The New Apocalypse (audio)

community.netidea.com/bdeon/newapoc.mp3

Voice is me. Music is Boards of Canada ("Twoism", from the album of the same name). The lawyers can come get me if they want.

personified

the beat is a pristine alien being I have allowed to enter my soul, take control of my mind, hold the stubborn reins to my brain - it is not to be blamed for my clumsy analog inaccuracies in interpretation, yet it anticipates the failures of the flesh and uses this impairment to its advantage, twisting my imperfections into perfection personified.

to be a good improviser on stage, you must think three moves ahead, like it's a chess game - your opponent is chaos, but sometimes the shifty bastard can be an ally, if used opportunistically

hash and thrash

it was torturing me, so i had to leave - but do i want to believe? do i want to delve into my issues for any reason? or anyone else's? fuck me - FUCK that fucking idiot - who cares?

why should i?

damn, conscious of not being zen enough, ha

*

I'm going away - people don't do it for me anymore

I'm retreating - i'm leaving it all behind

I'm going, going going, let me be gone

no i know, i'm just posing

damn, such ridiculous sadness

eternal shallowness

hollow, everyone

i'm trying not to wallow in hollow

but hollow's wallowing in me

abyss staring

goddamn, what is the deal with me

i hate that son of a bitch i wish he'd go away

i want to run away from him. i hate being confined

me myself and i, shatter that perverse trinity

my ego is a rusty hunk of junk, a chore, a stone chained to my soul

obligation to do something
obligation


chains
guilt
hate

i should write a ten minute technically good slow boring song about wanting to be free


had a few years break from self-hate, now it comes back with a vengeance, and it tells me to hate everyone else too - but i see it as false-misanthropy, that doesn't quite fly for me any more, i've seen too much


i'm allowing myself to be trapped in my shallow wallowing, fuck that bullshit, but i don't want to bullshit myself, or do i?

different perceptives, i've lost memories, brain cells have died - i wonder what i offer

i am alone, without dez, my other half is ethereal
my other consciousness, a whole brain hemisphere in a person - it's tragic when we don't connect like we should - it's a tragedy that i don't see being so hung up on the coatrack of ego, spine twitching in artistic idiocy

i like to perceive things, experience things - i also have my habits and patterns, my playing music, my sadomasochistic relationship with music

this is what i'm reduced to, so hollow, so shallow
wondering about people getting back into coke scenes
the king and the coke castle, his rules
christmas cocaine, the reign of pointless pleasure and pain

waiting for the miracle, ah whatever

playing mars volta

being snubbed, snug as a bug in a void

i know some people appreciated, it's not enough for me, no, let me be terribly honest and say, jeffery lewis was right, you need more and more flatteries to recharge your batteries, cause now the glammer of the sell-out stardom concept is starting to twinkle into your pot sprinkled eyes, you're seeing, you're seeing yourself whoring, like you'd be a two dollar whore, maybe less...

but it's amazing what castles people build for themselves... maybe i should take a walk to the bakery

times like these in years past i'd turn to drugs, i can't seem to muster the kind of relationship i used to have to drugs, those beautiful chemical manipulators, but, but, i don't know, my shellshocked inner being blubblers - i don't know about that...

i'm trying to write a novel too, sometimes i think maybe that's what i have to offer, i should bury myself in that

but if given a choice, i'd bury myself in much deserved dez, a muff diving riff of reef-gems rifting all the way to gaia's fantastic pacific - just a small little coke-crusted sliver of a shell of a planetary body and mind you know

yeah, let's say i ain't shit, let's let the sighs die, suffocate, an eternal contrived breathout, flatline, comatastic bombast

i don't know what would remedy this impossible burden of negativity, of course ego induced, and a negative outlook on everybody, mostly, friends, frayed connections and ridiculous expectations, but i wish i had my lover here right now, she'd make me feel what i need to feel, the real

*

Castles in the sky, castles in the shire - a ridiculous riff, i know it's going nowhere - i'm not comfortable with nowhere, i can't articulate the most amazing thoughts, can only explain the mundane

*

Meh.

*

I see potential hallucinations. Going back in time. Explaining things to the people of the past. Putting them on the same page. For plots. Predictable, prediculous.

*

Porn, too far into sleaze. Not there. But what? Don't ask me, I'm just a poor repressed bundle of raging anxiety, gonna explode one of these days, not that i want to, i haven't learned to love the kinetic energy.

