Tuesday, March 06, 2007

I need something to happen


Professor Romance needs some adventure. Not social adventure. Not friendship adventure. Not basketball.
A straight up adventure. Something to get my swerve on.

posted by Old Stallion at 3:01 PM

1 Comments:

Anonymous Anonymous said...

I found this, and also, surprisingly, found it to be not totally ridiculous (minus the mysticism)
----
The Accused:
Crafters of word-bridges to Nowhere
Riders of rainbows, of deciet, towards the imagism of Truth

The Accusers:
A) a totalitarian techno-cult of hippy futurism that shits out quantity,
B) a regressus ad infinitum of avant garde Traditionalism that falsifies quality.

We can't mask ourselves well enough to endure either without a fight.
After all, it's the progeny of the elites who've discovered that
drunk is the new sober...

Here we are inside a perpetual marketing event.

We're rotting in the Abyss, in the drunk tank of the unseeking dystopia of our "freedom",
and this Deepak guy comes to speak of the Poets.
He's rounding up the auto-colonized and staging a big Event:
We can't believe in "Truth", so we need to believe in the East.
or at least its pushers and pimps, whom we can *kind of* relate to...

Do What Thou Wilt, fucker, Shall Be our license to BE ILL.
You've got the "right", just like any other fratty sorostitute,
only dressed up in a faux-cynical (but quite social) fog of post-everything boringness,
or simply inebrieated on the cocky cunty feel-good metaphysics of the day...
ever since 90s Anarchism Lite was served up on that neo-shamanic (or was it just neo-liberal?) mushroom platter
there's been a flood of inebriating culture fetishes to suit every taste.
As long as it fits with a fucking hip hop beat.
Such permanent soul death is better off sauced up in formaldehyde,
than left freely swimming around in the sewers of the myspace pseudo networks...

Ah... who cares. I'll always love humanity far more than I hate it.
But you know what? That noose we all wear around our necks as the auto-colonized
sure is getting heavier...

O where are the Mullahs when you need them?
Swoop from the sky, dear lords, and extend the ban on music this-a-way, we pray!!!

This one fact remains: right there is an eternally fixed taboo of discussion,
a vigilantly maintained silence...
reminding us always and forever that there is a class of men
whose sole purpose is that of Destroying. Bless them.
But where is the class of men who will pound death itself into submission?

Does anyone actually LIKE this continuous, looping non-event of the abyss so much
that they would actually willingly ride it down and and down and down and...
Ah forget it. Without further complaint we'll mount our Gryphon and pick up where we left off
when the sky's torturous turbulence of Love and Hate took us astray from our rainbow.

So here's the new insoluble - resent it or embrace it:
only the buyable insist on being paid.
Only he who is for sale reaches for the Fama

Remember that. And that when the poles shift
the Hyperboreans will be left dangling from a pubic hair of Saturnas...
and be well, friends.


There.
I feel better.

-Trey Spruance (seriously).

12:17 AM  

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