Hit & Run

A few quickie track by track music reviews...

Absence Makes The Heart Grow Fungus
by Omar Rodriguez Lopez

Hands Tied To the Roots of the Hemorrhage
Commodore sound effects violently explode into ATDI era jamming

City Dreams Inside A Truck
Dreary soundtrack to a modern-day rendition of Nosferatu

Sex, Consolation for Misery
The slow sensual rhythm of heroin plus a drum kit

Tied Prom Digs on the Docks
Starts with whirling guitar work and sexy horns before its deconstructed and distorted.
I love when the drums and bass come back (8:47) after several minutes of audiological finagling.

Seeth of Cloudless Hymstone
Melodies caught behind a wall of heartbeats

Mood Swings
Jeremy is slathered all over this, in a good way.
He delivers a solid block of thought-provoking, trance-inducing musique concrete.

An Ancient Shrewdness in The Veins
Gargling feeding tubes, television crosstalk,
and jazzy piano create the mood and ambiance of a David Lynch film.

A Story Teeth Rotted For
Waltz through the smoldering ruins, what did they leave behind?
(Apparently an interlude cut from Deloused in The Comatorium)

Of Ankles to Stone
Psychedelic vibes built around a riff that i'm told would progress into part of Cassandra Gemini

=======================================

The Hawk is Howling
By Mogwai

I'm Jim Morrison, I'm Dead
Classic post-rock...From a gentle melody to an undeniable wall of rockish sound, in this case with snippets of what sound like synthesized mandolins.

Batcat
An unrelentless up-tempo rock number that disrupts the astral zone the 1st track brought you to. This song is bitchin, I must admit however it reminds me a bit of The Outsider by A Perfect Circle.

Danphe and the Brain
The title reminded me of Escape from New York for some odd reason...
A song that showcase's Mogwai's technical prowess with sound and mood.

Local Authority
Stirs and scowls but with the grace of an infant...no doubt another winner

The Sun Smells Too Loud
My least favorite song on the album, due largely to the guitar work which for some reason i'm not to fond of. Don't get me wrong, this track isn't horrible just not much to my liking. I do tip my hat to the title though...yummy synesthesia!

King's Meadow
Bass and then piano working so finally together...the ticks of clocks force you to reflect. The last 20 seconds or so give me Boards of Canada vibes which makes me smile.

I Love You, I'm Going to Blow Up Your School
One of my favorites, from the title to the tight execution. There is a certain essence of helplessness that beautifys the measure changes and disorients the listener. Brilliant stuff.

Scotland's Shame
If this song was available in 1971 Stanley Kubrick would have used it in
A Clockwork Orange

Thank You Space Expert
Souless robots in an endless maze of artificially lit grocerystore aisles:
the musical!
Steady before the fade-out.

The Precipice
A powerful closer with strings and drums, that demands thought and not just attention. The Precipice builds and builds and then finally erupts before one final squealing lick of the guitar and The Hawk is Howling is over, and you are breathless.

Human Condition

This is not a painting.

Cheers René.

Logodaedalus

Latest batch of great words!

abacinate
To blind by putting a hot copper basin near someone's eyes

adoxography
Skilled writing about an unimportant subject

recumbentibus
A knockout punch, either verbal or physical

aglet
The plastic or metal tip on the end of shoelaces

kyphotic
Hump-backed

androlepsia
A kidnapping by a foreign government for political gain

oxter
To walk arm in arm

anonymuncle
A petty anonymous writer

incunabula
A book which was printed before 1500 AD, in the dawn of publishing

apricate
To spend time basking in the sunshine

mellisugent
Honey-sucking

Long Live the Old Flesh

Posting old material and bastardizing the tag-line
from the 1983 Cronenberg masterpiece Videodrome in the same post you say?
Not possible, you say...
Watch me now!

Widow

Single Monday morning, single mother motor oiled.

Swapping scrambled eggs, careful and attentive love,
The big cracked coffeepot, newspaper inked semicolon
And the words “they said nothing before the” on her thumb.