*

You can do what you want, pay no mind to me. Demonstrate your aboveness, hey, do the dark trip - disillusion me nicely - i'll fire back volleys of cryptic sarcasm - i'll be able to explain it away easily cause no one understands, it's impossible to get across - i can claim anything i ever wrote or said was meaningless, nothing, bullshit, bury the honesty in crypticity

but it's true that some things seem to matter less later

and good on that hericlitian flow, i'd love to throw my lot in with the train of vagabonds

*

wish i had the right person to rap with -

i would forge a connection if i could - i've been living, satiated, with synthetic relationships...

then there was the organic, the reality, the content, the moments - the stillness, the timelessness, the righteousness of dez and me, the fields, the cities, the journies, aqua teen and homestar, the depths, the sadness, the regimes, the drinking, the drugs, the smoking, the hugs, the loving, the hating, the never hating so much, the binding, the strength of the string

the countdown
12:36

maybe i'll go out and collect taxes from the masses, but i shouldn't - i don't want to be king - but i don't know if i'm confortable being the bum - can't have charity, want the real thing, won't say what that is, i don't know if i know

it's hard to be clear

fuck, things are so different now, slippery reality
it changed on me, i can't relate to past selves, ontologies

i don't even really write anymore, except when really weird and it seems like a good idea, i'm drifting toward becoming a profoundly frustrated musician, dreaming big dreams, concepts, failing, following, flailing in ego loops and lingo limbos

*

at times like these i would turn to drugs - but i see no answer in psychedelics - maybe a process...

something to do?

where's heroin - who's dick do i gotta suck to get some smack around here?

nah, i don't want it that bad, in fact i can't even bother to make my own pharmaceutical extracts anymore, and i don't grow plants or vegetables anymore either

no doubt to a chorus of gleeful afterschoolspecial victory huzzahs - something's gotta change i feel... something, but i don't know what, maybe everything

but at the same time, i don't want it to all collapse in a violent and savage chaostrophy - maybe it won't, maybe the momentum of society/technology is too great - but history's full of lessons, stories of people who took things for granted...

but really, who knows?

*

don't ask me, i'm just a novelist and an idiot keyboard player, seething in arbitrary negativity, trying to pin the tail on the dao

*

i know when to quit - and how

senseless – the samuri way

What defines a hero?

I was thinking about this book: the way of the samuri

there's a passage in there that says something like: death must be in your thoughts constantly

you must approach each day as if it will end in death - or something

right now everything seems completely senseless

meaningless maybe, but senseless

there's no sense in that

no sense in the samuri way

except as an evolutionary cul-de-sac for some japanese cultural niche

samuri doesn't evovle of its own accord, it evolves by external sociological forces

they thought they had it all figured out - maybe they did - for their own purposes - maybe they let in a little dao - enough to fill in the cracks and let nature take care of the rest

Putting up with so much shit

Putting up with so much shit

simple poetics

burning the meaning, the bridge, the past

not a song, not a poem, not a thought, not an idea, nothing

artless, witless, negative, shadowed side of the mountain

"you were practically begging me to stop"

sharp perspective, negative, downer trip

memory unclear, grungy, mucky, foggy, speckled with crusted ectasy
freckled with misery, chock-full of icky things, not wanted to be recalled
mutual guilt trips, regrets, grievances, sense of entitlement, payment
pointless semantic algebra, finance, need, addiction
morality, justice, vengeance

asshole, sellout, just a word, just a poem, not even a poem
artless, witless, negative, shadowed side of the mountain

wandered in bright forest cracks today, nobody cracked the whip
hippie craque flowed through the forest, the fly vertices, the insect clouds
the whispering woods, aware of settlers, encroching settlers, but not seeing
sentries, no snipers in the trees, wondering what flip of the switch, what switch of history
could allow guerella warfare in the kootenays, a little presto chango and nelson goes kablammo

love and hate, tripping and sobriety, just plain intoxication, attempts at music making, working, what a man can reasonably expect to get away with, getting away with insecticide on a daily basis

somedays i put up with no shit, that is, there's no shit to put up with. Other days, it's the shit that puts up with me, tolerates my non shitty existences, Other days, I do feel as if I put up with shit, and I'm about sick of putting up with it. But when I putter around the shit, on the shitty putting greens, I mutter, "shit, what is this shit anyway? Is it something to be put up with? Where does the shit start and where do I begin?" So I slather myself with this shitty metaphysics, I put up with these shenanigans, and... the house lights fade. The forest flares up. Karma doing comes to get me, the pain/shame vertice vortex, whatever I did in a past life, the price is paid. The narrative sealed. NOT!

No, it doesn't work that way. When something is pinned down, it disippates. It's like I'm trying to eat the pacific ocean with a fork. But these sorts of visceral symbols only go so far. They get sucked into the undertow. They drown.

