Friday, June 22, 2012

Backflow Hobgoblin May Vex Plumbed-In Brewer Operators

Can life ever have so much significance that art has to cease having meaning?  Right now, as the internet throws up significant stories and images almost everyday, fiction, in an attempt to compete, is growing more & more grotesque.

Enlightenment dream of autonomous individual who dictates to reality rather than being dictated to by it to buy it.

Blumenberg presents what he regards as an attractive version of the myth of the immortality of the soul.  He interprets Nietzche's note, "That we could bear being immortal--that would be the highest thing," as suggesting that we should imagine immortality as the capacity to see all the consequences of one's actions (after as well as before one's death) and to remember (without benefit of repression or forgetfulness) everything that one did; from which flows the question, could one in fact bear it--to continue as the person who had "that" past and "those" consequences?  This myth certainly serves very well to focus one's responsibility to and for oneself, while avoiding the "superman" implication of idealism and of (most of) Nietzche, and of Jonas' myth--the implication that man must accept responsibility for reality as a whole...

General Chamomile, as he had aged, had found himself considering the entirety of the public sphere his responsibility. Before he could buy coffee, or a chair, even a chair he found quite comfy, he had to consult the data from the latest surveys and product reviews.  To live like this, Chamomile had had to create a special Department for Everyday Surveys.

--a whole room full of consumer reports (like a wine cellar)--flow charts

--these are the carrels, short, sharp, Schacht

General Chamomile, in his time as Darpa mastermind, helped fund a number of discoveries:

  1. a way of turning indefinite articles into definite articles
  2. an aardwolf could be taught to eat abalone, have heart attacks, be taken aback and abaft
  3. an abbess being abducted by God was an abbreviation
  4. to abase was his job, to be abashed was yr job
  5. an abbatoir was a type of abatjour
  6. an abecedarian was usually abeam
  7. the predator predicts incursive incompetence
  8. forbidding fobs to forebode globular forgetfulness cottontailed whatever was concatenate, concentric
  9. the clock of love stops somewhere around here...

Latent Revolutionary Hummer Exhaust of Wal-Mart Parking Lots

Like teeth falling out, DFACS takes the kids away.
Hummer Exhaust like a cloudy chance of meatball-supernova
Has rubbed poison oak between the thighs
Of the Salvation Army, marching on their dimes.

Looking at the average Wal-Mart worker, cheated out of his overtime by the fear natural to the replaceable part of the machine fat enough we can't imagine replacing, I cry tears that freegan the moisture of this desert of disability-and-perversion heckling parking lots, where the security cameras are us, capturing the crime and criminal on the silent witness of tape, without a tongue to lick the past's envelope closed as the Dead Letter Office's furnace door.

The Hummers descend like badly slept locusts upon the buffet of America
And the ravaged wheat, ascending on the oiled wind of five finally gone posts,
Chaffs the perverse security cameras.

Hummer exhaust may be governing
The universe, even its A/C.

A Hummer piloted by wristcutting schizoids, depressive night-bowling
Soccer moms and loaded with homemade napalm,

The Moral Life of Babies In Low-Maintenance, Sleep-Pollen Formations

There was a static of bad reception like fallen hair
Under my waxing cable of downward-skin,
I saw, rumping the hip of the blogosphere's trigone caul
Licking the miasmatic stars of the eyes
Before the feisty magnetospheric-ire-serum of the lips--
They who clean, vicious, ripped--

Swamp Thing, with his violet foam of greenfriendly
Saliva, is expectorating a vegan's turds into a discarded vat
Of ocean-inseminating nuclear waste.  The Vegan
Turds are the stuff of the new green houses.
Ed Begley Jr. lives in houses of dried vegan
Turds & Dippin' Dots.

Someone is blotting yr ignominy in a nerve length of shivering Gestalts!
Collate, consume yr cauterized verbtestes, saying:
My lips are painted slick sod with the fingercups
Of balmy, foggy CONTRA-grunts.
I am shivering my scrotum with duct-tape & coca-cola,
Collating gestalt-cash in an ignominy of bad-reception-cloaca.
How many ellipses can fit on the head of my dick?
How many exclamatory sledgehammers inside the waterfall
Scrim of my urethra?

I am loving you so much right now I am
Dieting on cacao, milk, cocoa & caramel.
I am loving you so much I will shit you chocolate tiaras
Of Turtle Doves bars, and gift you, popping yr cornhole,
An edible Christmas-skirt of all the lights I might
Turn on for you.

If I could only capture the power of an idea and
Build a company around it.

Robocop said, "Minimally invasive and scareless surgery.
This is how we make our mark."

Dr. Arcane, British as a sugar biscuit, slicks his hair
Back with seitanic vegan-turds.  He is putting a
Puppet show on for babies at his Infant
Cognition Center.

Athens is burning up politics & history like a venture-capitalist
Jell-O-pudding-theremin-virtuoso.  The girls are wearing
North Faces and gold lacrame.

Drain an energy hog.  Socket the molasses & ivy marinated butt of
Boston between the sleep-deprived black ringed eyelids of
Your casual menage-a-trois-love-sandwich blinking out
The pollen of cellphones and screeching tires.

You are so tits, high style meets low maintenance.

Minimally Invasive Desire Inflicts Nouns Scareless

This splitting as if hairs were growing into the inclement dryness inside?   I'm a fucking idiot.  Be the real 
 Idiot you can be.  love it. hate it. love it hate it motherfucker shit...goddamn, is this it then?--
 A harrowing equilibrium-organ of autistic morally relative longitudinal pundits hallucinating
 Transitions of truth.

A cross is a rounded gel of turtles
Level at the dredging apex.
The pervert is someone who takes the artifice seriously
And plays the game to the hilt--

It looks like there're fish scales on top of my coffee.
I haven't written in days.
I've masturbated way too much.

I was reinventing high elongation and tensile strength,
Promising invention & identity, ornamentally heterophilic.
Global incestuous vertex zombie
Relapse failure stagnate fall.

Stretch marks are like a cry suspended between life & death.
A genuine consummation is achieved by the new machine.
A satellite is a perversion of territory,
And the moon a pedophile.

