and he is just swimming in that shite) ...that they actually consider themselves evolved as a species and whole i am definatley the most whole and evolved person i know right now.( Collapse )
so yeah, i finally started writing bits and pieces of my novel.
time to come back, with a story.
i was the writer who went beyond what everyone else merely created; i've lived my story kids. done my research.
here it comes.