45 years young and its finally promising to give you what you’ve wanted.
Furthest reaches, louder echoes for indentured servitude.

God what you wouldn’t do for a baby’s lips around your left and idle nipple.


All the things we do to kill the time while the rain is pouring down.



(©Justin Parrinello/Ludovico De Medici January 1st, 2008)
*Appear's in Bodies/Galimatias

What Have You Brought For My Appetite?

What ever lucubration may bring...
Deep in the selcouth recesses of the belly of coded matrixes for one last taste
of SIMulated STIMulation.


The opening track from the Mars Volta's last LP "The Bedlam in Goliath."
Surgery! I'm late for surgery!




All Hail the Poet Laureate of Skid Row!




The visionary art direction of Adam Jones! Behold "Stinkfist" or as MTV censors called it "Track #1"




You must have known this was coming...

Versemeister's Convention

Many many days buried beneath Andre Breton's Nadja and From Socrates to Satre;
I have finally gotten around to project #10, which in blueprints involves stitching Intravenous lines into the seams of my ancient cinderblock grey sport coat.

I am no longer hassled by china and demitasse or the impending threat of liquefying the interior dermal ridges of the roof of my mouth with boiling water seeing to that Sumatra Mandheling now runs directly into my bloodstream with a simple thumb-stroke of the nurses keypad.

Deadpan lately with an almost completely vacant facial expression
coupled with hints of John Malkovich nervous ticks.

I've got black bags beneath my eyes to complete the look
(Like Maximillian Cohen meets Faces of Meth) and confirm without a doubt that the crushed and macerated coffee berries of which the goat partook serve as my only thread to the
sensation of physical and existential subsistence.

(And you thought I was kidding about run-on sentences right?)

Caffeine tremors and day-off-dom led me out to New Paltz, New York to attend The Mudd Poets Reading Series of which William Seaton and Ken Van Rensselaer were featured.

Bill read for about twenty minutes reciting his German-to-English translations of several Dada poets before closing with some original work.

Ken read some really fascinating material dealing with the cosmos and our relationship to the idea of void, sadly he wasted no time disappearing into the brisk autumnal nighttide after having performed.

Several talented regulars read at the open microphone;
Terrence "The Man of Many Voices" Ciesa dramatized a set of prose
as the Irish blue-collared "Tommy Burns"

while

Billy Hermin recited his punchy often humorous and explicit confessional texts sotto voce
from a brown sketch pad.

Sharon Butler premiered a work-in-progress and the host/czar of poetry Mr. Robert Milby
read some fine verse concerning Edgar Poe and autumn.

In between frantically chewing coffee-beans dipped in dark chocolate
and chugging the Mudd Puddle's delicious "Dancing Goat" blend
I read Othello Calicio (a piece from my last book Bodies/Galimatias)
as well as debuted Umbilicusissimus from Mnemosynesiac with fits of frontal lobe-ish improv.

The night was pleasant as bards,
poets and the like dispersed into the darkness and the comfort of their heated auto-cars.

We ended up in a quaint little Greek
diner in Poughkeepsie to enjoy a long-delayed meal of rare hamburger and sweet potato fries.

I am remembering as I pull the artifacts from the sand of what it was once like
to be a regular on the scene…


Parting sentiments and shameless butt-pluggery:

After a pseudo-review like that someone on the scene would likely carbomb me if I didn't include this information in the closing.

For folks interested in performing poetry, prose etcetera, listening and attending check out

http://www.poetz.com
for a comprehensive assemblage of poetry reading calendars
spanning from NYC to Vermont to New Mexico and beyond.

And for Christ’s sake make a cup of coffee!
You’re making me look bad.

Talking Board

Photographs of a talking board commission.
Designed and built by Nee Nee's brother Mr. David Bovensiep.
















Interesting facts:

* The artwork in the center is a recreation of Alex Grey's painting Sleep.

* The planchette (not pictured) is designed after the "rainbow eye logo" from Tool's third LP Lateralus.

* All the text and interwined root effects were created using paint and hot glue. I shit you not, it's pretty amazing huh...I don't think I can write the first letter of my name clearly with a glue gun.

