Found this old song…..love it…..like I love my liver……thats fucking freestyle MOTHERFUCKERRRRRRRRRRRRKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKNIGGGGAAAAAZZZZZZZGGGGAAHHHHHhhalskdhflkasdjfolasjdfoa;sjdfoasjdfoasjdfoiajsdfoasdfoijasmdoifjasldjfwaef.
TRUE LOVE.
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“In full knowledge of impending doom the excesses become increasingly bizarre.” Tinto Brass.
Your average Italian is one stricken with foolish bravado. An ego passed down, and eagerly adorned with little in the way of justification or explanation. Like a trust fund child on main street with a platinum credit card in her left hand and a flopping tit in her right. Above the law and full of drugs I could only dream of at 3am on this dull Monday night nearing the last sip of this tall can of Old Milwaukee.
That italian fiend, so commonly in love with it’s “roots” as to become oblivious to the fact that it is simply one in a row of withered weeds growing off in the distant shadow of the great rotting decaying tree of deceit and lies it calls its golden heritage. The sun has set my Nimrod friend. The devils can hide in the burning fires of the light. But in the dark the reptile spawn will shine and smoke like a doberman orgy fueled by lightning. Tits like Halley’s comet, Puss like lakes of fire and dicks like Tesla Coils from hell…No cover under the extending Universe tonight old chum. Take heed, the stomach of the shark is your destiny, it is what you deserve.
But sometimes a golden creature looms out of the ash stained mist. A true visionary. Of course, I speak of Tinto Brass. The famed Italian director. Creator of such legendary titles as: Do It!, The Artful Penetration of Barbara and Nunsploitation.
Pay no heed to my prejudice and wallow in Tinto’s wisdom.
“A face can lie, a derriére cannot …A face can be painted over with make-up, conceal its age or impurities; a mouth can spew cruel lies. A butt is definitely more honest than that.”
They call him Tinto Ass.
I am the spawn of a Buzzard, and that bastard wants retribution. Seven A.M. and my bedroom door is opened. 45 minutes of a drunken sleep, and now that’s over. The buzzard is my Mother, and the beak speaks. “Take my black skirt to the dry cleaners.” Oh my God. Yesterday it was the sand colored high heels for the fucking Cobbler.
But here I am in the spare bedroom like a Vulture. Like Mother like son. So who am I to complain. “OK“. Anyways, I have some dry cleaning that needs to be done. Let’s piggy back this Pony boy’s.
First off, the Velvet jacket I bought for Halloween from the women’s section at Value-Village. Its a tight fitting deep brown like the feathers of a Night Owl.
Then there’s the crushed blue velvet blouse Darrell and Kate bought me on Thanksgiving. They said when they saw it they just knew it was made for me. And they were right. It was a dark midnight blue with large dark blue buttons that looked like depressed flying saucers. Every director needs an outfit to feed off of. If you don’t feed, then what the fuck is there to get out, how can you deliver?
These velvet numbers stunk of smoke and the other things that lurk in the shadows of the night. This is the dry-cleaning receipt. It describes my velvet blouse better then I ever could.
FANCY AS FUCK MOTHER FUCKER.
This feels weird. Call the cops.
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THAT.
The elevator
Rose slowly up
And out of the
Subway station
I leaned on the black rubber railing
Where a thousand elbows have
Rested before
Why was it so busy
At ten pm.
People rushed
By me on my left.
And I looked up
In a sort of sleepless
daze
But I felt
Good.
As everything moved by
Towards
that.
Five young girls
Were running like wild graceful
Swans with the cunningness
Of a thoughtless antelope
On the escalator to my right
That was not working
The metal stairs
I watched as they ran by
and the one in the center
Was so tightly packed into
Her white jeans
Each step spoke sex
I couldn’t make out the age
From the angle I was at
Only the back end
Of lust
Each muscle flexing
Perfection
How did those jeans
Stay so white
Did she never sit
Did the dirt tremble in fear
And I heard a voice beside me
That said
You could never have that
It wasn’t my voice
It was the voice of an image
Of one of the people passing by
A mirage in my head
But I pictured it.
A factory worker, past his prime
Who’s prime
Was nothing to speak of
Relating through failure
Nudging me in the arm
And I stood a moment and took
The insult for fact
But then
In my head I began to argue
Why not.
I could get that
What is that.
One slip in time
And that is begging for coke
That is working a corner
When the planks break beneath
That falls down at your feet
Why so bleak?
