JVST 4N0TH3R 1D10T...

just another idiot 
human being, slip sliding 
through a short life, drunk off self 

 

resurrection of color,

dirtgod theory gives birth to
fresh blossoms for new era

metal flakes through rust back to

dirty ass earth - life spirals

in perfect feral fractals

TOP TEN HIEROGLYPHS SCRIBBLED IN THE WARPAINT

#1: writing about raw/shit like trees stones babbling crows/sacred pubic mounds
#2: most “writers” market/more than write fuck that fuck that/markets are for thieves
#3: never successful/in terms of dollar-metrics/except fuck numbers
#4: mystical dirt-gods/don’t answer to formulas/nor tax forms nor lords
#5: original man/is dirt-god - primordial/motherfuckin’ muck
#6: scatter chaos words/like wildseed, dirt-god thoughts born/from fertile crescents
#7: yoni & lingam/linguistics naked cunning/ - babylon’s obscene
#8: outsiders building/word art self fuck-yeah beyond/utopia’s gates
#9: elites always say/”revolutionary new…”/about same ol’ shit
#10: never compromise/never become co-opted/never surrender

TOP TEN DIRT-GOD BODY ROCKS

#1: dirt-god earth bod burnt/by poke-prod philosophies/meritocracies
#2: dirt-god grimeface hides/behind bocephus beard built/one year at a time
#3: dirt-god chicken scratch/so-ing needles india/ink tattoo scribbles
#4: dirt-god right fist got/sharpie swords many colors/chopping surfaces
#5: dirt-god left fist holds/white trash quartz energy bless/wizard mineral
#6: dirt-god gut got fool/off pickle jar dumpster kraut/plus “for quick sale” shrooms
#7: dirt-god heart pumps thick/caveman molecule-laced blood/thru nomadic veins
#8: dirt-god mind fogged out/but stays sharp stays hacking at/external hacking
#9: dirt-god scripture carved/into white birch bark back where/fine folks is afraid
#10: dirt-god baptism/bremo bluff csx yard/milepost 69

J.J. Krupert June '12 #6: "Born Too Late" by Saint Vitus

still stained by dirt amidst all the plastic I've bought

!∞--☈℧⌡℧∏∑Ж☋--∞¡

d r t z y

circular blurs kicking up
dust storms with barely controlled
slides ev'ry twenty seconds

s t y z z

the grass is always greener
when you make a habit of
stomping your world into mud

t r l r b

them's cutting pulpwood along
logging trail arteries all
over my rundown southside

m u d a z

you wander far enough off
the grid, man becomes wildlife
as much as anything else

t r k a n

dark soul of manufactured
day-to-day ride, scarred and scuffed
from sliding behind my hands

J.J. Krupert Top 13 Countdown – January ’11 #2: “Hell On Earth (chopped & screwed)” by Mobb Deep

Seems like the world was a ghetto, but then they gentrified the whole thing. Wal-Marts in small towns, and cleaned up Times Square. Everything is neon signs and cleaned up at least twice a day. But it don't feel like that. It's like they keep sweeping it all up, but you know there should be some grime somewhere, so it feels like something's missing. But they sweep it up everyday, sterilize once a month, re-facade once a year. We get certain shit from the Trader Joe's all the way in Short Pump, Va, USA, Earthrock, and when we go into that cluster of predesigned buildings, my heart starts to clench in on itself. They've got a big area of apartment buildings with a Buster & Dave's underneath it on one corner, like a fake urban block but smack in the middle of a planned commercial zone, conveniently located off the interstate, with free wi-fi in all directions, and I get all furrowed brow thinking about people actually living in those buildings and going to that bar and that's their life. Do they live as couples here, and have children and raise them? Or do they move into subdivisions at that point? Does this fulfill them? Do they actually take their own trash anywhere? It's all very confusing to me as an actual human being because it feels a lot like when I ride behind a tractor and trailer full of white chickens for the slaughterhouse, sitting there in their cages, no struggle, just riding along feeling the breeze. And I know that's a somewhat corny comparison, but it feels like that to me, literally. If I am in that environment for more than like 45 minutes, I get all white knuckled and nervous and feel like there's probably a floating eyeball somewhere about to figure out I don't belong. One of the main reasons I have never seen any sort of psychologist or psychiatrist is because I know little things like that that make perfect sense to me would get me on brain drugs right away. So that I could live in a place like that and not freak out. Immunize me against my own humanity I guess.
Anyways, music follows this predesigned gentrification. Rap music has become highly gentrified, and the perfect example of this is Kanye West. I know he is the critic's darling and everyone is supposed to recognize how cutting edge and avant garde he truly has been for hip hop. But it's just gentrification. Same thing with everything else that has been popular - Drake, Rick Ross, shit man, you name it and pretend it's hip hop and I will just shake my head inside my heart. Life isn't like that though. You can't just live drinking champagne bought on a credit card, which is what that music basically is. It's background muzak, but with an alleged hip hop vibe, and it eases you into those predesigned communities. You are being immunized against your own humanity.
Life is dirty, no matter how much you sweep it up. Scars, scuffed shoes, leaky roofs, gunshots in the distance at a time that means you wait to see if any sirens come because it didn't feel right. Life doesn't feel right a lot of times, and that's how you make it right. If everything feels right all the time, then you're no longer actually feeling anything. It just doesn't add up.
This is why I can't stand that shit they call hip hop now. Can't stand Kanye West. I have given him many many chances because everybody around me keeps pointing out what a fine robe this new emperor of hip hop music is wearing, but I still can't see it. Life is not like that music, although I suspect for many people - many of you even - who have been immunized against your own self, life is like that. It makes me sad, but whatever. We all have our own paths, and sure many of them might be predetermined or engineered by others who play us like pawns, but whatever. I'm just a dude. I can't change the world.
But do me a favor, will you? Life is not like that. Life is dirty and grimy and feels nasty sometimes. Hell, sometimes the dirt and grime and nastiness is actually rather cleansing. So hopefully wherever you are, it is cold and rainy. Take this song here, this screwed and chopped version of a Mobb Deep song, and put on a heavy coat, and get yourself high on whatever you like to get high on, and go outside in the cold with the rain falling, and stand underneath of an overhang somewhere, out of the wet if you can, but hearing the rain clack clack clack on tin, drip drip drip against something piled up somewhere, cars rumbling nearby or just every so often if you're in the wilds, and just stand out in the cold and rain and grime of the real world, and pump this fucking song through your highed up brain a few times. You see what I'm saying? The world ain't like Kanye West. That's Gap commercials and Visa cards. But let it go. Breath in the dirt and grime for five minutes, and feel good to your goddamned soul.
STEAL “Hell On Earth”
NEXT UP: Whiny man musics, for a dude who was on a low spiral!