* It's a one-of-a-kind piece and its freakishly groovy. Word around the campfire is he's making more boards, check E-bay for possible postings.

Van de elfde vlo gebeten pagina

The fine spice of autumn blankets the living in a bouquet of leaves as they decay and leave behind chalkline traces of a perfume savored by dying gods; we mortals dream of drafting.

Chestnut season and the time in which the blood jet cannot be stopped has begun.
Mulling spices, winehouse apples, The char of kindling, suspicious cosmic fields and my royal is singing soft flat melodies that remind me of reddened cheeks and the brisk snot-nosed hush of infancy.

For now an
excerpt from page 11...



Xenomorph Slim

When the stars were SARS---were stars when young and pretty girls make pretty dull…
graves.

Very inexpensive and intrusive to obtuse passengers contused to drug-abuse toward abstruse proof-oriented, forced choices.

Her toes curled around the bloodless brakes as the acrobatic leviathan flung itself into this
manchurian candidate tenement.

What’s left are simply photo albums
and
we are where the whistling of plane crashes chthonic for reasons undefined convoke you and curtsey
in skinny shoplifting fits,

while I lion-heart burnish in this swimming pool sky.

Technocratic Confessional + Womb Tracklist

Its true!
I broke down last minute in one of the five hundred polished aisles of the
local church of Sam Walton and impulse-bought an RCA mp3 player.

I must confess to someone or something
that I really do enjoy touching and feeling the album, smelling the plastic wrap and all the other strange and ritualistic behavior that proceeds the typical product liturgy wherein behind closed doors I relish in the physicality of my purchase.

So in accordance with this truth,
I found it rather difficult to give in and justify to myself the purchase of such a device in this brine vastness of synthetic lighting with the counterfeit sneers of a dense and growing aggregation of customer service Walmarteers creeping along like malnourished hyenas for a killing.

I'm unsure if I should state that I'm proud or not to own the evidently convenient, nearly weightless, visually aesthetic song prison that requires only one AAA battery to run and work tiny stereophonic miracles.
But I cannot deny the vicious song of my very blood,
that chimes loudly to the village folk that
I am without a shadow of doubt a uniformed participant of the digital revolution...

I can only hope such words do not adorn the concrete slab that sits above the decay of my yesteryear body like a dull grey aureole reminder of my shopping shortcomings.

In other words, I am thoroughly pleased with my purchase and am enjoying the fact that I can compartmentalize around twelve album's worth of material into a space no larger than that of a box of tic-tacs.
I've always been fond of making mixed tapes, cd's and the like and my interest in continuity and syncing tracks up perfectly with one another either for ambience
or to personify a particular theme has made a jump straight into my 2-Gigabyte buddy.

The first mix that I integrated was Womb With A View,
a moody collection of gentle melodies and post-rockish compositions I've long used as an aid for inspiration when attempting to decipher my cryptic notes and turn them into poetry or something like it.

I have included the tracklist below for anyone interested in recreating it or attempting to access the exalting and ataractic effects that it had on me.

I would offer you the collection myself but flinch at the prospect of being water-boarded by the
Record Industry Association of America’s goomba’s in black neckties.

Perhaps in a future where material is propagated under creative commons licenses and visual art, music and literature exists in the public domain to distribute and enjoy will you get your very own copy from me via 3rd party file transfer,
until that day however, good luck hunting!


