It was the beginning settlement of pomegranate tea inside a queasy stomach. and yeah, is it cliche to saw we all gots queasy stomachs these days, that bad malten acid settle. stop. boil. you cd put a finger in and slop up the emotional sludge at the bottom and who doesn't have sidewalk croûtons inside their blue toenails these days, crumbs fr this street salad. dystopic mantras go 1,2,3, 'let our dreams not be numbers tonight', stand-ins, no, wholesale replacements fr 'our father who art in...'. a generation wiping cum off of computer screens. who dream up telephone wires in wicked trees. personal de-compression de-confessionals fodder for depersonalization of post-post-modern machine dream-awake-at-4am-&sweating, post pills or 'cus of 'em is the closest to actualization of action we'll get, if we got it. the sleepers tick on time. all conversations reported to yr local IM phone bureau. not even trying. live without dead time. but assuming time is a pandemic, KILL TIME & LIVE WITHOUT IT.
It was the drop of a bassnote like thunder needs lightning, like lightning needs human totem poles for obvious transformation. there ain't no names now that we've wiped this dumb slate clean of words. there ain't no rhythm now that the sky's collapsed. just that jibber-jab-jigger-jig post-boom-bap...where we all stared at white walls with the cleanest of old school nikes. where we watched home movies of ourselves giving cunnilingus to each other's girlfriends on rickety 80's telivevision sets. where ginsberg's angry fix came back as a post-post-modern ghost like this...post-boom-bap, we did doggstyle dances on dance floors that oozed laser-lights jungle green like they'd found the magic key to sex thru robo-trippn slimey bass while someone important ordered torsos of brown people, now far-away, bombed in half at ample speed for that god-money, commissioned graff style million $ pieces that said we were an advanced civilization advancing civilization. all straight letters. all marc eco-form. you want to neutralize the greatest artistic rebellion in centuries, turn it into a video game, turn it into turf wars.
I, writing this high on paint like I was high on paint. The planets look quaint from up here. Bump the stars and planets and plan-it plan-it plan-it. bump that new god rhyme and plan-it, bump those planets.
& us, the rare resistance who thought that dogwood blossoms still smelled beautiful, they gave us names and secret files as the highest of skewed compliments.
still, & they,
they called us the queasy stomach brigade.