s h e d e

rotten pine tree cornerpost

holds a dusted animal

shack about halfway upright

J.J. Krupert Top 13 Countdown – September '10 #3: “Ball And Chain” by David Allan Coe

I got a pair of jeans that I wear every day at night now, because they feel good. I refuse to wash them, though eventually I’ll probably leave them laying somewhere where the kids or the ol’ lady throws them in the wash because of how they look. There is a pride in that one pair of jeans you wear every day, doing anything and everything, including tending to farm animals, cleaning out chicken coops, kneeling in mud, moving a bunch of dirty shit out the shed to the dump, standing around a bonfire soaking in the smoke, spilling beer, wiping pork chop greasy hands on, all of it, stained into a single pair of jeans. They become a badge of honor. This is also a rebellion on my part because I have to wear clean clothes every day to work, including underwear, and it’s all very stifling to my inner-self. I would rather wear the same old nasty shit I’ve been wearing since four states ago, and of course no drawers. (I would not call it “going commando” because I imagine the type of dude who says shit like that is afraid to not wear underwear.)
Often times I realize there is a ton of that old 1970s outlaw biker longhaired country boy bullshit built deep into my DNA, just from how I grew up. It don’t bother me, because as I navigate this 2010 world, I realize that’s something to be proud of. The rednecks where I live are weaselly and weak, sterilized by the Wal-Mart soul autoclave. Plus hip hop has made them even weirder. Like I was behind some skinny young redneck dude the other week at the hardware store, with his camo baseball hat turned sort of sideways, and jeans on his skinny ass, and the way he kind of wobble swaggered, I wasn’t sure if he was mildly retarded or not. Seriously.
But shit man, I didn’t mean to talk shit. I have a big ass beard now and look forward to this bridge of a job I have now moving back to where I can grow the hair back out, rock my dirty jeans, whatever they may be by then, because nothing lasts. I’ve got this jacket covered in patches that I would never rock when I was working for myself, slum dogging it through life, but now that I’ve got the steady paycheck sucking at the government’s sour teat, that jacket feels good as fuck. Grass always seems greener.
Anyways, I am trying to encourage my inner-outlaw more, junkyard schoolbuses and homemade tattoos and David Allan Coe lyrics come to life. In fact, I gave myself my first homemade tattoo in a few years the other night, putting WORK in scrawly sketchy letters, because I decided to put it underneath my right arm up top near my armpit, so I had to use my left hand, which ain’t my alpha hand at all. Still, it adds feng shui to the warped temple that is my body. I should have a good thick coat of grime to my jeans by springtime when the scrawly black ink becomes exposed to this goddamned straight ass world again.
STEAL “Ball And Chain”
NEXT UP: Outlaw scumfuckery!

s h e d c

tarpaulin wall dust patterns,

barbed wire stapled into an

oak tree cornerpost – quiet

m d p a w

homemade swine mud bath, trespassed
upon by fresh-dipped black dogs
looking to escape their shine

t i r e a

junk rubber bucket holder
back when we had goats, now pigs
snout kick it like soccer ball