WOMB WITH A VIEW

1. Lornaderek- Aphex Twin 0:33 (intro)

2. Around Knuckle White Tile- Omar Rodriguez Lopez 7:20

3. Theme from to Kill a Dead Man- Portishead 4:26

4. East Hastings- Godspeed You! Black Emperor 18:00

5. Rotten Candy- Zechs Marquise 4:12

6. Sherbert Head- Boards of Canada 2:43

7. Yes! I Am a Long Way from Home- Mogwai 5:59

8. Go Slowly- Radiohead 3:50

9. Thiriacho Summit- The Sounds of Animals Fighting 1:32 (segue)

10. Paper Planes- M.I.A. 3:26

11. The Smallest Weird Number- Boards of Canada 1:19

12. Lady- Regina Spektor 4:47

13. Are You There?- Klint 3:38

14. Hunter- Portishead 4:05

15. The Color of Fire- Boards of Canada 1:47

16. Another Version of the Truth- Nine Inch Nails 4:11

17. Motion Picture Soundtrack- Radiohead 7:03

18. An Infant Crying 0:17 (sound effects/outro)

And If I Go Insane, Please Don't Put Your Wires In My Brain

I have recently reentered the dark and winding wonka tunnel of Pink Floyd, after several months of a playlist almost entirely devoid...of Floyd.

And in the process I figured I'd regurgitate an impromptu review,
become a hypocrite and give critiquing a go.

I selected at random Atom Heart Mother,
or the "cow album"
as some chic and ignorant shoegazing mom & pop record shop hop zombies call it.

An album originally and quite
interestingly titled "The Amazing Pudding."
An album that featured a full orchestra, the John Aldiss choir,
and ran for an impressive 52 minutes and 44 seconds
despite the fact that it only contained 5 songs.
An album that received mostly unfavorable reviews
and was ultimately disowned by the band that gave it life.

Roger Waters had this to say in 1985,
"Atom Heart Mother is a good case, I think, for being thrown into the dustbin and never listened to by anyone ever again! It was pretty kind of pompous, it wasn't really about anything."

and

David Gilmour commented,
"At the time we felt Atom Heart Mother, like Ummagumma, was a step towards
something or other. Now I think they were both just a blundering about in the dark."

Was this album really a convoluted, disorganized hodgepodge of melody and prog goo
or a delicately assembled rock suite and masterful sound collage showcasing the strange although genius qualities of the band?

I feel the answer is a bit of both, but the good far outweighs the bad.
If at very least this album showcases a great band in the process of becoming greater;
a necessary step on the ladder to later works such as Wish You Were Here and Animals.

Song-by-Song Analysis of ATOM HEART MOTHER

1. Atom Heart Mother
A. Fathers Shout
B. Breast Milky
C. Mother Fore
D. Funky Dung
E. Mind Your Throats, Please
F. Remergence

The title track, epic in its 23 minutes.
Motor cycle exhaust pipes, muddy bass, lots of effects.
Vocals sounds like the surrogate choir at the
Somerton masquerade in Arthur Schnitzler’s Traumnovelle.
Some of the guitar work is very similar to sections of Echoes from the album Meddle.
The song breaks down into ambient noise and eerie endless tape recorder loops before reintroducing the primary melody for a climactic ending.
Nothing is spared, an example of true unrestrained experimentation and creativity.

2. If
Lovely little folky ballad, lyrics are tender but acerbic.
"If I were a swan, I'd be gone. If I were a train, I'd be late. And if I were a good man, I'd talk with you more often than I do. If I were to sleep, I could dream. If I were afraid, I could hide.
If I go insane, please don't put your wires in my brain."
I Read Waters played this a lot during his solo tour for Radio K.A.O.S.

3. Summer 68'
Starts with ivory,
moves along like something from piper and reminds me of the days of Mr. Barrett.
Good grooves.

4. Fat Old Sun
I've heard many bootlegs and live versions of this track all of which include long and expansive jam sections and bluesy finagling,
unfortunately none of them were lucky enough to make the cut.
Instead we get a chopped shortened version without all the great guitar work that made the live version so awesome. All bitching aside, its still a good listen.

5. Alan's Psychedelic Breakfast
A. Rise and Shine
B. Sunny Side Up
C. Morning Glory

The band playing behind the audio recordings of Pink Floyd Roadie Alan Stiles as he fries bacon, heats hot water for tea, and makes a bowl of cereal. This is is either pushing the envelope or burning it. As strange as the concept is for a song, it works out some how. The sound effects evoke powerful imagery and its difficult to deny the displacement. You'll either jive with Alan as he eats (and end up hungry as I did) or you'll dismiss this as strange shit wasting recording space and your time.