Tchaikovsky's Russia

folk themes dance through brass-heavy symphonies

in Tchaikovsky's Russia

written by the people

but you can't hear the people in fateful marching melodies

music stripped of peasantry, 1812 gallantry, romantic grandiosity

and Stalin just slapped a few thousand uzbeki mosquitoes dead

scratched an itch but he's feeling ill, doesn't trust his doctors

they're not looking after him, have it in for him and

what good's an army when your heart’s failing?

the problem with revolutions

is that they're run by revolutionaries

you can't detach the movement from its movers

egos and personalities

calloused hands

hitting all the right strings

and singing of the seven secrets

of highly effective sociopaths

you can only laugh

when the nazi punks rip off Robin Hood

-the rebels will soon take the capital-

and when the tide is turning, it's hardly the time

to purge your Clays, your pernicious poets

the bastards you need on your side when you're fighting a war

who'll sell you out for a book deal, turncoat turned over a new leaf

a gold leaf volume, leitmotif in the animal opera

gotten leather-bound serious, cow-slaughtering serious

imperial industrial inheritance, who'd pass up the chance?

and Stalin can't trust his doctors

they want to phase him out with arsenic

no, you can't sift out that power connoisseur

he knows how to overthrow the czar

chessmaster in the city square with manifestos to spare

will cattle-ize the masses, stealth in stirring grasses,

grassroots flash then back to the balcony

back to seeing the masses

as masses

must see them as an oblast mass

cause the game-counter’s ticking

and the world’s watching

with pawn in palm

what’s his move?

gotta be vigilant against

counter-revolutionary activity, cause god knows

when he’s finally won his revolution, the great contest

between the haves and the really-want-to-haves (and he wanted it more)

he wouldn’t want to harsh his buzz with anything counter

to the revolution

and when he got his great state off the ground

he found himself in a dogfight, hostile skies, surprise surprise

and his eyes were on the nuclear prize

and before long he was the first atom-splitting peasant on the block

and the big boys didn’t like that

so he showed the neighborhood he was no pushover peasant

he could oppress his own people just as well as the capitalist despot next door

he got to the top of the kremlin on the back of the brutes

the rabble's babble's his Babel, his fated to topple tower

cause he forgot the vernacular, the magic slang code

the government could never crack, the uncommon sense

to obstruct the tanks and tear down the wall

and choose the mafia over the politburo

well it’s something new

all walls fall

and the electrified fence

that gated the upper crust

is barbed rust

if we have to re-start the greed game from the ghetto, we will

Tchaikovsky couldn't take the heat, so he wrote the pathetique symphony

and checked out of the kitchen with a little cholera for lunch

Stalin got sick and died

and I can't follow the man with the gun

there's no room for me inside

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!

Slough off that shit

so what are the stakes - in this daytime/nighttime ed wood scene?

DAMN YOU!

Damnit I can't explain. I hate everything now. No I don't. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah! That's how I feel now. No one cares. I don't care. It's just a moment. Goddamn. Damn God. Damn me.

Gamesmanship.

How much honesty is too much?

A good decade for bombers

Whether you plant bombs in trains or drop them from planes, the 00s are most definitely your decade. The decade of the bomber. The decade of the extremist. The decade of the hysteric.

Whether you rally your troops against infidels or mad muslims, you're doing well. You're raking in the anger, that sweet sweet al qaida currency, money in the bank, the bank of Jihad, the Halliburton Account.

If you're into holy wars this is your time. Your stock is rising. An explosion here, a shooting there. Pick your side. You don't even have to do any of the killing yourself. Let the naive college drop-out suckers sign up to kill your enemy. Let the brainwashed mosque-warriors detonate their belt bombs. Sit back and watch your show. You just know you're going to win. Don't you?

Take II

Writing doesn't take

I've lost a connection I had to it.

I may regain it, maybe this is just the fog.

Or maybe the fog IS all there IS. Everything else was an illusion.

Hallucinations undermine the idea of reality, possibly. Everything is possible.

Possibility is a reverie. In a field of tall grass. Images and symbols and words. Chrome-steel metaphysical skeletons and great masturbators. Good music, bad writing.

Then there was something about desert island discs. If I was going to choose some albums to be stranded on a desert island with, I'd choose the music i liked the least, because anything I took to a desert island with me would, being my sole link to my lost civilized world, be listened to a ridiculous number of times, until oversaturated and stripped of all worth. This happens to music when abused, I've fucked up a lot of tunes for myself this way. Therefore, I'd rather the best music remain fresh and vital in my mind, some never-again tasted bittersweet neuronic resonance. Much better than having it ruined through sound-abuse, only bad music should suffer that fate.