the devil teases us with
dreams lit with an unreal shine...
my twinkle is stained by smoke
dreams lit with an unreal shine...
my twinkle is stained by smoke
Showing posts with label devil temptations. Show all posts
Showing posts with label devil temptations. Show all posts
Friday, August 28
Friday, February 20
SONG OF THE DAY: The Devil Gives Me Everything (kudzu'd)
I’ve had a couple of conversations recently with folks about selling your soul. I guess it seems a feasible bargain to young folks whose minds haven’t developed fully enough. Probably felt that way to me too back in the day. Usually the type who is fine with compromising their soul for material wealth or superficial fame already has a compromised soul. I’ve never been able to do it. I was blessed as a young adult by being too rough around the edges to ever have great marketable value in the soul selling business. And as I’ve gotten older and learned to hone those edges into a more at peace mosaic that doesn’t cut into everybody I pass like it used to, I know there ain’t no real value in compromising myself. The Universe loves me how I am, and in fact wants me to be more like true me than I even am now. Why would I turn from that blessing and trade it in for momentary material comfort of minor fringe fame? Anyways, it’s Friday, and where I’m at, it’s abnormally warm. The demons love to come a-tempting a full on warm feelgood Fridays. We’ve been weakened by our seasonal long dark night of the soul. Stay strong, feel the sun, and maintain your soul.
Wednesday, June 11
SONG OF THE DAY: Runnin' The Underground (screwed & chopped)
I have been inactive on this site, but not in real life. Despite my inactivity, site stats continue to be through the roof. The internet is just a vast wasteland of bots scanning bots and creating statistics for other bots. Somewhere in there, one or two of us might actually connect, all the while they’re scooping data from our interactions to beam neurologically triggering ads straight to us wherever possible. It’s fucked.
All these systems are working very well, because they’re designed to break us. What’s happening with The Secret Police conducting masked kidnappings of working people from their jobs is no different. It’s those poisoned by the algorithm moving into action. At this point, the digital propaganda is like Lyme disease… it’s jumped the fence and moving unchecked. It’s hard to know if the tyrants in charge are controlling it or just suffering from it (or both). Either way, consent is being manufactured and the fog machines are rolling on high, and Chief Bromden was always right.
I suggest to you to create. But fuck shit up with what you create. Fuck monetizing your creations. Break shit with your creations. Stab devils in the eyeballs with your creations. It feels good actually. The moral high-grounders are beating the “non-violence is the only way” drum right now, but those people are boring. They have shitty taste in music, and put raisins in potato salad. Fuck them. They are the cousins to the devils (on the devils’ father’s side, too).
I hope you are alive. And if you are alive, even more than that, I hope you feel alive. And if you don’t, go fuck something up that is making you feel less than alive, and see if that relieves some of the pressure. Burn bridges where you can see the other side is full of shit. Be difficult to those who demand their lives be easy at everybody else’s expense. And keep it underground. Don’t get lost in aspirations or ambitions or a desire to monetize your creations. There’s a lot of tricks in this goddamn carnival, so don’t get conned too easily. Be fuckin’ difficult.
All these systems are working very well, because they’re designed to break us. What’s happening with The Secret Police conducting masked kidnappings of working people from their jobs is no different. It’s those poisoned by the algorithm moving into action. At this point, the digital propaganda is like Lyme disease… it’s jumped the fence and moving unchecked. It’s hard to know if the tyrants in charge are controlling it or just suffering from it (or both). Either way, consent is being manufactured and the fog machines are rolling on high, and Chief Bromden was always right.
I suggest to you to create. But fuck shit up with what you create. Fuck monetizing your creations. Break shit with your creations. Stab devils in the eyeballs with your creations. It feels good actually. The moral high-grounders are beating the “non-violence is the only way” drum right now, but those people are boring. They have shitty taste in music, and put raisins in potato salad. Fuck them. They are the cousins to the devils (on the devils’ father’s side, too).
