Saturday, February 12, 2011

Feb. Guest Posts

Tree (Guest Post by an asshole)

tree this is not cool. just leave it at that thats good. dont change i-stop dont change any ig man yer good sip im gonna lol till you stolp. maybe rofl on the floor til roggin'. damnit kevin. oh well. i suppose this is an alright post. lets pub it and see what it looks like.

Selvin(Buest post by Rathore)


Dude nice email.

Below you can find my application for a blog for KINGS:



Nae: Remanu Phillips

Still: photo not picture

Namesake: Panther

Desires: Dragon, natural strength (aka inner strength), control, and support

Has: Skill, knowledge.

Poem:

Selvin was his name.
He wore a large letter N on his chest.
Some say it stands for nut
Some say selvin was his name.

Croatia was his callling
He was Croatian by nature
And croatian by birth
He fashioned, and fashionably made fashionable the necktie.

Selvin was his name,
Croatia was his calling
We recognize his name
Yet not his calling.

And if you look close.
All you have to do
Is look inside me,
and see you.

For the Croatian boy
What was his name? OH, Selvin.
lives in all times
sees all ties.

3 AM departure (Internal Reels and Dream Sequences)


Qualifications: yeah I possess ‘em

Intentions: yeah I got some

Disclosures: not seeking kingship, but simply guest privileges

3 AM departure (Internal Reels and Dream Sequences)

yes. you proud of me. Yeah’m proud uh ya.

What yur white and yur male? uhhh

Yeah’m proud uh ya. What? Yeah’m nah.

Ya are or yur not? Maybe….not. I’m…I. no.

Hands playing in yur blood.

Improbable supreme sequences. I’ll give ya that.

Trade off: loose lips

Spew, spew, prattle .

Screaming for agony in their bodies.

I’ll just follow the stank of the under realms unwashed.

Smells like fish ta me.

I’m always one step behind

Melding their bodies to the screen.

I’ll just follow the trail of shrunken eyeballs and limbs.

I’m always one step behind.

Bodies. Baw? Deez?? Bodies piled high.

I just follow with my gaze to the top of the pile.

Guess I’m still one step behind.

Yeah I believe in stuff. I’m drinking up your fluids, your liquids. Yeah there’s a taste. I’ll believe in that.

A face. And two eyes for excoriating. A face. And two eyes for wagering. A face. And two eyes for contending. A face. And two eyes for amusing. A face. And two legs for evading. Two eyes devouring.

Painting a picture 400 feet tall.

Aha! AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHA. Screeeeeeeeeaaaaaaams, but mostly eheh heh heh. And a little bit of hmmmm. A lot a bit of hmmmmmmmm. And I’ll stand by any one of ya! And maybe you won’t notice me. And probably you will

notice me. Yes.


And what! (Guest Post by Rathore)

"And what!"

That's what those little kids say to each other as they each try to score on the looming, tall, daunting thing. It's a thick black sinuous pole and when you're seven, the tendency is to be daunted by it. Doing my daily whisk around the world, I tripped and fell on something invisible. I tumbled speedily to the ground ("fuck!"). Fuck. I landed feet first as we always do, my feet instantly burning on the unfamiliar blacktop. The kids were there, each trying to score. "And what!" "AND WHAT!" I frowned. The scene brought me way back to my childhood. A dark door, an absent father, and murky cliffs. Everywhere I turned, a cliff but a bridge. I couldn't tell what the fuck it was. In those days I did it all for the girls, I got them napkins, I made them love, we made cookies, we made sandwiches. No euphemism. I made them cry. Those kids had no idea what they were doing. No one does. I stared at my cat all day, not relenting until he looked away. I stared at women, looking deep and scraping hard behind their hearts, revealing all the murky areas. Behind which their were cliffs. Those cliffs had bridges, but ones so tiny I couldn't see them without aid. Those kids these girls...those kids...The kids loved the cliffs, the ones they could see. They could see them in their teachers vividly, in their parents and their friends so easily. They knew what made them tick. And as they saw those cliffs, similarly I saw mine in peers. And as I saw murky girls, they saw murky strangers. The unknown to them both a cliff and a bridge, both exciting and super scary. I reflected and I reflect. I sat down there and I sit down there. I thought and I think, was I ever up in the sky, zooming at twice the speed of the mind? Am I or was I always here with these fucking kids, screaming, convulsing, fermenting in this insane asylum that is the world..those kids.

Basic Printer (Guest Post)


The concept of abstraction...ignoring the interworking parts of an item and simply taking its function for granted. Is this really how the engineers work?

Of course it makes sense from a manufacturing, circuiting standpoint, but are we really that insensitive to our own work? Do electrical engineers see everything this way?

That's a bit sad to me. Everyone looks on the surface. Now it's okay to ignore the warm, gooey parts of things, things with a good deal of worth and work to them. Machines are so cold, they have no problem with slapping you in the fucking face every time you're wrong, incessantly.

And yet computers and machines are absolutely wonderful: have you ever heard a jazz trio cut and fucked up into musique concrete? The absolute soothing brutality of it? The tail ends of upright basses tripping over light ride cymbals? A concrete COLLAGE?

And what about the warm buzz of a synth: knowing every knob you turn will shape a sine wave at your fucking bidding, turning it into a pink laser stream of full sound, gliding the notes together.

Such is what I face daily. Emotionless machines speaking to me, gaining a personality. I am the responsible for the fusion of sincerity and bullshit. Logic and emotion. I look into machines and into people, swimming in their warm goo, connecting inverters and XOR gates.

Basic Printer.



http://basicprinter.bandcamp.com/album/poor-ian


Torn and Delivered: An Encomium for the Anarchist (Guest Post by Chris Criswell)

You cannot part the seas of our doubt,
my lord, though the stick waves and the arms
flout, bared and unburdened in the Boston cold.
Before the cops rift their useless, manacle
hands into you, pulling at you like a statue
of Stalin--you, maniacal and throwing miraculous
words before you like simple seeds of love--you
are enslaved by the slaves you name around you,
your nose chipping off and your arm still iconic and high.
What capitalist Covenant must a Messiah bow to?
What nails must he suffer before he packs his bags,
accepting his Fate in the stones tossed at the
thrones of their Newbury Street windows, in the tearing
of all collars by the procession to the cop car, whether blue
or bright or dirtied with big city smog?
Evangelical of the Everlasting Proletariat, what has gotten
into you, raising your walking stick above us all?
Cast away your dollars like the demons inside you,
so we scramble at your feet and call you mad,
offering us so little ever after. The youth everlasting
in ideals, I'm sure, is fading in the desert walls and
group therapy in hidden robes around you. Identification tags
pull down the neck and make you long. But the blood of your
slaughtered wallets and bank account, I'm also sure, will
forever remain on your hands, waving still for all of us
to hear your Good News, marking you out as the one
who dared to challenge the Pharaohs at every corner--
you, Little Prince Prophet of the world we're too absurd to believe in.

6 comments:

  1. no title, but good post. thumb up.

    ReplyDelete
  2. Kevin infiltrated. Alarm still going off. Don't know how to shut it off. I will be deaf soon. Just let it be known that I heard the sweetest things here on earth, the sweetest.

    ReplyDelete
  3. What am I saying? What have I become? A heartless critic.

    ReplyDelete
  4. These posts are so Scarsdalean. I'm lovin it. Compare the older, original posts and the guest posts and the two have the same types of untainted creative properties. It's kinda interes'in.

    ReplyDelete