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.

Sitting on the cliff

They tease me,
Wretched beasts of the abyss.
Holding out my hand,
They turn their heads in the sight of shit.

So they walk,
Shoes clattering rapidly,
Hurrying, past the stench.
Passing the sign that reads
"Gimme a buck, you'll get it back..."

A gasp rings out.
Dear fellows, old men are no better than young.
Their shoes carry a certain purified disdain, though.
Rotating, twirling, gyrating,
Citizens! Wrinkled and pretty, everywhere,
Moving their asses, in a world of change!

Readers, you want to see me gone,
the ambiguous “They” want to see me gone.
No more crazies,
No more radicals, sitting in puke.
O! I understand. No room here,
Not for the downwardly mobile nobles living in the bathroom.

Readers, Hello! You've read the wrong stuff,
And I admit it.
I'm a pseudo-Junk Merchant!
I’ve relinquished my tie from service and cast off my trousers!
Won't lie in filth with me?
Won't tolerate disrupted apathy?


Friends, I am leaving.
I am going to the cliff,
Going off to the isle of Manisfree.
Slowly, I stride there.
Please, release me from your 9-5 cyclical world.
And now, dears, I am off. Off and half. Today, I
have a calm ceremony to become mist.

No worries.

I’m floating today. And that’s not because of the medicine I crammed down my throat during a mad rush for the bathroom door. Whatever. But wait, I’m floating through something today . Through this encounter mostly. Yes, yes, my body’s particles have seemingly merged with and then separated from the ideas you expose me to, this morning. The blue rug, brown cat, broken Jameson bottle on my floor all see me floating, and yes they’re all wondering how they’ll get me down. The spectacular “No worries.” Oh baby, yes baby, those were the wonderful words you said to me, and then I was floating, ignoring your new words, honoring the old. And the spider web connecting the two walls clasped me tight, attention-wise babe. Yeah babe, I’m floating today with my eyes on the spiderweb, above the cat moaning at me, the flying specter, but yea, it won’t be moaning in a second. In a second, I’ll fall, just like you want me to. And then I’ll be sitting, with a blue rug, an unseen spiderweb, a broken Jameson bottle, and a fucking dead cat.

“No worries.”

Maybe if I'd made it, ya know this morning when I headed for the shitter, maybe I would have died before this melodic embrace. Me on the ground, you cradling my head. But no, the pills sank to my belly's bottom and you called me, made me laugh, and we spoke for 20 minutes. But that's when the dog was still with us. He ran out while I spoke. I thought I'd beat him to the exit. But then a horn beeped outside. Real loudness, reeling me into sanity. Then I was in, and he was out. Poor fucking dog.

You're still here, and I'm still on this fucking cat. But right now, I inwardly snicker, because you don't know the plan. GAHHHH. Hm. The plan is to sneak back to the bathroom. You won't follow me in. I know it. When I get in there though. When I get in there though. When I get in there though. Mind looping. It does that sometimes, give it some air, just two fucking seconds, please. When I get in there, we'll continue where we left off, with me hanging from the cliff, singing the song that never ends, cramming pills into my mouth in between moves in a Me V ME!game of tic-tac-toe.

What do you say as I inwardly snicker? "No worries." Go fuck yourself.

Rashhhhhhhherrrrrrrrr mama

Insults form in the back of my throat and gather like mucus. I scrape as I clench my esophagus tight and growl. My head gets hot and it's not because I am wearing a hat.

"FUCK YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

I am on top of my desk next to a computer pointing my finger at an asian male.

"YOU MOTHER FUCKERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! AJH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!JKAW;DBFVAJKWBVAJKL;FBVJKEFBV"

Fall Break----Takin' it back

Windy black, ferocity impales. The fat, menacing head challenges with a big brain inside.


3 hour naps, thank god, neck SOAR but alas. The small talk withers to a zero, thank god, thank god. The 5 hour ride, he talks of the 5 hour ride and the 2 stops, no, maybe a 4 hour, 45 minute ride. Here I am, here I am. Library clutches my energy drink and I slam keys. Productivity pocket disguise sequence. Analogous to a Manhattan project laboratory surprise. The books stack up like hours, cram, cram, cram here it is. Miles Davis toots in the ear. He screeches I wince for beauty what else can I do? I sway like that rickety stool, ivory hands on these ebony keys. Funny how things change.

The isle of Manisfree

The trees are alive. The men up there are swinging, and diving, colliding and ‘whooping.’ Yes, the sounds they make are ‘whoop.’ Their essence is their sound, and the trees rock and crack, making more sounds. The trees are alive. God, where is that congo drum beat coming from? Where is that slow deep thing pounding away at my cochlea? God, where is it? I am in the trees.

I am in the trees swaying and swinging with the beasts, like so many others who come to Macondo to “do.” An easy down payment of $900.00 gets you this cool tanned boar-like experience. The experience attacks the soul like an animal. The California man, I am, comes to the jungle, plays with the monkeys, flings the dung, and owns the forest with my throat. The California veins I own pump adrenaline and dopamine through my brain during hours of this ecstatic exclaim. My civilized soul is brutally murdered, and I feel.

The culture made me an infirm, but in the trees I convalesce. I follow the tribal warriors, and they hit me, and teach me, and I believe they love me. And although we don’t share the same language, we share money. I share money, and we swing. All day, all night. Vines slap our faces as the ground rushes by and the air takes us safely through the growth.

And I go home to Wifey, my dear, and she cannot understand why I throw the plates, and she cannot understand why I pop my kids’ birthday balloon. But she must understand my howl, my Whitman YAWP, the transcendent oral lunge. She must understand and I must feel.

And the papers are served and my lunch is not. And the lawyers sneer and the children pout. But I rejoice because I return. Yates, I’ll leave you now as I return to the isle of Manisfree. I'll leave you not as I board my white watercraft, not as I order another glass on the boat, not while the people smile and dance, but as the ship crashes onto shore and I revoke my citizenship, accepting my kingship.

And then I’m there, and the tribal leader just barks and stares. Then one blow follows another across my face and he is primal. The skin on his arm stretches and shines, while he reaches back to strike again my visage. The sight is beautiful just as the trees, but bloody, broken, I am unwelcome here, dying on my knees. But I’ll stay hunched until my final breath, because the city slays men more cruelly than these god-like monkey men.

Pay Your Rent

A fresh sheet of white paper graced my front door this afternoon.
"PAY YOUR RENT, FARRELL!"
I sighed and pulled my hat off my head. Sighing again, I twisted the knob of gold and the door opened.
"Hey dude."
"Yo."
"You see the sign out front? You gonna pay rent?"
"Yea, I see the sign." In my fist was a wad of money; crisp, crisp bills. Fresh from the ATM.
"Here's your fuckin' money."
I threw the papers in the air and they swayed and spun. Radiated that freshly minted tang of dollar that follows from the press.
They hadn't all come to rest yet at the bottom of the stairs before I was at the top. I gazed down the staircase from my right eye and saw my roommate on his knees picking up the dollars.
"And I won't do it again! This is the last time you get any money from me you bastard!"
He looked confused. He squinted in disbelief up at me.
I slammed MY door shut. And blew the roof off MY house.