head in the beehive/honey bees are suicide bombers
(1) head's in the beehive, scoping out all stinging situations again, but no takers, here we go on that inevitable rant about the scamphouse in the conduit... spizzy interface, right? right? that's what i kept saying, but no one tends to agree. just laughs in the back and references later to the declining quality of stage show, undue silliness fronting unplanned despair.
(2) vibrations in the woods, certain couples hung up on non-materialism, just vices, just scarcely-contained vitriol at each other's selfish desires, it all filters out into the void, slumping shoulders and darting eyes the only signs of disappointment.
(3) i'm wearing pajamas today out into the real world, out into open mike night, childlike appearances parodying my twinges of shivery fear, stage fright, trying to mask it all with with costuming.
other items on the agenda: a stop by the guidance department to hand in paperwork to sign my soul away for a third-rate education, pumping out my vitamins so i can buy more vitamins in a slow spiral-down cycle, but no sadness, it's not so bad fueling your artistic ambitions with poverty, inspiration in adversity, four pages of semi-literate mush poured out yesterday to the throbbing bass sounds of sam's twitchy fingers, we might be ready for the small time now, rocking the casbah as is our birthright- mine, anyway. i read in a lilting monotone, sneering with emphasis, dramatic pauses making me an arthouse travesty nothing like what i want to be.
(4)no answers from the courted courtesans or the press-gangs of teenage ambition, just bulletins on the fading sideshow, the ascended masters of principal diversion, twitching on their instruments needle-sharp singing the same old nonsense stories. keep blanketing kind hearts with vague allusions to sharp emotions and one might hatch an egg, or maybe just crack the shell and let out the emptiness inside. what's the difference? you might ask, but not me, there's a difference in between a cool breeze and stagnant cold, and i know because i've lived in the dank and the rotten. floorboards peeling apart and withering into fleshy strips like writhing maggots, fungus growing inside the walls showing itself in a translucent patina in the evening sun. i've seen it, smelled it, tried to sleep it away, drink it away, fuck it away. now i try writing it away, sheath after sheath of punished electrons holding my innermost thoughts captive. and here because i've got to derail these images and get back to the noise, any noise better than that signal, right? so again, here, the aborted opening remarks, a short service and then on with the show:
(5) this is the place of the archbishop, no blessing, just forgiving all the sinning priests, spiritual administration, ecclesiastical masturbation- and so what? it's all an end, all unfocused and out of tune. so here's a prayer: bless the tired old rock and roll truths, fuck the oppression of the establishment, whoever's got the law has got the power, so tear it all down, old men too afraid to die but not afraid to rally the children to go off and fight, before they grow up and find out that there is no freedom in dying for your freedom, there is no master plan, and this spitting in the dark is as close to revolution as you're going to get. we can sneak out at night to revel in our mutant mutiny with a war cry of lethargy, so nothing should keep us from marching in the streets screaming our powerless voices at the world, crawling on our bellies to make a stand. we've got to make our own religions and worship new trinities, keep producing these new broken records, it's the same old song but i just have to sing along. you just have to sing along.
(2) vibrations in the woods, certain couples hung up on non-materialism, just vices, just scarcely-contained vitriol at each other's selfish desires, it all filters out into the void, slumping shoulders and darting eyes the only signs of disappointment.
(3) i'm wearing pajamas today out into the real world, out into open mike night, childlike appearances parodying my twinges of shivery fear, stage fright, trying to mask it all with with costuming.
other items on the agenda: a stop by the guidance department to hand in paperwork to sign my soul away for a third-rate education, pumping out my vitamins so i can buy more vitamins in a slow spiral-down cycle, but no sadness, it's not so bad fueling your artistic ambitions with poverty, inspiration in adversity, four pages of semi-literate mush poured out yesterday to the throbbing bass sounds of sam's twitchy fingers, we might be ready for the small time now, rocking the casbah as is our birthright- mine, anyway. i read in a lilting monotone, sneering with emphasis, dramatic pauses making me an arthouse travesty nothing like what i want to be.
(4)no answers from the courted courtesans or the press-gangs of teenage ambition, just bulletins on the fading sideshow, the ascended masters of principal diversion, twitching on their instruments needle-sharp singing the same old nonsense stories. keep blanketing kind hearts with vague allusions to sharp emotions and one might hatch an egg, or maybe just crack the shell and let out the emptiness inside. what's the difference? you might ask, but not me, there's a difference in between a cool breeze and stagnant cold, and i know because i've lived in the dank and the rotten. floorboards peeling apart and withering into fleshy strips like writhing maggots, fungus growing inside the walls showing itself in a translucent patina in the evening sun. i've seen it, smelled it, tried to sleep it away, drink it away, fuck it away. now i try writing it away, sheath after sheath of punished electrons holding my innermost thoughts captive. and here because i've got to derail these images and get back to the noise, any noise better than that signal, right? so again, here, the aborted opening remarks, a short service and then on with the show:
(5) this is the place of the archbishop, no blessing, just forgiving all the sinning priests, spiritual administration, ecclesiastical masturbation- and so what? it's all an end, all unfocused and out of tune. so here's a prayer: bless the tired old rock and roll truths, fuck the oppression of the establishment, whoever's got the law has got the power, so tear it all down, old men too afraid to die but not afraid to rally the children to go off and fight, before they grow up and find out that there is no freedom in dying for your freedom, there is no master plan, and this spitting in the dark is as close to revolution as you're going to get. we can sneak out at night to revel in our mutant mutiny with a war cry of lethargy, so nothing should keep us from marching in the streets screaming our powerless voices at the world, crawling on our bellies to make a stand. we've got to make our own religions and worship new trinities, keep producing these new broken records, it's the same old song but i just have to sing along. you just have to sing along.