since 1882

Der club of Gore
bum
an airy crash of symbol
bum
a horn of Le Sony'r
bum
a dark figure
bum
fear of ruling class ideology
bum
flickering screen tells little
bum
who is to trust?
bum
who isn't to blame?
bum
let's blame the future...
bum
...because no one is better at cleaning up our messes.

Rendezvous

It was on a street north of bourgeois boutiques and stores that sell things that didn't even exist 10 years ago where a man walked up to me and accosted me about where I was going. I would have walked on with a confused look until I noticed the bottle of whiskey in his hand. We had some common ground. This was no 4.99 dollar bottle of vodka or gin. This was the drink of the American despite it not being from here originally.
This dreary old man who was beat well beyond his years asks about work. He tells me of his youth. He tells me of the war.
I say to him, "I hate my job" to which he replies: "the job, as a position to be filled and a role to be played, defines a priori the future of an abstract but awaited man. Our social class defined who we were whether we wanted it to or not. It became our social being and this being is nothing other than the unity of the day to day functions to be fulfilled."
I asked him why he used the past tense and what he was doing now. His only reply was that he figured out he was already dead and had been dead since birth. "A dead soul" I replied to which he says "The soul is not real but the heart was. It's now been replaced by inefficient copper gears prone to rust and breakage.

persian revolution

Dreary day dreary day
Swaying, Swimming, Swagger...
They toss the poor old man out on the curb.
"Alls Is sayin' is.....Ain't that Nat King Cole?
Must have wandered into the wrong door.
Saw him stumble out of a foreign film only labeled as Moscow
on the marquee.
"Moscow? Eugh. Ruskies!"
Drunk at mid day.
Alive.
A weary traveler in a forest of red velvet ropes and stuffy
bourgeois types, "Oh me I've never SEEN such a sight!"
But their stares reflect back from this mirrored mass of
Olde English and, hopefully a flask of bourbon.

This reflections created by his aura feels like it came from
years of service in all forms and from fighting many a battle.
Conflict of the armed type. Charlie most likely.

This antiquated entity stumbles back to the bar and asks, "Gat ah Bud?!"
and, would you believe some kid says to him," Hey old man, maybe you've already had plenty".

The dirty figure arches his back out of it's hunch
and explains to the whole room:
"I believe that a man can always make something out of what is made of him. This is the limit I would today accord to freedom: The small movement which makes of a totally conditioned social being someone who does not render back completely what his conditioning has given him."

He turns to the door and says "Yr all a bunch of damn fools. And yr too damned conservative." Facing the street, he sees the newly paved road as the heavens with bright stars shooting at different speeds towards one direction.

woah

it's us vs the world.
you and I vs the squares.
You're my Bernardine Dohrn.

back and to the left

I envision that I would see her while I'm siting, tearing paper, staring out door. See her walk up, put her hands on the glass and smile. Her smile warms me up like the sun to a man swimming in the arctic while I sit in the frigid lobby. After staring in disbelief, I stand up, walk to the door, open it and we embrace. The distance now but illusion. Time now forgotten by her comforting presence. I feel as if I would have known she would have been coming before hand, the moment would lose all impact. It's chaotic nature is it's alluring beauty. Surprise is anarchy and anyone who denies it is lying to themselves. We crave chaos but trying to deny ourselves of it like some strange religious repentance for natural human characteristics. Romanticism is dead but the realism of chaos to me is a far greater love. I just want to kiss her. Have her grab me with extreme desire and longing and just be in that space in time forever.

drums blare over my thoughts

once, a boy, who had a stern realism that even the coldest of economists would cringe at, felt it was time for a new approach. He voiced the song of radical subjectivity. Nothing is true, Everything is permissible. Chaos is life and a life that refuses containment or structure.
Fear is life.
Love is life.
Wrong is life.
is life.
is life.
is life.

BALLS BABY BALLS!

When someone dies, everyone asked about the deceased has nothing but sweet and positive things to say about them. "...was a real family man." "... had a true sense of community and duty to his fellow man." Every time this is the case. Any article in the paper is filled with praise of the former. But, if every person who dies and gets a write up in the paper as "...someone who would go out of their way to help anyone out.", then why is this world in the shape that it is in? Is it sympathy for the dead or are we just lying to ourselves? Not every person who has died has been a "good" or even acceptable human. The sad state of human affairs currently is enough proof of that. If a racist gang member gets shot or the head of a failed bank that screwed over millions of people out of billions of dollars commits suicide, they should get a more realistic write up. "...was a decent neighbor but really obsessed with his possessions.", "...was in and out of jail for beating his wife", or "...never really talked to anyone much. He would do things for the community but you could tell it was just because it was good p.r. for his company.". Maybe once we stop lying to ourselves about the dead, we can find the truth in living.

weekend

we fly all around
days
we wander and we wonder
"where is the lunar landscape of my distressed soul?"
"where are it's deep valleys and expansive craters?"
"where are it's barren landscape devoid of color and life?"
Where aren't...
who knows.
Among the sea of red white a blue
among the vanguards and the trotskites
among the "virtuous" or "just"
among the powerful and oblivious
among the obvious

maybe it's every time i look into her eyes and float in that sea of darkness.
Damn girl that shit is deep like an ocean.
Maybe you'd be cuter if I shot you in the face.
Your body could fall down from the fifth floor
slowly
in black and white
as a soft but dark melody is played on piano two floors below
just low enough to be in the background but impactful enough to film

after all this, we wonder if we even knew what it was we are searching for.
can't even get a wage from the bottom of the barrel in this town
why look?
Well I know. Praise be Mummu, the awoken.
You just have to pull the cosmic trigger
right to the forhead