I hope you are alive. And if you are alive, even more than that, I hope you feel alive. And if you don’t, go fuck something up that is making you feel less than alive, and see if that relieves some of the pressure. Burn bridges where you can see the other side is full of shit. Be difficult to those who demand their lives be easy at everybody else’s expense. And keep it underground. Don’t get lost in aspirations or ambitions or a desire to monetize your creations. There’s a lot of tricks in this goddamn carnival, so don’t get conned too easily. Be fuckin’ difficult.
Friday, May 12
SONG OF THE DAY: God Only Knows
This was already a weird song, as much as any of The Beach Boys work is. But then slap it as a cover on a soul singer’s last studio album in 1975, and it takes on even weirder vibes, although musically it actually sounds fairly normal, I guess. I mean it wouldn’t seem quite as weird if I didn’t know it was a weird ass Brian Wilson song. Everett’s youth was spent in Mississippi, singing in gospel music and playing piano before moving to Chicago to chase a music career as secular soul artist in 1957. She had some hits, but by 1975 her career was on the down swing. This track recorded by a childhood gospel church singer is pretty interesting to me, as this was the last studio album she dropped, and spent her elder years back in the churches near her home in Illinois. The trajectory of young creative dreamer, from the church to the exploitative music industry, and then ultimately back to the church, with this weird ass song as a slice of that life that touches on all of it.
Friday, January 27
SONG OF THE DAY: The Devil Gives Me Everything
Sometimes a lifelong artist who constantly indulges in their creative outlets catches the universal magnetics and accidentally composes a piece of creation that attains near perfection for a human being. This is such a song. Willie West is a living legend of funk, and has enjoyed a resurrected career in recent years. But this track just captures it all – reality, the fucked nature of human existence, feeling good despite being brought down all the damn time. This is a motherfuckin’ jam (and perfect to blend with William DeVaughn’s “Be Thankful For What You’ve Got”).
Thursday, September 8
SONG OF THE DAY: Little Hero
My first tattoo was homemade, with my dad in the living room of the trailer we lived in, just me and him, after my parents split, when I was like 15 or 16. We just called it homemade, as stick and poke (as well as mullet) weren't things said until the internet homogenized slang globally. I did a peace sign on my arm, with LOVE written above, an ahnk on my left hand forefinger, and a NO $ on my upper shoulder which never took (because I'm destined for vast riches). I've done a few other homemade tattoos over the years, and still do to be honest, just as a general rejection of tattoo snobbery, but also because sometimes you just want an extra star on your leg at 9 in the evening or you need DIRTGOD on your thigh. I have nice shop tattoos now too, plus some really dumb ones (because it's my brain thinking these things), but I have never been ashamed or wanted to cover up my fucked up, fading homemade tattoos.
A weird thing happens though, and I had it happen recently when in a room full of well-meaning self-identified progressive white men talking about some art shit, where when I find myself in certain environments, all the homemade tattoos start to throb. I used to think it was a pain years ago when I first noticed it, and it came from anxiety about well-to-do people realizing I'm a natural born piece of shit. But over the years, as I've come to trust the guiding hands of ancestors looking out for me, I realized the throb is not pain or anxiety but warning, "These are not your people" or "You are in a dangerous environment, protect yourself." And they're not dangerous physically, but culturally/systemically, dealing with people who have always had some sort of power within our society who don't even need to use physicality because they've transcended use of their body for survival. They live off the abstractions, embezzling the labor of others, either directly or through inherited or familial wealth, and thus their danger is also in the abstract realm.
In our society though, the goal is for "economic liberation" or to gain that abstract comfort so that you don't have to destroy your fuckin' body the rest of your life. Like that's the individual goal (and our society is built to mainly think about individualistic goals, not communal or collective ones, even amongst the progressive types). Any sad sack out here suffering through whatever hustle/grind/pray combination they're dealing with in our capitalistic society says they're doing it for their kids or family or future or something like that. You are sacrificing, working hard to get that bag, money before hoes... there's no shortage of euphemisms for this individualistic moral compromise.
That's why I'm thankful for my shitty homemade tattoos which ache when I find myself in the presence of too many abstract devils at once. That No $ that you can't see starts vibrating with warning, like a rattlesnake tail only I can feel saying, "Beware these snakes!" And I realize, I would much rather lounge than grind, and definitely prefer hoes way more than money. Ultimately the goal of not using your body to survive capitalism is so you can lounge around and fill your brain with serotonin. Why deny it now to chase an abstract carrot version of it you'll most likely never catch?