That stands an insult of myself
In itself
I argued back
But I was missing the point
Again
Focused on the delivery
I realized the phantom figure
That had begun this conversation
Was gone
So I continued to argue
With myself
Like any sane thinking
Man would
I could chase after
I could try for that
I could be a star for that
I could sell my soul
Up the river for that
I could stalk
I could murder
I could dream
The devils dream
I could be that
That that wanted
I could change
I could make them
Change for me
Everyone wants that.
Everyone is looking for that
In one form or another.
And one day you get that.
All the built up pressure
And then you are done with that
In a matter of moments
Quick on the draw
And late on the satisfaction
And that rolls over
And begins to snore
To dream of something better
And that is not
All that It’s cracked up to be
When you finally get that
You find that it is nothing
And those that seem to have that
Act as though they have everything.
And everyone is searching for that.
That is not just a woman
that has driven men insane
Like Tesla
But Tesla
Was no ordinary man.
And that search can be good
That obsession
But what most search for
Is man made
Fame
Money
Revenge
Romance
That perfect woman
Came from a man
Well…..
From a woman
But that
Is not an easy thing to grasp
And that
Is what defines most
What they do not have
What they wish to be
Mans goals
Are fantasies
Constructed by other men
Striving for goals
Constructed by others
Religion
Capitalism
Power
It’s a horrid cycle
And as each thing
Moves up the escalator
Ahead
The cycle continues
Further down
But the worst
And these people
I find myself surrounded by these
At times
The worst
Are the ones
That have decided that
They know what that is
That they have that
The ones who look down their nose
At others
But worse then
That
attempt
To make them conform
The ones that decide
What is right and wrong
For an individual
Of course on a major scale
It is easy to spot
Whether its politics
Or media
Or any other major scale outlet
But every small social structure
From a high school clique
To a group of friends
Is just the tadpole
Of the teeth gnashing
Fish
That we all suffer under
That weight, that most if given the chance
would happily become
The crowd will always
Try to break the individual
While the individual will recoil
Further into solitude
To be dismissed
Unless of course
The individual simply
Wants to lead the crowd
These people can be
the most
Dangerous of all
So many I see
That I know
Feel that that
Which they
Have is so precious.
And that
Really pisses me off.
Those razor backs on my spine
And on others.
Their vision is cloudy
But their direction is clear
That
The way to their heaven
Is through their hells.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
(*A note.
I am not exempt from that which I perceive. For I am the vessel through which I see.
I prefer to show my contradictions rather then wasting my time focusing on how to write something that makes me look right. That it is not my point. Though I’m not sure what my point is exactly. So much is created and geared towards a venomous argumentative audience. Or perceived audience. And often out of vanity. But if you focus on the flaws, then that is out of instinct, because you are the point.
All people should be treated equally.
Recognize Nigga.)
Fri Feb 26, 11:23 AM
MOSCOW (Reuters) - A Russian chimpanzee has been sent to rehab by zookeepers to cure the smoking and beer-drinking habits he has picked up, a popular daily reported on Friday. An ex-performer, Zhora became aggressive at his circus and was transferred to a zoo in the southern Russian city of Rostov, where he fathered several baby chimps, learned to draw with markers and picked up his two vices.
“The beer and cigarettes were ruining him. He would pester passers-by for booze,” the Komsomolskaya Pravda paper said.
It added he has now been transferred to the city of Kazan, about 500 miles east of Moscow, for rehabilitation treatment.
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..
The chimp began drawing, banging tons of chimp chicks, drinking and smoking? Don’t send him to rehab, send him to my place. That’s all I’ve ever looked for in a person. That they were a chimp and partied. I’m sending a letter to the Russian consulate.
They often say when an animal acts out, it is simply acting out of its nature. That killer whale that offed the trainer is being defended as acting out of simple animal instinct. Who’s to say that these Chimps actions aren’t part of its true nature. For when your surroundings are changed, your instinct must adapt as well. His real problem seems to be that hes locked in a fucking Russian zoo after spending years working under the whip in a circus. Let the man have a few drinks, bang a few out, draw some strange pictures and suck on a little nicotine.
Here’s to you Zhora. Rip those fiends fucking heads off.
A friend gave this to me a few weeks ago. It hangs on my bathroom door. DANGER!
Felt an urge to upload this. I WANT THE OPERA HOUSE!
