Wednesday, September 29, 2010


Evil is even, truth is an odd number, and death is a full stop.

Wednesday, September 22, 2010

fuck the phone, your facebook is tapped

How low can we go?
Fuck the Beatles, I'm an animal
An upright ape with opposable thumbs
To hold the clubs
To hold the guns
Swing low sweet chariot
God bless my DNA
Drunk drive my Chevy to the levee
Let the flood come and sweep me away
No this ain't the apocalypse
It's the way shit has always been
From Sodom to Saddam
Attila to Tienenmen
A quarter million years of human being
A quarter million years as a human stain
We use ten percent of our gorgeous brains
And leave the rest up to cocaine
Lucy in the sky
Got her hands on a new shotgun
Lucy in the sky
Got her hands on a Remington
Lucy in the sky
Her shiny diamonds drenched in blood
And I know where the wild things are
Don't look far
Don't look far
'Cause I got wisdom in my teeth
And terror in my wars
Yes, I know where the wild things are
Don't look far.
Don't look far.
There's a reason that it's hard to look in the mirror.
There's a reason that it's hard to go to the zoo
And there's a reason you want to pry open the cage
See, you should be there, too.

Saturday, September 18, 2010

Real High Voltage Tour

Beamer,Benz or Bentley.
North Carolina tour stuff.
The Real team kill it.

Thursday, September 9, 2010

alien vs predator


Two Paths for the Novel

Interesting article about lyrical realism falling short.

"These aren’t particularly healthy times. A breed of lyrical Realism has had the freedom of the highway for some time now, with most other exits blocked. For Netherland, our receptive pathways are so solidly established that to read this novel is to feel a powerful, somewhat dispiriting sense of recognition. It seems perfectly done—in a sense that’s the problem. It’s so precisely the image of what we have been taught to value in fiction that it throws that image into a kind of existential crisis, as the photograph gifts a nervous breakdown to the painted portrait"

Two Paths for the Novel | The New York Review of Books

Tuesday, September 7, 2010


a thick fog is rolling over the hills
and the sound of the jet engine is setting the mood
for this cold september night
the smoke corkscrews out of my mouth and i realize
i dont want more
i dont want less
something is missing but i dont give a shit.