A weird thing happens though, and I had it happen recently when in a room full of well-meaning self-identified progressive white men talking about some art shit, where when I find myself in certain environments, all the homemade tattoos start to throb. I used to think it was a pain years ago when I first noticed it, and it came from anxiety about well-to-do people realizing I'm a natural born piece of shit. But over the years, as I've come to trust the guiding hands of ancestors looking out for me, I realized the throb is not pain or anxiety but warning, "These are not your people" or "You are in a dangerous environment, protect yourself." And they're not dangerous physically, but culturally/systemically, dealing with people who have always had some sort of power within our society who don't even need to use physicality because they've transcended use of their body for survival. They live off the abstractions, embezzling the labor of others, either directly or through inherited or familial wealth, and thus their danger is also in the abstract realm.
In our society though, the goal is for "economic liberation" or to gain that abstract comfort so that you don't have to destroy your fuckin' body the rest of your life. Like that's the individual goal (and our society is built to mainly think about individualistic goals, not communal or collective ones, even amongst the progressive types). Any sad sack out here suffering through whatever hustle/grind/pray combination they're dealing with in our capitalistic society says they're doing it for their kids or family or future or something like that. You are sacrificing, working hard to get that bag, money before hoes... there's no shortage of euphemisms for this individualistic moral compromise.
That's why I'm thankful for my shitty homemade tattoos which ache when I find myself in the presence of too many abstract devils at once. That No $ that you can't see starts vibrating with warning, like a rattlesnake tail only I can feel saying, "Beware these snakes!" And I realize, I would much rather lounge than grind, and definitely prefer hoes way more than money. Ultimately the goal of not using your body to survive capitalism is so you can lounge around and fill your brain with serotonin. Why deny it now to chase an abstract carrot version of it you'll most likely never catch?
Monday, March 14
SONG OF THE DAY: There's A Devil On The Loose
A myriad of devils enabled through digital mitosis, part of the terms of service we all agreed to as department of defenses began offensive upon organic consciousness, to create collective thought devoid of heart, entirely tethered to trending timelines, manufacturing lemming effect down rabbit holes, as we all dance towards oblivion, refreshing our feed in the cyber feedlots of the alleged end times, except it ain’t, since manmade mechanisms always break down, eventually, inevitably, and we’ll yet again feel the glorious sun, stars, and moon on our naked foreheads, unclogged by electronic clutter from device.
Monday, March 7
SONG OF THE DAY: Never Too Much
Tired of narcissists masquerading as body positive, when they look conventionally attractive. Tired of scolding progressives who don't speak the language of having to make broken shit work, because there's no money to fix anything. Tired of people who think they've been cancel cultured because they said stupid shit in a crowded room and somebody got on their ass about it. Tired of the "I'm white but I've experienced oppression" mental gymnastics olympic trials constantly happening. Tired of people in love with their own image, in an unhealthy way where they demand you fuel their egotistic serotonin by clicking little buttons and sharing as well. Tired of people calling themselves connoisseurs when they are consumers, who support their favorite media oligarch owning all the content they want to consume in one convenient to them place. Tired of what internet culture has become. Tired of thinking about dumb shit like Elon Musk or Kanye West or some other oligarch narcissist who is ultimately entirely useless to everybody within 100 miles of where I stand. Tired of the mass gentrification of thought that has come with web 2.0. Tired of so much shit.
What I ain't tired of? Driving back roads, from here to the horizon. Roadside kooks selling weird shit. Sitting outside without device. Open windows with curtains blowing so hard it knocks the plant off the dresser there. Dogs barking in the distance. The smell of a burn barrel going hard. Real life shit, as unmanufactured as possible, and with a good percentage of decay. It ain't real life shit if there's no decay.
