Affinity for a trinity…
Skinny Puppy…Velvet Acid Christ…Mindless Self Indulgence…
Who are they, what are they, and what do they mean to me?
the MUSe sICk
How would that sound?
Jimmy Page (Led Zeppelin)… the Edge (U2)… Jack White (White Stripes)…
Might it really get that loud?…
(higher thought)less
Conventionality is born of stagnation and a reluctance to relinquish our grip on antiquated social observances. While it’s understandable that people want to revel in the bastion of the familiar and shun all things foreign, it should be etched into our very soul how important it is to learn and evolve beyond the mundane, for to grow stagnant is to stop moving forward, to allow convention the right of way is to disavow our own humanity and free will, and squelch the fire of imagination, and crush all possibility of really feeling as though we’re alive.
essay into the industrial complex.
What would it be to see as the Grateful Dead see it? What could be the harm in that thing there? The view is serene, with two drummers in the background, and enough acid to throw us on our hippie asses. Where do we go once the good times die? When our heads have busted wide open from that perception of a world where things are a hallucination. There is still that little subsistent grouping of people around the world, but in excess is where it seems to have rested its position. The masses gathered at the feet of supposed gods which are really monsters at heart. What happens when we realize that mess? Do we surge forward, and present our hind ends to the authority in charge? I have chosen not to give up hope, no matter how …
beautiful disgust
Dichotomy at it’s finest, that. In death it seems life can be reaffirmed, and in loss a gain. Perhaps this vague collection of words has deep meaning, or maybe the deep meaning can’t fully be expressed through the construct we call language… which I’ve found to be more often than not the case. The lexicon of emotion far out-nuances the lexicon of language. Well, the english language anyway, I suppose I can’t speak for any other, since I can’t speak IN any other.
Ramble ramble rant.
that resin left.
The droppings left on the ground formed a cake of black tar. There was no smell except that of a plastic soul embedded somewhere in the crust of its depth. The ground it was laying upon yielded to the substance as it absorbed into the dirt, making a place for itself within the seeping fingers of the still liquid underside, and prevented all normal growth from underneath. The texture, to the touch of anyone who dared, was noted for its sticky compliance yet absolute solidity when stressed. A potent substance derived from nothing… so nothing is the only result. Thoughts lost when least expected, to be left for another vacant mind, and perhaps leading to innovation in some regard. A terrible feeling, to know the dark matter was once a part of you, but the other part of you …
Alchemical Manipulation
I feel like some sort of wizard with my new gizmo, energyxt…
A thumb drive with sequencing software and enough free space to save hours of music, drums samples, and hopefully more instrument patches….
I’m giving serious thought to setting aside the hard rock/metal genre for this… It’s easy as hell to write, just point and click, drag and drop….
I must say though, once I have a real handle on the software, I’ll be using it to create sonic backdrops to live guitar and bass. The wonderful thing is the ability to sequence beats then copy/paste them as needed… No more dealing with subpar acoustic drum recordings and the fact that the beats I hear in my head I lack the ability to play live. I never said I was a drummer damnit, and drummers around here all suck for one …
grinding hell among us.
from these holes are born
wiry forms darken the horizon
walking up to us without discrimination of drug
pulling us from our predefined states of mind
the slipping grip of understanding this reality
intruding upon the dreams of every life
coagulating flames, burning screams
the machine rides upon our backs
the twiddling ticktock of the doomsday clock
clicking in above us
in ponderous perpetual motions
the society digs into our skins, our moral behaviors
the degenerate sins of man to meet our fate
the howling vomit stares of those horrid foes
why this gothic be nightmare?…
dissuaded and dissatisfied with the corrupt aide of the ego in my culpable hands, attempting to harness my peculiar reasoning for a lifestyle set in contradiction, and take on the ownership of self through the lens of rational dichotomy in autonomy… crafting a question somewhere centered inside all real personal belief to be asking while staying true to the absolute identity…
The KIDD…
inspired by a Hunter S. Thompson article. the KIDD lives in his own deranged sense of the real and unreal, between trips to his grandfather’s house to hear stories to mend his dreary days of work-related behavior, but the KIDD finds the time to drift in and out of states of vision. awkward realms of symbols and dream made living flesh, his alarm may ring out, but is he ever truly awake?