Neat fact: On the vinyl, the sound of a dripping tap at the end of the psychedelic breakfast is cut into the run-off grove, so it plays infinitely until you pull up the stylus.
Something cool that we've lost with compact disks and mp3's.

Summary:
The album is worth buying for the title track alone, the other songs serve as the bread of this tasty sandwich...but the meats where all the fun is at.

Boy, that metaphor was lame huh?

I would recommend the album to individuals interested in musical experimentation and long rock suites.

Anyone who enjoys Pink Floyd should at least give it a chance and a listen...
and for science's sake stop calling it the fucking cow album.

At Home

Photographs behind the now defunct South Hills Mall in Poughkeepsie, New York.

This Isn't Real

TOMENTUM

With every lunar eclipse,
dips ringlets of your angora locks
That wave down the tremens but dock me commonsensical in burnt to a crisp asarum.

Ice-boxed eyes draw blood from my face and hand my heart to me
every time we kiss open-eyed in confessional.

I was forced upon pagan words, I am the wet submission that oozes from the swelling walls and ruby lampshades and all the wraiths seduced and trapped in thirst and lust.

I am enslaved by your mane.
I’m a crowded exit in the nervous frenzy of your perfumed hairline,
A false alarm brought back the plague that bespangled bowlegged ascetics that whispered they were your hair to the universe but never really believed.

I am unable to carve my name into a surface, or leave an object of my person behind,
There will be no witnesses to the abrasion of my being.

There will not be a single atom or indication that I ever was,
this is perhaps how it should be.

The necropsy of what is left in your umber of me will not speak of who or what I was,
it will not recount my life or flash images of my living before reinserted eyes as they glass over.

Bundles are writhing greedily to choke each appendage,
I am not ashamed to admit to myself that this is what I have dreamt, prayed, fantasized, begged, obsessed, stole, deceived, and betrayed for.

My death is peaceful,
and I am correct, there is no trace in the end.

©Justin Parrinello (September 3rd, 2006)




I'm not here, this isn't happening.
I wasn't here, this isn't real.

Some Find Soothing, A Parade of Insect Noise Pollution

Tis one A.M. here in Neo-York,
and I'm relaxing with the chirps of crickets and
a tall bottle of my favorite oatmeal stout.

I recently began working on a rather frightening segment of Mnemosynesiac called
"The Proper Etiquette of Binding a Woman's Calves to Obstruct Childbirth."

In creating the right mood and ambience for this piece,
I've resorted to Burrough's cut-up method and the integration of a drastic re-working of a stillborn poem in one of my old collections.
A poem called "Misdirectomy" which despite my greatest efforts ended up
an unpleasant breech.
All that and more for what is to come.

I'm excited also for the narratives progress seeing to that
it may become collaborative.
A groovy word-smithing scallywag friend of mine and I have been conspiring for some time to compose a 2-man poetic burst of controlled chaos on loose leaf.
I say it's about time we get down to funky business and actually get the cochineal on cardstock.

In other news, I have obtained a new job with better pay and will soon make a climactic escape a'la Andy Dufresne with rock-hammer in hand and Rita Hayworth in heart from the sweltering scullery pandemonium I'm currently enslaved in.

Isn't that boss! I'm a stone throw from being a
Self-employed, Concerned but powerless, and empowered & informed member of society.

I shall part now, with this...



Buy Samuel Smith's Old Brewery Tadcaster Oatmeal Stout!
For it is a simply delicious brew of oaty goodness thats sure to
bring a crooked cookie smile to your head-box.

...Soul-Bargained Shards

Bowlegged Single-Lens Rotary Shutter Stud

Carries a Chthonic Cornucopia

of Suspended Events in Soul-Bargained Shards.

Black & white snapshots are decidedly regal minotaur reels of autumnal mouth-feel,
for reasons undefined.

8/22/08 Dream Sequence

8/22/08 Dream Sequence

When Curb Services Seize An Unsightly Strychnine

Scene I- Intestinal Nomenclature
Setting: Cobblestoned alleyways that cleave and trisect a European-style bazaar
Persona: Unidentified (1st Person)

I stumble out of an intricately hand carved wooden pod (resembling a traffic cone).
I reassure myself that I was “Just Napping” although I’m quite sure the vessel is a coffin belonging to someone called The Crawl.

