foul fucking bastard he was, limping around the sidewalks of our town maddeningly drunk. malignant tumor wandering around the gutters of our cities fine thoroughfares feeding off of the morning sick teenage whores, burnt out on hope and drunk with the notion of salvation. i'll never see nor hear such an angelic voice, humming like a detuned radio over the dissonance of daily life (and what a fucking drag that's become)
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let me paint you a fucking picture here, alright, this is the fucking scene; the city is laid out like a grid you see? it's all very well put together, there are avenue and street signs, there are business and residential districts, hell they've even included a nice low-income (ghetto) neighborhood for all of those poverty-stricken (black) folks . why how fucking kind of them. how fucking considerate. anyways the city hums like a rusty old machine in constant need of repairs, always hackin up black smoke and belching out a few toxic fumes, but nuthin' is ever all that serious. i mean it's nuthin' that the proper authorities can't handle right? the suburban (white) people who either work or own the city find it comfortable, they find it simply lovely, their little sedated reality has all the comforts that ayn rand promised. ITS JUST SO FUCKING COMFORTABLE! its this complacency which poses the largest threat to the metropolitan lifestyle so many of the cities denizens have adopted as their own. Complacency breeds discourse and discourse breeds dissonance and eventually you're left with entropy, with anarchy, with people acknowledging the fact that their biggest fear is not the poor people who live on the part of town they never go to, but the fucking desk that's in front of them, the elevator they ride with fellow employee's, the Japanese car they drive, the pre-fab house they live in, and their sexually unsatisfied wife. all the bullshit of the modern-day-post-cold-war-capitalist-orwellian-double-speakin' authorities can be disregarded and tossed out just like Marx and eugenics.
what we need, especially this christmas, is a little bit more hope. a little bit more danger.
what we need is to fucking realize that no matter how much cheap plastic bullshit you buy for your kids or relatives or whatever the fuck you want to refer to them as, you still have sisters and brothers dying in the very city you're celebrating your christmas in. they may only be a few blocks away.
but hey how the fuck should we care! We're fucking rich! We've got fucking computers! fuck yea man FUCK YEA!
sorrry, there's my christmas rant
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
TRIBULATION: Article 1-Sexual Terrorism as a means for National Security
this is the part where she stumbles into the room gasping for breath after an evening of wine and repressed memories. collapsing like a building unto the ruins of her apartment floor. face down in the heaps of slag and filth which drip off the ceiling due to the poor plumbing of the roach motel she has taken residence in. her lungs expand and contract to the rhythm of past conversations, ones which lay mimeographed to the walls, depicting a history of degradation and prejudice in the most vivid colors one could imagine.
"how the fuck did this happen" she mumbles into the filthy carpet, inhaling a small population of dust mites as she does so.
"because you're a fucking wreck, a filthy cunt with no regard for the for the feelings of others. your paper-thin facade of narcissistic self-defeating behavior only binds you to the blatant fact that your life is shit," she answers to herself"i mean for fuck's sake your from Iowa!"
she proceeds to sit up, lean (lunges) over to the nightstand and grabs a bottle of night train. empties it.
for all intents and purposes she is an attractive woman, sometimes catching the casual glance of a young college student and the occasional flirt with married men who decide to wander into her bar, looking for some debauchery or perhaps just trying to forget. forget.
forget.
forget.
if only she could forget, she hasn't felt this dirty since she was 12, since the first time it happened. and now the shame and filth and fear and sickness and death and pain are engulfing her again. pushing her down into the cancer of post-traumatic stress disorder. crawling through her capillary veins like a fever wiping out a small village. she feels the vermin burrowing into her psyche like so many ex-patriots raising flags for a nation they can't believe in.
but...
however, she feels she is doing her part. that her and everyone else like her are illustrating with perfection the lifestyle of the starving. at this moment she feels solidarity with every junk-sick prostitute dying in the street. with every family living in their car. with every dead bum rotting beneath a highway overpass. these are the poor, desperate victims that our great nation is built upon. the fucking foundation of democracy stands on the graves of every single civic casualty that line our city streets.
she feels patriotic.
laying there on her apartment floor she is bloody, bruised, her vaginal walls are slightly torn and bleeding, her clothes are ripped and dirty. she is absolutely at the lowest point that any human being could find themselves in. she feels like a hollowed out carcass laying 6 feet beneath the commonplace drudgery of the capitalist line-dance.
"how the fuck did this happen" she mumbles into the filthy carpet, inhaling a small population of dust mites as she does so.
"because you're a fucking wreck, a filthy cunt with no regard for the for the feelings of others. your paper-thin facade of narcissistic self-defeating behavior only binds you to the blatant fact that your life is shit," she answers to herself"i mean for fuck's sake your from Iowa!"
she proceeds to sit up, lean (lunges) over to the nightstand and grabs a bottle of night train. empties it.
for all intents and purposes she is an attractive woman, sometimes catching the casual glance of a young college student and the occasional flirt with married men who decide to wander into her bar, looking for some debauchery or perhaps just trying to forget. forget.
forget.
forget.
if only she could forget, she hasn't felt this dirty since she was 12, since the first time it happened. and now the shame and filth and fear and sickness and death and pain are engulfing her again. pushing her down into the cancer of post-traumatic stress disorder. crawling through her capillary veins like a fever wiping out a small village. she feels the vermin burrowing into her psyche like so many ex-patriots raising flags for a nation they can't believe in.
but...
however, she feels she is doing her part. that her and everyone else like her are illustrating with perfection the lifestyle of the starving. at this moment she feels solidarity with every junk-sick prostitute dying in the street. with every family living in their car. with every dead bum rotting beneath a highway overpass. these are the poor, desperate victims that our great nation is built upon. the fucking foundation of democracy stands on the graves of every single civic casualty that line our city streets.
she feels patriotic.
laying there on her apartment floor she is bloody, bruised, her vaginal walls are slightly torn and bleeding, her clothes are ripped and dirty. she is absolutely at the lowest point that any human being could find themselves in. she feels like a hollowed out carcass laying 6 feet beneath the commonplace drudgery of the capitalist line-dance.
she feels like the most patriotic person in the whole fucking country, she has been raped, brutalized, and dehumanized. in essence she is the american dream incarnate. lady liberty.
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