Sunday, March 6
C0NSVM1NG 1D3NT1T13S...
consuming identities
to replace the emptiness
where real culture would fulfill
to replace the emptiness
where real culture would fulfill
Tuesday, June 1
SONG OF THE DAY: I Am Born To Preach The Gospel
Sometimes I don't feel like writing an internet blurb for whatever's next on the song of the day list. And then other times - like yesterday - I have full heart experiences so deep that it'd be a disservice to how the universe strung all them thoughts into my brain to just throw it into the internet. I usually chop those up and put them in zines instead, which of course reaches far less people, but a much more concentrated level. Never forget, this internet shit is some devilry conjured up by Dr. Yakub.
Wednesday, October 2
SONG OF THE DAY: Tamasheq
the reason noise music has become prominent
is because it's the only way to hear
above the constant buzzing din
of dullard engineering
doldrums of existence
even if what you are as a people
has been disconnected from the past
and plugged into false histories
one-inch deep and easily washed away
by flood or fire
you are still something else entirely
than this you have consumed
something else that has metaphysical genetics
that go back to ancient wanderers
this buzzing din of dullard engineering
doldrums of existence is not
your innate sound
so make some fuckin' noise
scare away the devils
Thursday, June 6
1D3NT1T13S PVRCH4S3D FR0M...
identities purchased from
giant brick boxes, both retail
and religious, yet hollow
Friday, May 3
SONG OF THE DAY: Devil Got Me
devil got me
devil don’t got me
devil got me
devil don’t got me
devil got me
devil don’t got me
devil got me
devil don’t got me
devil got me
devil don’t got me
devil got me
devil don’t got me
devil got me
devil don’t got me
devil got me
devil don’t got me
devil got me
devil don’t got me
devil got me
devil don’t got me
devil got me
devil don’t got me
devil got me
devil don’t got me
devil got me
devil don’t got me
devil got me
devil don’t got me
devil got me
devil don’t got me
devil got me
devil don’t got me
devil got me
devil don’t got me
devil got me
devil don’t got me
devil got me
devil don’t got me
devil got me
devil don’t got me
devil got me
devil don’t got me
devil got me
devil don’t got me
devil got me
devil don’t got me
devil got me
devil don’t got me
devil got me
devil don’t got me
devil got me
devil don’t got me
devil got me
devil don’t got me
devil got me
devil don’t got me
devil got me
devil don’t got me
devil got me
devil don’t got me
devil got me
devil don’t got me
devil got me
devil don’t got me
devil got me
devil don’t got me
devil got me
devil don’t got me
devil got me
Sunday, September 2
Monday, July 9
MOTYOTD: Backlund vs. Adonis (January 18, 1982)
So let’s be honest here – wrestling is gay. And I
honestly don’t mean that as a pejorative against it in a toxic masculine way,
but the homoeroticism hidden (or not even hidden) just under the surface of
professional wrestling has always been there, all the way back to the days of
black-and-white Gorgeous George spraying perfume and prancing about the ring in
the classic days. But also before it admitted it was show, in the mid ‘80s,
that homoeroticism played out in weird ways, where the forced morality of good
and bad enforced toxic masculinity in order to repress the very homosexuality
the theatrical exhibition was likely spiking increases of. Lolol, pro wrestling
is mad problematic, but so is life, so fuck it – embrace the problematic nature
of existence and try to find good ground to exist upon that doesn’t fuck up
anybody else’s potential good ground.
I never cared for Bob Backlund. He’s a middle
management looking body builder fucker from up north, perfect khaki pants and
white polo shirt demographic that would’ve been my supervisor but now is being
phased out because the overlords have figured out they actually don’t need
middle management any more, so the khaki pants and white polo shirts are
becoming radicalized as internet foot soldiers in nationalism/racialism/sexism/allsortsofism.
Thus they are now are postmodern bad guys, obviously. But back in 1982, they
still had solid middle management jobs, were working towards retirement, drove
a Camaro or Mustang, or fuck man Corvette if they really came up and was doing
it right (and white). And they were WWF champion, which was still an F not an E
because it was sport not entertainment, and panda bears hadn’t armbarred the
trademark away yet.