My hands and forearms are riddled with thin splinters that I soon discover wiggle deeper into my dermis if they’re tampered with.
My attempts to remove them are interrupted by something that crosses the path of my peripheral vision.

A Beaked figure in a dark cloak festooned with translucent tubing filled with a violet fluid jumps around whimsically as if playing hopscotch.

It is unclear at first, if the figure is a man wearing a pointed mask
(reminiscent of the Venetian plague-doctor) or is actually some sort of humanoid bird hybrid.
My vision is tainted by a grain of orange juiced sepia; objects that decorate this narrow and winding backstreet ark and spiral toward its hourglass body-type.

The delicate churning, writhing, and twisting of solid objects sparkling as they contort into serpentine bands of rainbow bring to mind Van Gogh’s Starry Night.

This dream is almost completely devoid of sound.
Only the dull vibration of refrigerators and the clicking of computers can be heard,
and even they are barely audible.

The bird creature stops jumping and hobbles around 180 degrees to get a good look at me.
It’s torso lowers itself to reveal several sets of fishnetted women’s legs some adorning
high-heel shoes, some wearing long boots, others barefoot.

These many sets of legs move in rhythmic patterns as if set to silent music.
They articulate in a fashion completely inconsistent with the placement of joints and logic.
It is as if these legs lack bones, for they squirm like the tendrils of an octopus.

Scene II- Acetylene Tramp Lamps and Ultraviolet Lights Find Gods Hands on the Quarantine
Setting: Mighty uterus
Persona: Something fish-scaly (3rd person)

Something chants “Plug in and Disconnect!” over and over and over again.
A dull emotionlessly incessant 4 word mantra.

I can see through a glass window installed in the pink and internal walls of my holding area,
A tall woman with a misshapen crew cut, pouty lips, and Sicilian eyes says something like
“Don’t remember if it hurt, its like _____________ but certainly unlike jackknifing.”

Five year old laughter can be heard, but the source is unclear.
My slimy body caudal begins to descend down a fleshy chasm that hugs and envelops me.

The ridged walls massage my body as it locomotes my semiconscious mass foot first toward the laughter.

“Yes” uttered by a whispering female is the last thing I hear before waking up.

It is a Friday morning 7:10 A.M. the time I’d be getting up for work, but today I’m off.
I get up and fix a glass of hojicha.

A Critique on Critiquing

This is a little something I found huddled up in the corner (of one of my notebooks),

knee's-against-chest, weeping and wanting to be heard.

It was written about four years ago on the pratice of art critique,

which I find to be vile, senseless, and insignificant.

Before you begin, let me just state for the record that when I say "Art" I am refering to all mediums of creative expression,
from visual arts like painting and sculpture to
literary arts such as fiction, poetry etc. music, dance, improvisation and all other forms.

Lock the Critics in a Tiny Cage and Set it on Fire

"Our pale reasoning hides the infinite from us."
- Jim Morrison

Art cannot be critiqued.
We are not in a position to consciouslly apply worth to byproducts of the infinite mascrocosm of chaos from which all art comes.
To quote almost word for word a spiney quagmire that appeared several times in

Understanding Aesthetics.

"The Mona Lisa by Leonardo Da Vinci is a much better painting than No. 5 by Jackson Pollack. The quality and conveyance is direct and showcases a seasoned artist in starck contrast to what many believe to be an experimental amateur."

This postulate is presented to incite thought about what achieves a higher quality or artisitic worth of the object of discussion.
Thinking back on it now, I can see that the dictum is designed to clearly divide individuals like myself from folks who feel there is good art, bad art, professional and amateur art.

To say that the Mona Lisa is a better painting than No. 5 ,
is like saying clam chowder is a better food than a pear.
They are both unique and special in their own ways. One is a soup prepared with cream and seafood, the other a sweet and juicy piece of fruit.

How can one be better than the other?