Wednesday, June 20, 2012

We Come Recommended, Apparently

Gordon Lamb over at Flagpole selected us as one of his Athfest picks:

Reptarz II

Some bands take things very seriously. Others take the piss. Sometimes you just can’t tell who is doing which. All of which is to say that Reptarz II speaks better for itself than anyone else could. Here’s a statement they sent me: "The Domestic Bemusement Park Department of Musico-Critical Outreach gladly presents Reptarz II. Reptarz II are happy objects—drastic happy—and no more a joke than anything else is." And you know what? I think I believe them. Although there’s a certain necessary sturm und drang passion to their new noise (think: no-no-wave), considering all their lyrics are lifted straight from the bouncy pop sunshine songs of popular Athens band Reptar, there’s also a long tradition of this type of collage. It’s an ear-churner, a palate-cleanser and a big fat smile all around. Good job, lads! -GL (Friday, CinĂ©, 10:45 p.m.)

Sunday, June 17, 2012

Reminder: You Are Going to Die


Please do not forget our special obituary offer! If you are considering putting this off until another day, we strongly urge you to recognize that your feeble life will at any moment be scraped away as so many words from the palimpsest of this world. What if "another day" is simply too late? Who, then, will be left to write of you? A blubbering mother? A bewildered widower? A lowly intern?

But perhaps you are not yet ready to confront your own momentary existence in such a summary fashion? Or possibly you are simply shiftless, lazy and dull? Please, reconsider your life.

Saturday, June 16, 2012

hey there's more...

More Futugraphy

Reasons Poetry Sucks

  • The influence of pornography extends to poetry, whose genitals are shorn these days to appear like dandleable children.
  • I had the strangest dream I was a good person.
    Step #3: Make amends to anyone I've ever harmed.
    I called the relatives of the people I'd murdered by not being what they expected.
    They all said, "What is this some kind of sick joke????"
    And they cried and cried and puked grief all over the receiver
    I'd given them to hear the worst.
  • Pornography outgrosses every other entertainment industry in America combined.  Poetry, a notoriously non-profitable art form, should not be confused & thought to be non-pornographic & therefore non-profitable.  Poetry no longer entertains by virtue of being a pinnacle of pornography--the safest, tested, non-viral cum in the world.
  • Little but sweat sets yr favorite tyrant free.
  • Poetry can't charge yr cellphone for it is a bad onion of bland omens, probably soaked, these fashionable compilatorily depilatory days, in the alcohol of archiving.  Language works like a skillet of phone-chargers as well as it works like work or anything else with no matter but mattering.
  • Making up at certain points is better than making out.  Q:  What does poetry make up these days?  A:  Concepts 5th graders have but are too bored by to say.
  • Poetry stuck it in.  Came early & felt the need to run.  Shall I feel lonely as a broken frame in unshorn desire?  Is this poetry?  Just noise?  Maybe all & ever.  Tomorrow's a pushpin in extremis.  The exact blade sharply dressed in gunk must be taken out from the safe distance in which an expert must be hired to snipe.
  • "Do not mistake my appetite for apathy!"--some dude in Kenneth Branagh's "Thor."
  • Poetry isn't active enough to suck.  Pull yr genitals out in the face of poetry and you find only a roullette-screen, an image of a suckface scrolling past you.
  • Poetry is DEET-free natural insect repellent, sweat proof & waterproof.  With a pleasant aroma.  Caution: keep out of reach of children, the 'poets' say.
  • Poetry-paintings coiffed hair is stuck in the ascending 90s.  For only the rough hand does it move.  The other hands withdraw, gently pricked, into a feigned, sleepy satiety.  The gel gets everywhere, and 2 of the oldest arts are simply that--boy bands grown arthritic in the hair and bones and every song calculated to please mostly.  I have a rotgut butthole full of pollen & ask you all to enter as caffeinated bees.  What's more to say?  Everything.  Everything for nothing happens, by continuing.

Tortilla Cowboy Racetrack Dinosaur

The cowboy drank water out of a steel tortilla.  Because the racetrack had no reason beyond love to exist, the cowboy chewed the pensive end of his mustachios, thinking in Technicolor, and offered the dinosaur the steel tortilla, to share, to sip, to page through for all his books were all the ones he'd read, and everything he'd read had been written in water, in semen, in ink--even ink & semen were simply water, slightly more permanent forms of water.

Dancing was simply a form of water that spilled down shirts into the idiotic grounds for belief.  When things begin to happen for someone, rhythm ceases to be seen as the vegetable it is, the carrot which is a magnetic field of tolerance, riding crop stares, and tethered passion to low bandwidth, high sensation time illumined with anti-collision LEDs.  "It is a cofferdam of certainty," he told the dinosaur, and began to speed, around and around the track, breathing the smoke-thin aerogel of the silicon-rust-belt-victims' noise of billion chewing stomachs filtering press releases for despair from their weblog squirts.

Due for New Colonies

Newt Gingrich smoking a cheeseburger is a certain business cancer like a womb of ferrets.  Interior, the pepperoni posse.  He blamed things.  The oaktree near the bottompond blackens alive with a murder, and the yellowing grass continues combing itself out with the wind and back straight into the closet.  A tire swing creaks like a knuckle with a shot breast, until a bear the size of a peony astonishes no one with his bongos.

A bird warmed its beaker like a banana
dipped in the glue of apparent bargains.
On Black Friday, the bees arrived and the
Birds made their chemistry set flame like fond dues.

Charliehorse-glue keeps friends loyal.
A raw vanilla deal
a mob of sleeves
honey chemistry napkin.
A feasible bagel of her face cries in the corner, illuminated by smartphones.  At once, the shout of honey meets moist in the rib's napkin.  I doubt it.  Doubt the illumination of honeyface.  I've sniffed glues better than all of this effortless joining together.

Valentine's Day Fence-Sitting at the Park

Newspapers crowned you,
Cradling your young head
Out of the royally pissed off womb
Into the plastic basket of all the other
Fancier, recyclable receptacles
In which the world held docile and hot
Its street food.

Intimately, a fence builds to one's own snug nerves
And blue as a blanket of rich blood
Leaves someone's feet shorted, uncovered to cold.
You're my best friend
And my longings still into
A produce stand on the side of a road
Wrecked with the unalloyed
Fruitful bond of love
Hammered rash into a bruised
Chain of itching smiles
Beyond twisted recognition
Or ointment forged when a thing intemperate
Of beauty leaves pure to forget how hemmed
By the barbed trousers of hard-wired origin.