Backlund was a late “real” era champion, in that
he was a good guy to the crowd (who it must be remembered is always trained,
throughout the decades in pro wrestling – whatever the crowd likes, they have a
certain amount of say in it, kind of, but mostly they are being trained, and
neurological triggers are being activated; it is called “psychology” by
marketers but it’s neurology, the science is getting there to back this up)
because he was no-nonsense, simple wrestling jackets normal ass trunks, came
out and wrestled goddammit, no funny business. None of that gimmick bullshit,
but once Hulk Hogan came about due to Vince McMahon cocaine visions of world
conquest, it was like Nirvana video on MTV making hair metal obsolete. Backlund
was done for.
But he was still on top at this point in our
chronological romp through these Wrestling Watcher Matches of the Years
project, and he was very much not about that stupid shit, and also not about
that gay shit. Which brings us to Adrian Adonis, who hadn’t yet become the
overweight “Adorable” cartoon he would later become famous for. At this point,
he was a bad ass biker daddy, which also flirted more than just a little with
gay man stereotypes. Between him and Adrian Street, the name “Adrian” was
always marked as likely sexually experimental in my young brain, which probably
thought “gay” in derogatory way back then, to be honest, because that’s how I
was trained back then. But at the same time, lolol I was really into wrestling,
and I also was always very artistic, and I’m almost certain my dad thought I
was maybe gay at one point in my early adulthood because all I did was write
poetry and do collages and weird shit like that, not work on chainsaws and
shoot things. And also I’m thankful we don’t see homosexuality as this on/off
switch any more and know it’s more of a spectrum, because no lie, I’m not
attracted to men much at all, hardly ever – I mean I see a man, and think he’s
handsome from time to time but never do I want to hug on a dude. But a woman
doing things to me and playing with my ass? Hey man, I’m not complaining. But
by 1982 standards, that means I’m gay.
Well, what I’m getting at here is in a public
spectacle that below the surface appeals to unexpressed sexuality at that
point, Adonis as bad guy in leather daddy get-up is hella triggering. He is
managed by Freddie Blassie, in sequined outfit of all evil managers, poisoned
by their own vanity, and is the number one challenger to simple normal Bob
Backlund. Normal good ole guy next door who works down at the hardware store
and drinks a couple of beers a week not too much just enough to be a normal
good ole guy Bob Backlund. So leather daddy Adonis, a literal Adonis, is not
only challenging for a fake world championship, but he’s challenging sexual
norms. “Bob Backlund, one of the finest conditioned athletes in the world today,”
says a young Vince McMahon, who just wants to get to work, and has already
taken off his simple green jackets, and is loosening up. But Adonis takes his
time taking off his leather in stalling way, and already is bad because he
doesn’t get right to work.
Adonis is not normal, and you can hear catcalls
and whistles from the crowd, mockingly suggesting Adonis is a beautiful woman.
This is repressed homosexuality releasing itself like a tea kettle in toxic
spectacles. It is Backlund’s job to repress this homosexuality, and Adonis’s
job to degenerate the proceedings away from societal norms. Man, I fucking love
wrestling. It is the most beautiful trash culture to anthropologize on Earth.
They have multiple collar-and-elbow lock-ups that
no one man wins, and the ref hilariously tries to get in the middle of them
physically when on the ropes, and it is the force of American law attempting to
separate normal American men from homosexual urges. But this is America, and we
claim there is freedom, so normal American men in the form of Bob Backlund must
be confronted with this degenerate temptation, and they must conquer it,
without resorting to breaking the law, at least in ideal. Sexual deviants don’t
become champions, at least not in 1982.
[The irony of having a trash degenerate President
who openly embraces his heel status, all while pretending to speak for the
Backlund class of middle management normies, in completely pro wrestling
performative way, is not lost on me. I feel like it was a natural parallel that
the Reagan Era of global corporatism happened the same time wrestling
essentially admitted it wasn’t “real” but entertainment, but went on with the
show anyways. The show was more important than the reality, and in the mid ‘80s
that was shocking for wrestling to admit, and in fact many other promoters
hated Vince McMahon for embracing that line of business tact. But 30 years
later, with the petri dish of digital communities allowing all our degenerate
neurologies to go full-bloom, everything is performative. The show is always
more important than the reality, for all of us in most every fact of our lives,
to the point we stage pictures of food, use hashtags to activate algorithms for
random ass thoughts to be carried into other people’s “streams”, and reality
itself has been warped to where what is reality is no longer always very real.]