I'm sure of it, sometimes you are in the mood for a creamy soup other times a grainy fruit.

They do not compete, they are just foods.

Art is just art.

It nevertheless exists regardless if or not its labeled by its creators or an audience attempting to comparmentalize it or understand the intricate workings of its interior anatomy.

Is it not clear now that it’s us human-beings that do the competing?

It’s us human-beings that fail to understand art or dislike it because we cannot

easily identify or connect with its first phase.

Sometimes you order clam chowder and get Manhattan expecting New England,

Or expect to identify with a gallery of work or a collection of poetry but you don’t.

Sometimes your pear is old or mealy or for some reason you just don’t want it.

Art is about perception, and all people perceive all things differently.

There is no good, great, bad, or terrible art.

Saying anything about the quality is missing the point.

Art is felt! There is nothing logical or analytical about it.

You must apply art to yourself. It is purposeless alone, it's subsists to vitally exist.

It is your responsibility to access it, engage it, dismiss or betray it,
for it knows no human prejudice.

You must understand that you will not be able to identify, decipher,
and understand the true meaning of all art.

Something’s will sing to you immediately, other pieces slowly, sometimes you will enjoy segments or parts of one whole, other times you will be presented with something obscure or protected, something that forces you to think and dig your nails tirelessly.
Something that will free you, enslave you, drag you through the darkest trenches of hell
or the highest and brightest fields of Elysium.

This is canon!

We are not meant to understand all art, Only art that we can access;

Art that we can apply to ourselves and take into our very soul the true essence of what we feel we've discovered.

Although logical thought, reasoning and the like will be beckoned at times... even required to access certain forms of art, the context is still yours to decide.

Do not allow an artist to tell you what their finished product is or represents.

This is their perception of the work, not yours.

Most important of all, you must remember that
art involves thought but it does not come from thought.

Art is birthed in a sporadic ocean of infinite possibilities.
A void where things uncertain are immediately evident, real, breathing and pulsating
and the unconceivable becomes feasible.
Feasible and contingent with nascent actuality.

Ergo the rivers flow with galaxies of stars, the sky fills with fire, up is down and down is up and all things are content and at peace with being unreal and inanimate.

From the mental stillness, a child with the face of eternality is born.
Lock the critics in cages that they authored and douse them generously with gasoline.

Awaiting Fungus

Haven't posted in a while,
been real busy working hard for insufficient wages, finally getting around to the college admissions board...still writing, still insomniatic
(this is probably a neologism, but I’m pretty sure the Literati’s last wiretap failed to isolate the line, so I should be safe for the time being.)

Haven't been to a reading, since my last feature in the extravagantly candle lit athenaeum of Florida, NY.

It's disheartening to admit at least via blog or by admission in an inner monologue that I've become quite the light dodging---ducking behind Venetian blinds brown-robed hermit.

Although my job requires a smiley clean shaven jaw-line/face vicinity
it oddly enough has no problem with my mad sandstorm of brown head hair which is... last time I checked somewhere around my elbows. Silly Corporations.

I can only surmise that by now (minus the tucked-shirts and directorial coffin-dodgers strict facial hair codes) I'd don a writhing serpent of a beard I’d have much trouble not tripping on.
The kind of beard that retains heat and has a consistent internal temperature of 95 degrees;
the kind of psychotic tress of scattered follicles homeless men and birds aspire to call home and yearn to indefinitely inhabit.

Sufficed to say I have a preened plastic head and my fuel reserve for performing verse and testing new material is slowly but rest assured steadily building in the fiery fuselage of my central grey matter.

On to a few words about the new Omar Rodriguez Lopez LP I anxiously await.

Mr. Rodriguez Lopez (Guitarist and mastermind behind the insanely original, always inventive and experimental prog rock band The Mars Volta) will be putting out his 6th solo album on September 9th.

It clocks in at 43 minutes and supposedly features a good bit of material that almost made it into "Deloused in the Comatorium."

For those of you unfamiliar with Deloused, The Volta etc.
Listen very carefully,
Go out right this very moment and buy their entire discography, for they are (and I would not lie to you) quite possibly one of the best bands in this or any era.