We must refeather to eat all the small chickens
Until the shoebox of our leathery ribs
Senior-discounts itself into the open-air
Of a rickety Chinatown tour-bus.
Then, finally, porklike, electricity shall crackle from the snorting windowsill
Of our outstretched fingers and raise the singed hair
Aloft like subverted billboards along the unwashed nape
Of chicken-bone littered, coward-jaundiced street.

Children's Poems

1.  "The Last I Heard of the English Turd"

There once was an, English Turd
Who went by the name of Duke Mockingbird.
The last I'd heard
He'd grown thin as a pin
On his diet of cauliflower and organic beancurd.

2.  The Slug & The ladybug

A hatted slug and a naked ladybug
Lay making love on some grandmother's Persian rug.

2 Semi-Occasional Failures


Like the earth when weeping dogs cower
Hungry over the wet-grass,
A song full of conched washes
And my life a new bamboo

Cutting board, dressed like sushi
For a painted mouth of financial success--
Because I was sappy--
I traded a root for a fig & let my love
Be a watercolor of unicorns drowning American G.I.'s on coral reefs:

Not a single blade of paper
Would spring from the earth's surface
To branch out and flower into a bruised violin
Scratching out from its own given dirt a luxurious itch.

Last Christmas Was a Good One

Alone on X-mas day in an embalming river
Old pumpkins shrink like lovers into their own heads.
I wind up a waiter's hand, which grows taller
And taller.

I am alone on Christmas day as usual
In an embalming river.

That spring aside the embalming river we sun and roll
Ourselves into imperial cigars
Stripped of Edwardian habit.

Old pumpkins shrink like lovers into their own heads:
Now, I furiously sweep the chickenshit from my door into a different tallness
And feel nothing calm,
Everything calmly.
Shame is a pebble I can never find in my shoes.

Apocalyptic Thoughts

One saffron, refried day our planet will have its last fling
In the shape of a used condom's outline.
Until then I ride the bicycle like a hangover from work
& Fingers long enough to be drawn-out fairy-tales
Scratch the back of the illustrated day, demanding no reciprocity.

A saxophone of doors will be there,
Constructed of fuck-lacquered dollar bills.
2 dogs made out of tin will bark out ordered puzzles
& Rip the roots like witch-hair silently of all the trees.
As usual, somebody will find a dead body
Or die themselves dying to be found.

Chairs & love are immediate things
& Only ass can keep them there,
But everyone can go sit on the future
And mean a toilet as the end.

Dennis Rodman's Life 4 U

The advantage of having nothing to lose.
Look at yr position.  No one can help you.
No one will help you.  What would it help
To get help.  Fuck help & all of it.
Strength is knowing how to lose everything again
& again.  It always accrues something.
Love comes like fleas.

Who wants 2B my rebound girl?
Won't it be fun!
We'll share some witticisms, maybe dance
together, badly, intoxicated, out of mutual
I'll drop PBR bottles on the ground
Cutting yr feet, but you'll be drunk
So you won't care, and then I'll
Take you back home to my ridiculously dirty
Home for a Band-Aid.

We'll try to fuck, I dunno, cuz that's
What ppl do, esp. lonely ppl,
And surely we can too,
But we won't be able to,
I won't get it up,
Cuz either I'll be too drunk
Or still too in love
To feel anything but loss, guilt & shame,
But maybe I'll continue going down on u
Or u me, or us both together,
to no avail beyond chewing the dip.
How rad.  Totez awesome.
Gotta love the single life.

Feel a lil better.  Mind a lil quiter.
I am going to feel like a piece of shit in the morning.

Or maybe we will fuck & delay the shame
Of it till the morning,
Maybe just my shame,  maybe just yrs
Well whatever.  I have more important matters 2 think
Of than sex and not having it.

If somebody asks me in the market of solace "how are you doing?"
One more time
I'm gonna almost cry.

Shit.  I almost cried again.  And they're still fingering the handmade cloth
Of prettified happiness, lowering the price.

Yoga Tourniquet

Breathe easy. Breathe uneasy.  It doesn't matter, at least beyond yr preference.  It's ok to still have things you want to do before dying--but like saving the whales, eating healthy, or believing murder is wrong, desiring to do things, desiring not to do things is simply a choice between comfort chairs or mattresses--more furniture for yr impudently potent emotions to sleep, fuck, or eat on and lose pocket change in.

A mere few years ago ppl believed terrorist attacks were great tragedies.  They still cry at funerals too.

Things Best Left Unsaid Forever Until Now

Here's a helpful hint: There are no helpful hints. At least, that's my idea of a TV show.  Your soul is a broken Dorito and you are a flightless bird, sleeping but fitfully, always on yr last wing.  No matter who holds yr hand & weeps over you, watering the pitiful victory garden of yr face, you will die alone--no one to take yr place in that ultimate form of homelessness which the politicians call "death."  Don't fool yourself, you're not even worth the admirable struggle for money you've put up.

All ambulances are like jobs, drugs, and tire-sealant-temporary-fixes.  Imagine a world in which a castrated bull licking a NASA rocket in the shape of a dildo isn't funny anymore.  Now imagine you are that castrated bull and the NASA dildo-rocket is the belief you are not living in such a world already.

Police Order Extra Patrols Amid Fear of KKK March

After a disaster varying tactics reflect limiting skies
In a common injury nod to political considerations.
7,000 virgin fleshlights covered in bacon.
Is TV yr favorite dildo? TV is an HIV positive influence.
TV eats yr bear clawwwssss!  Aaaarg!

I will dance the hibachi at yr wedding. Scrimp. Steak.
Grits. Hello. Hello. WTF MOM I'll BRB.

We were invited to hang a few pieces at Hendershot's through June.

Some of these pieces have been shown before.
As always, they are free to be claimed. Perfect for home or office.

Friday, June 15, 2012

Unique Opportunity: Be Remembered Now Before You Forget Yourself

Dearest Friends and Other Strangers,

How would you like to be remembered? Or, if not "remembered" exactly, how, at least, would you like your life to be summed up in an average of 200 words or less so that some distant acquaintance who hasn't thought of you in at least a decade will feel a twinge of delicate remorse when, having one morning sat down to their cup of medium roast and bagel with extra cream cheese, they open the paper and learn that your time has finally come? How would you like to make perfect strangers cry over the simple fact that they will never have the opportunity to know you now that your miserable spirit has been buffed from this mortal coil? How would you like to remind former lovers of their own impending demise? How would you like that?