In terms of wrestling, Adonis is a masterful
staller and exaggerated flop arounder, which works great with vanilla ass “I’m
a real wrestler” Backlund, because an armbar by a bodybuilder is nothing
without the recipient waving his other arm around crazily and kicking his legs
up in giant steps trying to escape only to take a face plant onto the mat.
There is literally a six minute segment of this match that is simply Backlund
applying a wristlock and armbar on Adonis, who bounces around and rolls on the
mat and tries to get out the ring and never escapes anything. Is Backlund
attempting to force Adonis wrist from showing any signs of effeminate limpness?
I don’t know. I doubt the depth of homoerotic repression was that consciously
deep, but one can never tell with pro wrestling, because it is the most
illegitimate art of all – decades of deviants and carnies combining their mad creative
skills into cultural kimchi which you could not figure out how to explain to
aliens if they arrived on this planet and decided to ask you why you were
watching this shit in your living room.
After a brief moment of Adonis trying to get on
the offense, we are back to Backlund tugging on Adonis left arm, doing sit ups,
with the crowd counting, and hoping he rips the gay guy’s shoulder out its
socket. Adonis rolls over and takes command, but almost immediately loses it
back, because Backlund – just a normal guy who the crowd loves – moves out the
way of a corner charge, and then is right back on that same left arm, the odd
arm, the submissive arm of this leather daddy freak sullying up this noble
wrestling sport. Backlund is also bleeding from his nose, it should be noted,
so this is no easy battle. There is collateral damage to normalcy for having to
repress deviancy. Normalcy becomes ever so slightly less normal.
Adonis finally catches Backlund with a hard left
fist, knocking Backlund down, but Adonis immediately, nice and slowly, in
exaggerated motion with ever so slight touch of effeminacy, shakes the hand
like “wow… that really hurt.” It really is amazing heeling going on here by
Adrian Adonis, in ways far too subtle and slow-boiling to work nowadays, with
our shorter attention spans and need for immediate gratification, not to
mention overall sensory desensitization due to overstimulation.
Well goodbye subtlety, because that bastard Adonis
ends up busting open Backlund, and our hero our champion OUR REGULAR FUCKING
DUDE NEXT DOOR is a bloody mess, being manhandled by this man of questionable
intent. Is this part of his deviancy? Is non-procreative sex not enough for
this horrible Adrian Adonis? IS HE GOING TO BEAT OUR GOOD GOD-FEARING JUST DONG
HIS JOB WHITE CHAMPION INTO SEXUAL SUBMISSION?
No. No he is not. Backlund finally flips out,
tosses aside his legal behavior, and begins pummeling Adonis viciously with
closed fists. The ref is trying to break them up and get the ref to take a look
at Backlund’s cut, because 1982 wrestling was still real, and there was a
ringside doctor who might call the match. In fact, he does, and the bell is
ringing. But Backland is still attempting to repress Adrian Adonis, still
refusing to have been bludgeoned by this deviant. Doesn’t matter, the law has
been tested, and though Backlund remains champion, his normalcy is blemished,
his image has literally been bloodied.
This is liberal progress – Adonis has won the
match, and tarnished Backlund’s golden image, but Backlund remains champion.
Lolol, wrestling is so fucking twisted. As our we. Neither of these things will
ever change, no matter how woke we become. To be human is to be a true and
living problematic fave.
Thursday, February 8
TH3 PR0M1S3S 0F RVR4L...
the promises of rural
paradise slowly choked out
by sprawling devil spreadsheets
Monday, February 5
K33P MY CR30S0T3 SH4D0WS...
keep my creosote shadows
as clean of that devils' math
as a simple man still can
Thursday, November 16
TH3 B3ST 4DV1C3 D3V1L 0N...
the best advice devil on
shoulder ever gave me is
still "burn all bridges you can"
Sunday, July 23
Tuesday, June 20
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