3SC4P3 T0 TH3 C4MP3R...

escape to the camper,

freestyling southern gothic

futuristic oral myths

Junior Johnson Krupert November 2017 number one "instrumental"

I've done disappeared into every dilapidated corner & crevice of Virginia

born & bred (& taking that thoreau at walden thing about a couple square inches to heart)

easy to slip off to eastern shore's 1970s freeze frame

or wander the Blue Ridge landscape, chasing the clouds (sometimes in hydrocodone fog)

or slide back thru my homeland/wasteland of southside VA - that venn diagram of what used to be 804 but is now 434

[Did you know that if you divide 434 by 14, as if you were making a sonnet, you get 31? And that if you choose to count syllables in syllable-ass counting style, the two stanza haiku/tanka form is 31 syllables? So if you compose a 5-7-5 haiku with a 7-7 tanka, and then do 14 of them in a sonnet, it is 434 syllables? And that if you are born & bred Southside Virginia wanderlust wildbird poet who might think of doing such things in handwritten style on a notebook so that the 14 tanka stretch across pages so that the sonnet is entirely impossible to actually type in any readable by printed matter ways, it's a beautiful yet unknown poetic combination form called The 434?]

but where to go once all the local going is gone, & no longer make the blood fill your metaphysical penis?

disappear into the world? it seems impossible

I'm just a simple countryboy with skynyrd lyrics in my children's names, not meant to walk the streets of Istanbul (or Konya)

or walk through the Maghreb or Sarajevo (or Tirana)

or chase my wanderlust where no one talks the way I do

or mb the impossibility is the psychic fences put up, the same ones that cause ppl weaker than me

to think nationalist frenzied thoughts & to believe this place truly is an exception

rather than just another place where ppl do what ppl do

like everywhere else on Earth

maybe I am meant to be in Kabul

not flying under the radar

(because the literal implications of such a phrase in that place are wretched)

off the radar, not flying, idling

as unseen as possible

(& mb it is not possible to disappear there, please do not internet me with explanations of the realities of places we are not at because of things we have read about things which we do not know firsthand. this age of know-it-all dominance of knowledge is not one I believe in philosophically. if I cannot get it's dirt on my hands, I do not accept it as pure known truth. this is a dirtgod theory, that there must be microbiome & rhizome tendril connection to KNOW. sterile stainless steel white background wiki-knowledge does not infuse depth of realness.)

{but even if it is not possible to disappear to Kabul for example, there are so many corners and crevices on this giant Earth planet to do so, where even as whatever it is about me that makes me stick out I can blend in and disappear. where is my destiny? I don't know for certain, but I do not feel like I have walked through that place as of yet in my life.}

[Ahmad Zahir only lived for a prophet-like 33 years, who only spent about a decade in the 1970s actively fucking shit up with music, but cranked out over 30 albums in that brief period, feeling the muses deeply. It doesn't take long when you're truly tapped into that creative microbiome/rhizome/universal flow zone of Creation.]

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

SP1R1T W4RR10R D3PL3T10N...

spirit warrior depletion

hard to stop since digital

nanoparticles so thick

TH3S3 C0L0RS D0N'T RVN T4TT00...

"these colors don't run" tattoo

on my dog's belly to help

cover the one from fixing

N0TH1NG SP3C14L 4B0VT WH3R3...

nothing special about where

I'm at; enjoy anywhere

when the trip is what you love

V1V13ND0 3N 3ST4...

viviendo en esta

tierra como una

bestia poetica

R3NT4L C4R W1ND0W F1LT3R...

rental car window filter,

thirty dollar camera

gotten off ebay, road trip

L4BYR1NTH 0F TH0S3 B0VG13...

labyrinth of those bougie

ass sterilized souls, feeding

themselves learned self-importance

TV C0R4Z0N N0 PV3D3...

tu corazón no puede

ser alimentado por

fuego plastificado

TH3Y 4LW4YS W4TCH1NG, 3V3N...

they always watching, even

when you don't even realize

(perhaps especially then)

TH3 4DV4NC3D T3CHN0L0G13S...

the advanced technologies

of mushrooms' symbiotic

supernatural rebirths

SKY 0RB 3NJ0YM3NT L3SS3N3D...

sky orb enjoyment lessened

by arbitrary changing

of clock faces for winter

PH0T0GR4PH1C TR4D1T10N...

photographic tradition

of American roadsides -

late capitalism era

W1R3S RVNN1NG D1R3CTLY FR0M...

wires running directly from

house to police filtering

conversations for details

M1DN1GHT 1N 4 DR1ZZL3 S04K3D...

midnight, in a drizzle soaked

parking lot, scribbling nonsense

prose in composition book

1NDVSTR14L D3TR1TVS...

industrial detritus

turned pastel with polymer

sprays (also industrial)

4C4D3M1C BR1CK P4TT3RNS...

academic brick patterns

mastered by labor class, all

while supervisors idle

D0M1N0S 4T TH3 T34 H0VS3...

dominos at the tea house,

in smoking section's back deck,

picnic table positioned

0N TH3 4NN1V3RS4RY...

on the anniversary

of life's most loungin' moments,

bound to plug in front yard lights

W3ST3RN C1V1L1Z4T10N'S...

western civilization's

peak masterpiece - the simple

yet most effective milk crate

T1M3 TR4V3L D3C4D3S B4CKW4RDS...

time travel decades backwards;

cell signal boosting dead, head

briefly feeling unfogged thoughts

M0B1L1TY R3L4T1V3...

mobility relative

to starting position; stuck

people tend to remain trapped

25-Man Metaphysical Roster: Tottenham Hotspur F.C.

[when an American, who liked DJ Screw, was an EPL star]

[25-Man Metaphysical Roster is a football dork methodology meant to establish a listing of players who have been most active for English Premier League teams in their past 100 non-friendly matches. Essentially, it is calculated by minutes played, but weighted towards most recent games. The end result is a listing of the 25 players in a team’s recent history who have had the largest hand on their metaphysical sporting trajectory. The English Premier League was chosen because it is the highest level of football played in an English speaking country, and I speak English. Also, it is what comes on TV here in the USA, where I fucking live. And yet still I should clarify I hate English, and also America. Thus maybe I hate myself. Should I not fail in maintaining my unpaid deadline, a new 25-Man Metaphysical Roster will appear on the 1st and 15th of every month.]

When I was first getting into EPL, I had contemplated being a Spurs fan, but then I came to my senses. Anyways, catching up on old dork data. No blurbs.

#1: Eric Dier

#2: Hugo Lloris

#3: Christian Eriksen

#4: Dele Alli

#5: Toby Alderweireld

#6: Jan Vertonghen

#7: Harry Kane

#8: Son Heung-min

#9: Ben Davies

#10: Victor Wanyama (previously #23 for Southampton on 1-Aug-2017)

#11: Moussa Dembele

#12: Kyle Walker

#13: Kieran Trippier

#14: Moussa Sissoko

#15: Harry Winks

#16: Danny Rose

#17: Davinson Sanchez

#18: Michel Vorm

#19: Erik Lamela

#20: Vincent Janssen

#21: Kevin Wimmer

#22: Serge Auerier

#23: Fernando Llorente (previously #17 for Swansea City on 1-Nov-2017)

#24: Georges-Kevin N’Koudou

#25: Josh Onomah