Well, the Cunny Isle Bemusement Park is offering you the chance to have some input. Just send us some information about yourself, and we will draft an obituary for you.

Thursday, June 14, 2012

Athfest 2012


234 West Hancock Avenue Athens GA 30601 18 & up ***free with wristband or $5 cover

Friday – 06/22/2012

10:00pm Antlered Auntlord
10:45pm Reptarz II
11:30pm Tunabunny

12:15am Cars Can Be Blue

1:00 am Eureka California

Tuesday, June 12, 2012

photos of stuff happening and not happening

On Bombast, On Beauty: Deindustrializing America Through Domestic Chores, Nocturnal Copulation Biases, and Waste Displacement Theories

If   such a sublime cyborg
would   insinuate the future        as post-Fordist subject,
his palpably masochistic          locations
                                                 as ecstatic agent
                   of the sublime superstate
need to be decoded                   as the “now
              -all-but-unreadable DNA”
                                           of a fast deindustrializing Detroit,
             just as his Robocop-like          strategy
of carceral negotiation                  and  street control
           remains    the tirelessly
                                                           American one
of inflicting regeneration                     through violence

They let us put art up at Flicker.

As usual, anyone who wants any of this stuff can have it.

Sunday, June 10, 2012

Cancer Humbled Me Part 3

God fucks the world coming workable fixative all over it’s coal miner’s face.
Trailing negative space, he draws neon-pink tears with his stylus running all down it’s face.
These days, Jennifer Lopez is speaking on divorce, motherhood & looking fabulously fit.  Game-changing research has come to light on how to beat a migraine.  But what is the most fun way to work out?  I want age-proof skin, better curves.  2012 is the year of the best body ever, and because of that I really need to take a look at the fashion forecast for dreamy dresses, surprising colors, perfect T-Shirts, sporty bags & shoes.  Feeling the urge to do good is nothing new, but every age gets the guru it deserves, and this is the age in which we deserve a fitness guru.  Just two years ago, Rupa Mehta, a stealth dynamo trainer, entrepreneur, philanthropist, and author, was poised to become the next big thing in the fabulous fitness world.  But Mehta walked away from a national deal with Equinox after having an epiphany:  “I realized that exercise can help children deal with some of the stress in their lives.  That was huge for me when I realized that my forms of exercise could be huge for the children.”  Mehta may not have invented the no-impact, fast-paced barre classes that have become so popular among women seeking the long, lean look of a dancer, but she is a master at keeping them exciting by constantly adding new props.  “The muscles,” she says, “are like kids on Christmas and like to be surprised.”  More complicated still is Mehta’s work with middle school students, many of whom struggle with learning or behavioral disabilities.  Before she gets them moving, she tries to get them talking based on “Connect to Your One,” the book she wrote outlining her philosophy of life, exercise, and the way our emotions can weigh us down.  “Emotions are like fat,” Mehta sez, “they just weigh you down and are totally not attractive.  I mean, think of what a person looks like crying.  It’s disgusting.  Sometimes snot comes out their nose.  Their faces get all scrunched up and their chests spasm.  It’s like watching someone dying, and a dying person is surely the least attractive person of all.  I dread the day I die, I mean, who’s gonna admire me then?  Everything I’ve worked for will be moot at that point…shit let’s not talk about it.  Death, Africa, emotions…these are just things best left ignored.  They have no place in life.  What am I gonna do about it?  See, that’s why I’m the guru this age deserves.  I have the wisdom to know which things in life I can change and which I can’t, and by focusing on working out, I totally exercise what I can change…the number of people who’d like to fuck me.” “What are some words we hear in our lives that don’t make us feel good?” Mehta asked, standing at the head of the classroom on the day I observed.  The children slumped in their seats.  “Stupid,” one said.  “Dumb,” another quietly added.  “Retarded,” another chimed in with a voice as clear as a bell.  It was enough to break your heart, and I asked everyone, “What are some words we don’t hear in our lives that don’t make us feel good?” 

No one ever has nothing to lose anymore.  Millions of women know Botox cosmetic.  Botox cosmetic, onabotulinumtoxinA.  It’s not retouching, it’s just touching…It’s Botox cosmetic.  Eight out of ten women achieved clinically significant results at day 30 in clinical trials.  Results may vary.

I prefer my birth control hormone free and my coffee caffeine free, that’s how I roll, free as a freebird, like a rolling stone, and let me tell ya it feels great to be all alone on my own, in the goddamn big city.  Life is so beautiful!  I walk everywhere and see beautiful dresses and purses I one day will own.  Jobs are gonna come.  And if not a job, surely a handsome prince, tall dark and handsome, with a good wristwatch, a clean car, a hairless back, and a body which smells not like a body at all, but probably of soap, shampoo, and a slight hint of aftershave!  And his luxurious penthouse will be clean and orderly and I’ll spend all my time there until he asks me to move in, then I’ll work some sort of silly job, like an internship or something, just to keep myself kind of busy until we have children and I focus on them having the best.  That’s going to take a lot of my time ya know, I’ll have to be scouting the best little private schools, going to the meetings, making sure the teachers are as smart as me, which of course they won’t be ya know, cuz they’re just teachers, only dumb people wind up teaching, anybody with half a brain wouldn’t be satisfied making twice what they make in a year.  Plus, they have to work so hard, and let’s face it, they need to be working harder.  China’s like totally kicking our ass out there.  Their teachers are really drilling it, kicking it hardcore for the kids, and they’re just outstripping us.  I mean, I heard the U.S. was like way behind in math and science and shit, and that’s why there’s all these Chinese and Indians working for like major corporations cuz they’re like really advanced and shit and America pays real top dollar to get em to come here.  But ya know that just goes to show ya, how much money really means.  We got the dollars here so we can steal like totally the top minds of our generation.  Anyways, here I am in the big goddamn city, and I just know I’m going to meet my Carrie, my Samantha, my Mr. Big.  In fact, I think I’m Carrie.  I’m looking so fly today ya know, and let’s face it I’m totally a sexpert.  People are gonna pay me the big bucks to write about my awesome lovelife.  Whoowee, last night, I went out with this young fair-haired young buck who’s totally on his way right now in public relations.  He totally just helped Chris Brown get over his negative image for that whole Rihanna incident.  He tells me Chris Brown is like totally down to earth, that most days Chris Brown gets his intern to get him a quarter pounder with cheese for lunch.  He’s like totally like us, pigs out on hamburgers, takes vacations, sleeps at night…That was cool.  I hope he takes me to like a free Chris Brown show or whatever.  We like totally fucked in his little studio apartment, but he sez he’s on his way up.  I dunno though, probably not fast enough for me.  I’m keeping my options open ya know.  I don’t wanna waste my time, and I know I could totally do a lot better.  I mean, if I had the opportunity to meet like Donald Trump or whatever I know they’d take one look at me and fucking put me on lockdown.  You know men right, you just gotta give em some sex and that’s all they care about as long as you don’t give em too much, gotta keep em coming back for more, stoke the flames of desire, so you get more gifts, make em work for it, but know when to relent and let em have their way.  Fucking men, I mean, they’re all so dumb right? They like don’t even have emotions and shit, at least, men with power certainly don’t, and who wants a man without money and power?  Not me.  I’m gonna make it huge. Like for real huge. I’m fucking gifted.  Not only am I brilliant, but I’m fucking hot as shit, ya know, like everybody tells me that, pfffft, not that they need to ya know, I got fuckin mirrors, I can tell.  Plus, men are like so gross, like naturally gross.  They have to do like all this shaving and shit, and they get sweaty and stinky, so ya know, if ya can get used to it, I mean, you can just about sleep with any dude.  I mean, Trump, is totally disgusting, but hell yeh I’d fuck him.  Goddamn, life is just so fucking beautiful.  You gotta take advantage of it while ya can you know.  Just live it up like there’s no tomorrow.

