Putrefactre

Tear Down what has been Fucked Up.
Jangle, crack and swell.
Ripen like meat tightly balooned in wet black plastic
hot with light and busy with hornets.
Tempt their fate
the oblivious misstep
or scavenging claw.
Glisten like whores, even if spent,
even if discarded somewhere out of sight.
The acid-spitting, thunder-shitting
spirit of Decay,
Mighty Putrefactre
spreads its wings
in bubonic resplendence.
Rotten shade is cast
dripping offal on wrought iron gates
between hard death and new life.
Pulsation of maggots!
Flow forth in a bursting wave,
your multitudes unified in slippery despiration!
Eat death and absorb death,
use death against death.

Vitalectricity

Life's a bitch
and then you die.
Find us something else and
we would welcome it.

Bury me beneath the ground
Obscure my face in a shroud
Universally free
let me rest in peace

I've hit a point
where time just grows
breathe in deep
suck a minute
into the pit,
Your heart.
Just a clock
and winding down it finds a way
to send you reeling.
Time to let your mind decide.
It's idling by
on fumes of thy
vitalectricity.

Screw

Damn Good Dear God
Dear God Good Damn
Helper Devil, hide behind your evil-looking mask
are god and devil Good anD evil, with identical goals?
Stick a tool in the hole
you are a screw
twisting down.
boring.
into lifeless wood.
Just a piece
of a box
made by someone else.

Conquest

Continuous numerous palpable indignities roiling in a boiling oily growth
Underbelief outstanding match a graphomanic chipped tooth breathing East
with a hushed "fuck you" in its fish mouth.
Bien agiter in cheetah fur, ya got a chimp gummin' up yer works.

And why do we do anything? Because it works?
No, it doesn't.
We just want to get there first
So we can wave it in the faces of the pitiful disgraces like an ace up the bleeding hole.

Has no one asked you before, why the world wants war?
Each piece in its place, and busy.
Keep dumb ones proud and dissenters screaming loud
after all, what damage can a decibel do?
For when you open their minds, you may be sullen to find
It's just a hole.
An empty hole.
A bleeding hole.

Pastiche

Pastiche is one of those words many artists are lucky exists. In much the same way that plagiarism which makes no effort to hide its source may be rescued by the word homage, a parody with no discernable sense of humour can be given the distinction pastiche to save it. A particular and highly specialised form of mimicry which apes not the language nor the dialect but the very voice of its inspirator in the hope that in matching the timbre of those who have achieved what the artist seeks, they may trick the audience into finding it for them.
In his essay, "Postmodernism or, The Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism" Frederic Jameson calls pastiche "a fertile area in the idiosyncracies of the moderns and their 'inimitable' style"# and, rattling out an illustrative list of renowned and varied artists and devices each one had characteristically employed, supplies a cheat-sheet with which any amateur dilettante can produce a lost novel of Faulkner or missing Mahler concerto. Jameson continues on however to speak of the problems implicit; that in our current day and age there exist so many different personal styles that not only is the original, un-stylized form now so far back in memory it's as good as erased, but that the abundance of personal styles and quirks have rendered such qualities, once seen as eccentricities, to now be viewed as positively normal, Jameson argues, "modernist styles thereby become postmodernist codes" [Jameson 197.]
It could be argued that Postmodernism itself is a pastiche of all cultural theory. Culture, having rolled over its clock with the boldly final "Modernism", now has nowhere to go but to start again from zero-- the final decades of the twentieth century are the acid fangs of the ouroboros, gnawing and tearing away at all before it in order to digest it, deciding which parts to reconstitute the nutrients therein into a part of the new body, and which parts are to be rejected, shat out, and perhaps canned and sold to those further behind, shucksterism being one of the questionable nutrients absorbed by this particular beast.


Jameson, Frederic. Postmodernism or, The Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism. Easthope, Anthony and Kate McGowan, eds. A Critical and Cultural Theory Reader. Toronto: U of Toronto P, 1992.

DREAM DIARY ~*

Last night I had a dream where a bunch of people came to my dream-restaurant to chill with me and one of them was Brian Posehn. I had had a couple of beers with these people and eventually made the mistake of pointing that most of his roles are near-identical, in effect calling him a one-trick pony. In the aftershock he transformed into to some anonymous hot chick but was obviously so pissed with me I didn’t have a chance at this point.
To be fair Brian and I got off on the wrong foot because the first time I noticed him he was eating an entire wrapped package of Velveeta slices and I yelled “Who said Patton could eat all my cheese!” and everyone caught my blunder immediately.
Oh yeah, Patton Oswalt was also there. But he didn’t turn into any girls.

Dance the Ghost with Me

Fuck yes, canedancing in a factory like nobody's biz.

This vid tastes so good.