SONG OF THE DAY: b4R3F00T1n'

I wanted to look fresh when I’m walking around through the yard and river and great American industrial wasteland barefoot, so I got Adidas stripes tattooed on the outside of both my feet, except I couldn’t afford an actual tattoo artist because the gentrification of tattooing the past couple decades means those fuckers charge exorbitant Mercedes Benz prices when I’m very much a Ford Taurus at heart (and wallet, but even when not at wallet, still at heart, which means I ignore my wallet because I know the wallet is generally lying anyways). So I did it myself, which is fine, but much like most DIY projects, it’s kinda raggedy, because we’re all pretty shitty at doing things ourselves that we’ve never done before but watched a couple youtubes so figured, “fuck it, I can rebuild the transmission on my daughter’s car”. Plus doing my right foot was harder than my left foot, because I’m right-handed, and I kept switching between using my left and right hand for my right foot, with it bent behind me sideways, which brings up a second issue in that I did the shit with my foot at a weird angle, so it looks halfway normal Adidas striping to my eyeballs’ vantage point, but my girlfriend looked at them and said, “What the fuck did you do?” Nonetheless, I remain undeterred, and am working on Adidas stripes down my left leg – got three to about my mid-thigh, and the center stripe all the way down to beside my knee so far. It takes a lot of time because I’m using sewing machine needles, manually, old school stick and poke style, which I never called “stick and poke” in my life until the internet made that the way you say it; it was always “homemade” or “jailhouse” tattoos. But just like what I used to call a “short and long” got homogenized by popular culture into a “mullet” haircut, “stick and poke” has become the phrase you use for doing fucked up homemade tattoos now, even though I literally never heard it called that the first largest chunk of my life, as I acquired a plethora of horrible stick and pokes. Sometimes people ask me if I’d ever get any of them covered up, but first off like I already told you, legitimate tattoo artists are expensive as fuck; but also, no need to cover up what I had before, I mean I might put a line through it like graffiti on a wall suggesting somebody should die, but I don’t have any of my horrible tattoos that are that horribly offensive to who I am now that I’d want to do that. To be honest, I expect people to have growth as a human being, but if you had some shit that you find horribly offensive to who you are now that you thought was good enough to get tattooed on your body earlier in life, I don’t know if I trust that person, because they’re likely to rewrite themselves again in the future. You can’t rewrite yourself, just accumulate more shit that makes the entirety of who you are now. Nonetheless, I got some fucked up stripes on my feet now and am working on stripes on my legs. Probably won’t do my arms though, because even if I’m creating the illusion of my naked body being Adidas brand nudity, I still wouldn’t be wearing a shirt in the illusion.

SONG OF THE DAY: Sunshine Men

springtime official so 

the sunshine men can 

finally stop wearing shirts

or shoes or jobs or sobriety 

or earthbound thoughts from heart 

and finally start practicing 

outside magic at more 

regular pace as in 

every goddamn

day y'all 

JJ Krupert Dec 2017 number five "patience"

ahh the joys of regressive memories

when the pains & poisons of the present are diluted by time

& all we remember is the mellow memories of how it was (but wasn’t)

a fun thing that all musics do is take a break from the anger & chaos & RIGHT FUCKING NOW of youth

& ironically mellow it down like the previous generation would’ve liked

GNR resting their appetite for destruction

to sound like James Taylor

but not

if this song should come on by accident

& I am on the somewhat smooth pinewood kitchen floor (horribly stained)

(needing refinishing but I’m not finished so how could I possibly refinish?)

& I am wearing a cushy pair of garish orange or lime green dollar general “night raven” socks

then I shall likely scoot my feets to the side a couple of times

as if I were Axl Rose himself (though not)

when life turns to shit, we regress to those sounds of when it was simpler

(can it be it was all so simple then?)

but it was not simpler

it has always been about like it is now tbh

but by all means, survive however you must

& try to enjoy life

M1LK CR4T3 L1F3 PLVS B4R3F00T L1F3...

milk crate life plus barefoot life

plus sixty-nine sciences

equals super destructor

freestyle sonnet #065: GREEN MIST POWER ARTZ

Sweathoggz deluded by softened psychologies
install false belief systems into "solid" place
without consulting slow-shifting geometries
of Real Fucking Earth. Soles directed to snake-race,

neglecting barefoot grounding techniques, which instill
and encourage deeper balance. Meanwhile, green mist
monks carry heavy feral stones against brain's will,
decorating box caves with sigils which resist

obedient order. Concrete chunks and rusted
detritus wasteland tiger pit ritual acts
committed, denying gods the sweathoggz trusted.
Elder pine witchcraft, trying to see birch-eyed facts,

fighting against World of Sub(mission) - remain dom
through green mist power cultivation. [Realm of Tommmm]