Frustratingly hard to treat and excruciatingly painful, migraines have long been medicine’s unsolved mystery until now.  No one who has ever lived through a migraine ever forgets it, unless they get Alzheimer’s or have a stroke.  A ruthlessly incapacitating brain disorder, it has plagued women from Virginia Woolf (whose writing could halt for months due to ‘wearisome headache’) to Princess Diana to Serena Williams.  More than 10 percent of Americans are afflicted, which costs the economy an estimated $30 billion annually.  Don’t ask me how something “costs the economy”—I’m still unsure how the economy should be personified, with or without a wallet.  Yet research is dismally underfunded:  In the last half-century, triptans have been the only class of drugs developed specifically for migraine.

“You want my real feeling as to why?” asks Robert Cowan, M.D., director of the new Stanford Headache Clinic.  “It’s a bit of sexism because migraine is three times more common in women, and women’s chronic diseases have traditionally not gotten much attention. And for many years, it was seen as a  psychological issue—an excuse for not having sex or going to work. Also, nobody dies from it.”

The good news for migraineurs, as sufferers are called, is that headache centers at major medical centers are proliferating, and despite limited funds, several promising new treatments have been developed.
Doctors used to tell patients to delay medication until pain was moderate to intense—the point when many people are already en route to the emergency room (migraines being one of the leading causes for visits).  But there are a host of new drug-delivery systems under development that patients can deploy themselves at the first sign of pain.  Cambia, for instance, is a new formulation of the older anti-inflammatory diclofenac, but this one is a powder that dissolves in water so that it enters the bloodstream more rapidly, giving a migraineur crucial extra minutes of relief.

Or the common medication dihydro-ergotamine (DHE), which Cowan calls “the gold standard” in emergency rooms:  It’s traditionally given via I.V., but a new inhaling system called Levadex, which has completed trials and is awaiting FDA approval, is controlled by a gate.  This is critical, says Cowan (himself a migraineur), because without the gate…

The Transformers:

How much can you really change about your mind and body?  Three writers find out.

Cancer Humbled Me Part 2

It is a universal truth, that no one ever has had a perfect body.  But what’s to stop us now from achieving perfection?  Science and technology everyday are bringing us closer to our ultimate goal of bodily perfection.  Botox, dietetics, plastic surgery, precision exercise methods are all bringing us near to the possible.  All we need is the leisure time and the money to have the body we’ve always wanted and the life we’ve always dreamed of.

I wish I could say that the desire to be stronger, healthier catapulted me into action.  But it was sheer vanity—a photo of myself in a backless Issa—that startled me into submission to the fitness gods.  The pointy scapulae, the scrawny arms—the message from my clattering bones was “Give this girl some kettle bells!”  So I decided to attempt a body transformation with the following specific goals: to sculpt my upper body and thighs, and to restore some toned flesh to my bony behind, all to add (or replace) curves to my pencil-straight frame.  How tough could it be?  Celebrities change their bodies all the time.  From Cameron Diaz’s chiseled biceps to Scarlett Johansson’s catsuit-ready thighs in “The Avengers,” these perfectly cut specimens make it look easy.  Maybe too easy. For those of us without live-in personal chefs and trainers to monitor our every step and bit, I couldn’t help wondering: Is such a transformation really possible?

Fantasy or Reality?  Did you know sculpting muscle can alter your silhouette?  Did you know that altering your silhouette can make you 89% more attractive to people more than 5 feet away from you and 43% more attractive to people right next to you?  Did you know that making yourself more attractive increases your chances of making best friends, finding true love, and winning the lottery?  Did you know that your silhouette can impact the trajectory of your life so severely?  People with good silhouettes live longer, work harder, make more money, and have more sexual partners.  Their lives are obviously richer, because obviously more of everything is always a good thing.

Emerson said reality was a surface and the true art of life was to skate well upon it.  But Emerson had a deep understanding of artifice, a profound shallowness.  Now imagine a world in which we believe our understanding to be profound…o wait, you don’t have to imagine.  Pick up a fashion magazine, walk down the street, see a film.  The world is more shallow than it ever has been, bedazzlingly shallow.  People are idiotic, stupid, foolish, vain, greedy, and superficial.  We bleed out so slow, having so many band-aids, everything appears tis but a flesh wound.  Plus, blood is so damn ugly, and we’ve evolved the multitasking ability to faint while standing.

In this book, I’d like to collect the most brilliant, bedazzled, impressionistic drops of wisdom ever before rained like perfumed-sulphur upon our ears.  Rilke once heard the demand to change his life echo an alien history from an archaic torso. Now the sight of naked torsos, ripped out of history or flabbed beyond meaning, flash across screens multiple times a day, begetting envy or repulsion, always instilling the assumption that our lives are fucked because our bodies are flawed.  It is amazing that ugliness seems beyond meaning to us, as if it never had a history. We must change our lives.  What is there not a cure for?  O sure, many products don’t work, but we just have to find the right one.  Make more money, work more, stress more, you’ll have to try quite a few pills before you find the right cocktail, and then all will be gravy (but remember gravy is awful for you, don’t eat it). 

