BV1LD1NG 4N 3NV1R0NM3NT...

building an environment 
of chaotic whimsy ain’t 
gonna happen overnight 

SONG OF THE DAY: #KingButch

I miss doing haiku slams, and being around actual people. I wonder if we’ll ever have that shit again. Used to do them at Balliceaux in Richmond years back, which was a decent environment, before it went down in metaphysical online flames. Often we were the early show, and there was at least once that I think Butcher Brown was the late show. They put out an album last year that’s absolutely wonderful, which is what this track is off of. It’s weird funk/hip hop/all over music art, which is something I miss about Richmond so much – how there’s all these different flavors that are rubbing up against each other in a very weird way, creating new flavors in the process. It’s like cultural seasoning I guess. Charlottesville, which is where I’ve lived for a while now, has never impressed me artistically. A lot of overinflated senses of self, often propped up by unacknowledged privilege. Any art I’ve seen or experienced or been part of was done completely outside the arts scenes, and usually goes somewhere else as soon as it can. Anything within the arts scene tends to be unseasoned, so to speak, and thus sort of bland, even when intelligent or competent or skilled. That’s a hard thing to admit to be honest, because for better or worse, I’m going to be in this area the rest of my life. But I don’t find that much inspiration here, and usually have to go looking elsewhere. I guess that’s why I miss the haiku slams right now – I’m getting older, and don’t want to be completely insular, inspiring myself all the time. I need outside inspirations, other people doing wild shit that challenges and pushes. And I’m not getting it, which means I do stupider shit in the process too, because now I’m working off the diminishing returns of past inspiration.

1NSP1R4T10N 3NL1GHT3NS...

inspiration enlightens

much of my mundane moments,

but I remain fixed in place

SONG OF THE DAY: Bang

the bang of creation, 
inner muse ejaculated upon the world 
oftentimes unnoticed, stains along 
the bottom sides of capital life's secondhand cushions 
easing the existential pain of mundane existence 
common wage slave's resistance 
"LIFE IS PAIN MOTHERFUCKER" 
proclaimed buddha ray moore 
and never have those words been truer - 
that's it… never have they been truer… 
this is what being human is about 
navigating the ridiculously sprawling labyrinth 
of manmade obstacles we've built over centuries 
stale places of mildew and rot 
and devising a way to make it feel fresh 
cultivating bang culturing bang 
to fend off the metaphysical vultures 
by swinging our vorpal blade 
around at the entangling world trying 
to choke us out like kudzu made of burnt copper 
wires snaking through yakubian spreadsheets…
by swinging our vorpal blade 
clearing out a little space 
to take a deep breath 
and realize deep in your heart 
fuck it 

CR34T1V3 PR0J3CTS VND0N3...

creative projects undone,

life an abusive shitstorm

never allowing me peace

0M1N0VS 4NGL3S CL0S1NG...

ominous angles closing

in tighter with each passing

day; I struggle to breathe

Jerome Jack Krupert Nov 2017 intro

(manufacturing drama manufacturing busy manufacturing falseness)

the muse was once a sensuous siren serenading me away from daily doldrums

out to see of nonsense gibberish

endless expanse of words words words words images nonsense

I couldn't navigate it all, ever (still can't)

but it was always there

now the muse feels choked, silenced by microscopic digital nanoparticles

branded as progress, clogging my every thought with unnecessary distractions

hijacked consciousness contemplating commercial tangents

personal trajectory depressed

heartbeat of anxiety, wondering for what the blood pumps

hyper-pulse towards holographic horizon never more than one right swipe away

digital nanoparticles manufacture data

which devils mine for details (keys) to gain access to our psychology (neurology)

and implant their fear-based metaphysical fetal position syndrome technologies

into our minds

the gut is a chorus (kin to the muses) saying "NOOOOOOOO!"

in that indiscernible tingle linguistics way science has yet to decipher fully (foolishly)

the heart is the frontline, where gut's resistance to brain's ignorance is held at bay

hopefully (hope foolishly)

but how to trigger the muse? can brain force the gut to talk more often (or at all)?

I have disappeared into music since the beginning

Sunday mornings with albums playing loud as parents navigated hangovers (or dad was still drunk?)

were the most peaceful memories of back in the day

eggs & sausage cooking, stability in the moment

soundtrack loud enough plenty of room to run wild with play

music always been the muse caller

thus hoping to pierce the fucking nanoparticle veil again

all of this of course means nothing too. digital publication of words is no longer exercises in true nonsense gibberish because the nanoparticles have polluted us all to believe everything is important, all must be curated, share every piece of info openly. we have been trained to self-snitch and aid freely (without pay) in the manufacturing of data, to be mined by the devils, to access our metaphysical spaces. still though, fuck it. I’ll share these shards of fogged out hope stabbing through the invisible net that has entrapped me, stifled me, slowed me down to where false concerns occupy more of my grey matter than ever before. the bots have gotten to me, and sometimes they even seem sexier than the real thing. that’s why the sensuous siren song of the muse is gone – I am digitally domesticated, trapped inside an electromagnetized fence, afraid to escape because of all the predators they have told me await just on the other side of lolololol meme.

this is november 2017 jerome jack krupert

freestyle sonnet #096: MUNDANE LIFE OF BOREDOM

Quick cheap fast sonnet torn from stream of conscious since 

day is full of mundane (fool Monday) and this work 

I waste my hours (life) with... when I think causes wince 

as hopelessness winches death closer, little perk 

to step through bureaucratic labyrinth heavy 

with devils angling passive aggressions at all 

times. Fact of the matter is I'm shitty Chevy 

Monte Carlo Supersport with less punch than stall, 

sitting on three Daytons and a donut, riding 

with little confidence through realm of leased Benzes. 

I'm minimum payment in maxed out World, sliding 

down actual wealth chart, in shit-tinted lenses, 

being instructed to see myself as success, 

while suffering somewhat relentless mundane duress. 

freestyle sonnet #091: DROWNING IN NORMALCY

Drowning in normalcy, surrounded by dadbods 

and soccer moms rocking one-pieces, minivans 

retaining resale value, sad lack of dirtgods 

and Earth bitches; life switches quick from wild-wayed plans, 

find yourself choking on responsibility, 

too much indoors life congealing inside stalled heart, 

psychic walls planting patents of futility, 

putting doom inside your dome; no escape through art 

after while since dopamine receptors too taxed; 

try to do right but wrong feels better, makes more sense 

(even if it ain’t common), manufactured waxed 

and waned drama implanted in brain; chain link fence 

enforcing the grid - locked, loaded, too much to unpack, 

got lost deeper in lying ass labyrinth’s track. 

0NLY T1M3 4L0N3 1NS1D3...

only time alone inside

car back-and-forthing between

two points on nowhere timeline

H4RD T0 R3M41N F0CVS3D WH3N...

hard to remain focused when

all the visions forced to chase

belong to other people