There is no smell we haven’t made artificially we do not wish to eradicate from our world.  I put my fingers down my pants and finger myself before being intimate. What if my pussy smells like my pussy?  How horrid. 

The sight of a man wearing a bluetooth repulses you with its robot-flavor.  Robocop is laughed at as a ridiculous action movie.  But you get off work and train and dream of a better body, a better body and then a better boyfriend or girlfriend who has a better body than your boyfriend or girlfriend right now. You take your cocktail of vitamins.  You try to balance probiotics, antibiotics, triptans, and uppers.  It’s just a happy medium ya know?  You just gotta find the sweet spot.  The logic of your dream ends in Robocop.  You won’t admit it, for no one, including you, o wise one, ever admits the end.  The end has no surface and diving is a lost art.  But let’s not assume the bottom of the ocean has anything but shells.

Through that time of uncertainty regarding my health and future, I turned, desperate, to many resources of reassurance: the face of my ten-year old son crying, writing poetry, drugs, or a head-clearing jog.  But by far my most enjoyable moments during those trying months were spent browsing the pages of VOGUE. All of the eye-catching layouts and interesting articles shifted my mind away from the difficult reality I was facing.  VOGUE reminded me of the power and potential of the human spirit to create a beautiful world—whether through designing exquisite clothes or writing fascinating articles—and gave me hope.  As I began to focus my outlook on something wonderful instead of everything I dreaded, I watched my body heal. Today I have been cancer-free for many months, and I continue to look forward to all VOGUE has to offer.

Cancer Humbled Me

Cancer humbled me, first with its awful, white, splitting tits.  It spread them over my face and made me motorboat sounds of acceptance between them.  I went “Pppppppppppprrrrrrrrrrrrr I’m a make it alright.  Livestrong.  Ppppprrrrrr.”  Cancer humbled me that way.  I was on some kind of metaphorical knee before all kinds of things.  There are so many kinds of things one can find one’s knee sore before.  For example:  Cancer humbled me before a tree, before a lee, before a bee, before Crocodile Dundee, before Chablis, before a golf tee, before Bruce Lee, before Germany, before another’s knees, before sickened patrons of Hubee D’s, before disillusioned patrons of Weaver D’s, before the most awesome sets of titties.  But most of all cancer humbled me before me. 

Cancer humbled me into taking a time management class.  Every day is so precious, so I decided I shouldn’t waste it.  Lists were necessary.  Cancer made lists necessary-this humbled yet totally empowered me.  30 mins a day to personal hygiene, at least, and at most 1 hour (including showers, shitting, pissing, pruning, and preening).  4 hours to productive work.  2 hours to cardiovascular and toning exercise.  8 hours to sleep. 1 hour to meditate on how your to do lists have failed or succeeded in their execution.  1 hour to making more lists that are more successful.  1 hour for time management class.  1 hour for reviewing one’s to do list after class.  That left about 5 and a half hours per day in which I could call my own.  In that time, I could read the classics, contemplate great truths like dying, the value of friendship, man’s brutality to man, etc, or I could
Cancer humbled me until I couldn’t realize what was important anymore.  I was satisfied with thin gruel, water, the occasional chewy sliced ear of dried fruit from Trader Joe’s.

I wish everything would go ahead and die.  I don’t necessarily want to have to kill it myself.  Cancer humbled me into laziness.  Like the tree, cancer humbled me into the desire not to be me, to be anything but me, to be a tree, without mind, without the need to find another mind not a blank white orange rind, without the need to need to feed  or breed or have a creed, but to be ok with being treed.  Cancer humbled me, like a pack of coon dogs.  I sit outside my parents house, high up in a tree.  I’ve painted my hands black and I handle shiny dinnermint wrappers and broken mirrors, daydreaming about nothing, about glitter, about a nothing so vast and glittery I may as well be an ancient astronomer enamored with the oblivion of gazing at night-skies.  I wish everything would go ahead and die, or at least we decide on everything being deep-fried.  Cancer humbled me into liking everything deep-fried, even broccoli, nature’s little trees, even baby carrots, nature’s parrots’ knees.

Cancer humbled me into leaving that ignorant, lying piece of shit.  I got so cancer-humbled I mumbled, “I don’t like that little shit not one little bit.”  But I fumbled it, and God heard, “I done licked that riddle-shit like a riddle-tit.”  Cancer humbled God, so he didn’t give a fucking sod, and only acknowledged what I said with a sleepy nod of his humbled head.

Cancer humbled me into shutting myself in a room and reading yr novel with a shit-ton of humbled gloom. Doom gloom in my room.  I couldn’t find a broom so I swept what I wept into yr buttocks’ cleft and declared my doomgloomroom upkept & yr buttocks unkempt.

Language is so awful that my paw-full of my craw-full is plain unlawful.  I don’t give a fuck about Tuck or his rucksack of ruckus.  He can kiss my tuckus or buck us with a fuck-crack I’ll suck back and buck back until his luck backs downtown and his fuckcrack looks like a frown on which I wouldn’t go down. Fuck Tuckus!  Why won’t Tuckus fuck us? 

Cancer humbled me.  I shrink into my own head.  Around crowd thoughts of being dead.  What shall I say before dying that shall be memorable?  Shall I die lying? And not just lying down.  I mean being untruthful in a way which is rueful.

Sometimes it's hard to distinguish between a science experiment and a scene in a splatter movie. To conduct some ghoulish tests on spiders, scientists constructed forests of "frankensquitos" — made from parts hacked off their mosquito compatriots.

What do you do with a 65-foot-long coffin? Undertakers in Truskavets, Ukraine, erected what they claim to be the world's largest coffin, and now run a side business you wouldn't normally associate with funeral homes: a death-themed restaurant.

And yes — death to a cardiologist means that your heart has stopped, and he can't get it to restart. But to a neurologist, it might mean something else. In 1968, a committee at Harvard Medical School put forth an article stating that there is a second kind of death: brain death. Even though your heart is still pumping, and you're still able to breath on a ventilator, if your brain stem is down, you're dead. This theory was made law in all 50 states in 1981, so now in the U.S. we have two kinds of death: real death (cardiopulmonary death) and what some doctors call "pretty dead," or brain death. A cell biologist, on the other hand, may have a standard more rigorous than cardiologists or neurologists. They might want to see all one's cells dead, which we call putrefaction.

We Put So Much Work Into This

Recently we wrote a song which can be performed an infinite number of ways, but which will most likely be performed only a finite number of ways.  We performed it once.  You could perform it again and again.  We have the notes.  It has lyrics, which you can sing or not sing, depends on if you like em.  And there are guitar solos you can play.  But some people don't have guitars.  You don't have to do it anyway.  It's just a skeleton, so I guess any which way, or not at all.  Here are the notes.   So can you!

“We Put So Much Work Into This”

--An Epic Song In Moveable Parts

Subtitle: “Work Will Make You Free”—inscribed above the gates of Auschwitz.

Verse 1:

I’m not saying we’re rich or anything
But we can get by as a full-time band
We did it all by the dirty dirty sweat of our hands
We put so much work into this
If we weren’t so lazy you’d almost think we did it by plan
If we weren’t so bland you wouldn’t think us half as grand

Look at me Look at me Look at me
Now don’t look at me
Cuz we’re just one man
With a kindasorta band
But lets be real girl
We’re gonna make it big
Pitchfork dug our latest jam
Dontcha think this shit’s a banger
Like the Son of Sam
Pitchfork dug our latest jam
Whole interwebsblowin up
Sayin we’re going HAM
Are you really gonna get upset by this?
We’re just performing Stardust or was that something you missed

Hey plz don’t diss
We put so much work into this
Don’t be a jerk, get to work
Don’t be a snake, don’t hiss & get pissed
We’ve put so much work into this
Hey c’mon, just pretend you like this

Verse 2:
Happy Birthday. I’m sorry that I love you.
Blobs of poo and globs of goo
How’d this shit get on my new Sea-Doo?
This is the chance for people to recognize that important things are happening to you.
We’re the smell you can’t believe comes from anything you made inside you.

Parents, reddening the deckchair of the dying day,
Live inside you, stinking, forever exploding the parking-lot of love
Into yr heart’s tangle of dry grass and locked bicycles.
Okay you don’t trust me.  It just breaks my heart.
Thank God I don’t make art cuz
Can’t start a fire
Can’t start a fire
With this here art
O yrlil world’s already fell apart
Cuz u can’t start a fire
Can’t start a fire
Even now we’re just prancing in the dark

Chorus X2

Verse 3:

All flowers are here working great mmmmmmmmmmmm
Everybody is so honest hey heyhey
I wanna be a bastardized hawk
Full of chicken, full of duck sauce
Cannibals are cool
We teach em our tools and hang out in the pool
Yeah yeahYeah
Yeah yeahYeah
Drink till u wear yr faces like masks
Give yrself productive tasks
Work till u wear yr faces like masks
Prison is a rumor
Work is freedom
Love is a tumor
Sometimes u gotta cut it out
Babyboomers, petgroomers, late Bloomers
Fleetwood Mac’s Rumors
Act yr age not yr shoe size
Work is the real prize
Grow up don’t throw up
Blow up big
Get an expensive geetar rig
I’m not an idiot
You’re an idiot
Legalize armadillos
Smoke cigarillos
I hate yall. Follow me:
Tweet tweet!
Chorus x2

MF Global freestyles:
I am Cynthia Rothrock, I am Matthew Pulver
I do roundhouse kicks, I knock down buildings
I crunch numbers, I'm motherfucking Batman
I eat bagels, I know some stuff
Konami confused me as a child
The game is Double Dribble, but that's explicitly against the rules
I blame Kobe, I'm not the first woman to do so
I divorced chicken nuggets, the breakup was hard
Now I'm vegetarian, now I'm single and McLovin' it

I dabbled in witchcraft, I am not a witch
I am Christine O'Donnell, I am Ellen Degeneres
I am Rosa Parks, I am Mike Tyson
I'm a fuckin' Studebaker, I'm a brickhouse.
I invented swag
I am Freddy Mercury, I am Bono
I am Chaz Bono
Here's the first shot like Han of this guitar Solo

Verse 4:
This finger’s fat enough to be yr workforce Gretel
Gingerbread dishpit.  I’m dumb on a professional level.
We got a new kind o’ dignity dontchu know
Our dignity’s got a camel toe
If you’re not paying attention you’d think we’re just saying words
Love tumor bosses dishy totes rat turds
Most people are fucking rotten
Why were they begotten?
Why can’t they just be forgotten
They’re so ugly
And they’re not hard workers
And they totally make fun of me
Well they’ll get on their knees
When they see our bling
And how we appear at the top of Bing
Pitchfork dug our latest jam
We’re coming for you
&You’regonna come
When u see our 3.4 from Pitchfork
Pasted outside yr door
O Everett True where are you?
We wanna go to Honolulu
Work is freedom from pain & nostalgia
Work is freedom from the Lusitane& neuralgia
Institution? No I’ve never fought the Institution
We’ve put too much work into this
Not to get our restitution
Now shut down that MySpace & open up a Beebo
Load yr vid all up on Vevo
Watch my man geetar solo
Everybody sing along with us
Now here we go

CHORUS W/ Guitar Solo x2

Verse 5:
In America, prayers are ATMs.
I hope I overdraw & loans crawl thru me like scabes
For I am the Holy Ghostwriter of all Hollywood memoirs.
I love you and hope regret fills all yr days.
True Blue is so froufrou
Truest Blue frou you froyofroufrou
I’m just a small man-child
But I’m still wild
Call me Maurice Sendak
If I give ya a 10-back
Golden-rod in the moon’s venice sea
Rust auburn, blond showfolk& me
Hogtowns, cowtowns, cockcrow 2 moondown
Droogs don workboots 2 stomp on downtrod hobos
Droogs don leathervests& kick it with bolos
I stepped on a poptop& blew out my flipflop
But then I got some dip’ dots
The moon is black
Black nasty
From pink nasty
& lilac grey hoorays
Hey heyhey
I’m a deathshark, I’m a blood-eagle
I’m a fuck-hippo, I’m a shitweasel
I’m a death-shark, I’m a rabid-beagle
Fuck blood death shit hungry hungry hippos
Fuck rabid blood death hungry hungry hippos
Holiness HolinessHoliness!


You’re never too late to be aborted.
Feeling alive was your last mistake.
Abortion is the Jimmy Dean sausage in Heaven’s Waffle House.
Fuck timelessness & savaging to redeem.
In the beginning was the Word
And God sent it by text.
The word became flesh
So that text was a sext.
Laziness is a demon that haunts us all.
O wait, a demon that haunts us all
Is not a demon.
Fuck yr inexhaustible bag of literary tricks.
Love is a literary device, a manipulable bag
Of electronic monkey dicks.
Bounce bounce rain bounce.
Blastoff yall. Drink coke.
Don’t tell jokes.
Who on facebook
Still pokes?
I looked u up on my iPad
This is so damn bad
Fuck timelessness & savaging to redeem
I redeem nothing, for redemption
Is a literary device
Bitch u got lice
On the mice
Living in yr old rice
Everybody’s so nice
Like Bo Bice
I saw you I knew I was a fool.
I wasn’t even yr favorite tool.  God fuck us dead
There’s nothing to take pride in anymore.  One’s body
Always falls short, as if off a glossy high-protein bean bag.
One’s mind can’t compete
With a pair of pretty feet,
And “living” is for money
Which leaves no room for Cunny.


I want someone to beat me up.  Punch me,
Please, right in the gut, right in the butt,
Rip my nuts out and throw them into that stew they have at the Butt Hutt.
I want someone to beat me up, Kick me,
Slap yr knife out and more than nick me.
I want someone to beat me, slit me,
Whap out yr clit into my eye
Until I sigh, “Aww dang it bit me!”
I wish everything would go ahead and die.
I don’t wanna have to kill it all myself.
I wish everything would go ahead and die,
or at least we decide on everything being deep-fried. 
Cancer humbled me into liking everything deep-fried,
even broccoli, nature’s little trees,
even baby carrots, nature’s parrots’ knees.



For a tid bit
Of topshelf
U can lick her.
Cancer humbled me into leaving that
ignorant, lying piece of shit.
 I got so cancer-humbled I mumbled,
“I don’t like that little shit not one little bit.”
 But I fumbled it, and God heard,
“I done licked that riddle-shit like a riddle-tit.” 
Cancer humbled God, so he didn’t give a fucking sod,
and only acknowledged what I said
with a sleepy nod of his humbled head.
Takin turns lickinyrrazorburns
Both of us be makin fuss
Fuss that puss I’m a make ya cuss
Fuss ya on a truss I’m a make ya cuss
When ya ride my chocolita bus
I’m a fuss that puss

Water so good I can’t no brood
Arby’s in mah mouth dat good mood food
Got some sneakers I’m a damn new tweaker
World so new I feel like doing you
True in a blue church pew.
What’s the point is the name of this joint
I anoint my point with a big fat joint
Punch ya in the pussy and scream “Aroint!”



Biscuits & gravy
Damn I be lazy
Hazy, crazy and wavy
Shit got real
Cuz I don’t like to feel
Like a deal on heels

There’s nowhere I won’t go
Like theres nothing that I won’t show
In the right mood
If you give me some tude
I’ll give you sum food
If you eat in the nude
I’ll telecommunicate like the ood
Don’t be a prude
You know, like Dr. Who

We’re all alone in this together
Like contents in a purse made of pleather
From a foreign country                 
Where cunts is the shit that grows on trees
Harvested by all the boys
Used for fun like tired ass toys
Getting all tired                 and thrown out
Because they won’t        put         out
Makin us shout                 GET A NEW ONE              
So wuddo we do              GET A NEW ONE
Yea that’s right
Got a new one
Cut it down
From a tree
Yea that’s work
Yea I sweat
Ed           it hurt
Just like real work
Its got a purp
Burr burrburr burp

Guess that means I got a beer
Looks like about now its getting real clear
Yo           this shit itsall about work
That’s the purp                 the purppurppurp
Labor                     labor                     
But not like that Aesop rock album
But just what     about it I told him
All the sweat      the sweat            the sweat sweatsweat
And the tit          the tit                    its ititit
Its all I want it my tired ass life
When I get home from my daily strife
Of talking to you
All you fools
Just like I              fucking wanted to          
When I don’t
I really don’t want anything but what I got
A place for          my fucking cock
To get wet          maybe thrice a week
If a play my cards rite and eat my wheat
Thins     its what im in
Cuz fat chicks can’t dance on a pin with my
Im an angel
The ideal of cap’s cuntdulation
Her discracion
Its what imin      a masturbatin
To           maybe her          with a kangaroo?

Now that sounds difficult             worth paying for
So what               
If its      
A fucking bore

This        is             a free economy
So its all about me meme
Meaning the me
That’s not the me
That works for shit          for he hehe
Or she sheshe
Who gives a fuck about a pee peepee
If its not on me
Or on my clock
What the fuck is it gonna do for my cock
Big Hurt’s up to bat
Did you meme to say that?

Cuz that’s what matters
Show me some tatters
                And the type     I can eat off of
Tater tots with ketchup doves
Just like I think of
When im alone                 imagining pink
And probably one for the stink
To go up in after I make it work
Get wet’ntwerk
Nuthin if it doesn’t hurt hurthurt
Cuz that’s            how       to evaluate         a worth worthworth
And make           me         a                              spurt spurtspurt



Work is what I need Work is what I need
I flagellate my mind into sexless chicken feed
Children got no work ethic
Children are so pathetic
Fiber feral ferment fever
Fast fertile ferrule flint
Macerate the logbook logic
Remancipate the lawtook pocket
My damn pecs still hurt
I don’t get on that scene without my Dramamine
As an expert in karate I chop my shit off in yr potty
As an expert in karate I exert Tecate is a dessert
Necropolis Galapagos hippopotamus
I’m a deathshark, I’m a fuckbeagle
I’m a pus-turtle, I’m a clit-weasel
I’m the dung rolled by dung beetles
I’m minimum wage
I’m underage
I’m full of rage
It’s rude 2 act my age
Holiness HolinessHoliness!

Tired of lying under a man one night
you tore off your chemise violently and got on top of me
to ride me naked.
You stuck my prick into your cunt and began to ride me
up and down.
Perhaps the horn I had was not big enough for you for
I remember that you bent down to me face and murmured tenderly
"Fuck up, love! Fuck up, love!"
Well, I wish you good night
 But first shit into your bed and make it burst.
 Sleep soundly, my love
 Into your mouth your arse you'll shove.
 Cuz, obviously, put so much work into this.

CHORUS x until we get tired of it