You could get their four primary LP's ( Deloused in the Comatorium, Frances the Mute, Amputechture, and The Bedlam in Goliath) for a measly 30 bucks at most electronic stores, Or if you're dead-bolted and pad-locked behind brick and rotting wood like I, you could get them off of Amazon for around 60 bucks (including S&H.)

Regardless of the source, merchant, or method you have got to check them out!
Your musical self respect depends upon it.

Moving right along,

Omar's new album is entitled Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fungus and features nine tracks with trippy obsidian titles like "Hands Tied to the Roots of a Hemorrhage", "Of Ankles to Stone" and "Seeth of Cloudless Hymstone."



So if you're a fan i'm sure i'll see you stumbling through the endless rows of galleria parking like Romero's living dead with cash, credit, and debit cards in hand... and if you're not fan stop wasting time already and check them and him out, they rock!

Until the next cookies, juice, and sunken thighs conventicle in an owl's blistering eyes i bid thee merry cordials and a spicy farewell!

Temple

Attended a sabbat of the holy sacrosanct at our local temple (Borders books) last night.
Drank 15,000 cups of coffee, did some nifty data-mining, goofed about wide-eyed and caffeinated with my Nee Nee, had some tasty steamed wantons, and got some really good reading done.

Finished DMT: The Spirit Molecule by Rick Strassman which was really fascinating.
I would recommend it to anyone interested in the many layers and interdimensional frequencies of immaterial reality that we coexist in and among.
Strassman describes clincal studies in DMT administration, and dazzles the reader with a combination of drug-induced maxims of spiritual truth with scientific proof and his hypotheses to create a fascinating account of the drug.

Just a few interesting things I learned from the book-

*Our ability to experience REM sleep is due to the pineal gland releasing doses of DMT.
Studies have shown that without dreams humans go insane.
So basically a schedule I disassociative is responsible for human sanity and immediate consciousness...how intriguing.

*The pineal gland is the source of naturally derived DMT, some people believe the gland is our Third Eye (the Anja Chakra). The key to ultimate enlightenment and transcendance.

*In a human beings last moments before expiration (essentially, the death throws) the brain releases megadoses of dimethyltrytamine. Zen Buddhist High monk Ong Satri has publically stated his belief that quote "The brain floods the physical body with DMT in order to jump start it into the next wavelength of living."

More Delicious Language

Grab a spoon and dig in!



Flagrante Delicto (noun)
[Fluh-grahn-tay di-LIK-toh]
Latin for "When the crime is blazing" or "When the act is in flames."

1. To be caught in the middle of a criminal act.
2. To be caught in the middle of a sexual act.


Hypogeum (noun)
[High-puh-JEE-uhm

1. An underground chamber, vault, or any part of a building set underground.


Petrichor (noun)
[PE-tri-kor]

1. The smell of rain after a period of dry weather.
2. An aromatic combination of plant oils, natural gases, and mineral odors drawn from ground soil by fresh rainfall.

* Despite the fact that many people claim this is their favorite scent, there wasn't actually a word to describe the odor released after rainfall until 1964.
*The word comes from the Greek Petri (stone) plus Ichor
(the mineral said to be located in the blood of Greek gods)


Hibernacle (noun)
[High-bur-NAK-ull]

1. A winter retreat
2. Shelter from the cold


Astrobleme (noun)
[Ast-RO-bleem]

1. The mark left by a meteor (literally a star scar)

The New Pledge of Allegiance

I've been haunted and fixated on Radiohead's song The Tourist for the last 27 1/2 hours.
I must embarrassingly admit that on my many, many, many listens of OK COMPUTER,
I somehow overlooked the beauty and importance of this marvelous closing track.

Having been quickly engrossed in Radiohead's entire discography in a seemingly short period of time (about five months) I suppose at the time I felt its delicate pop structure and lullaby-like chorus didn't stand up to parting gifts like Motion Picture Soundtrack, Street Spirit (Fade Out), and A Wolf at the Door.

But wow, can I ever say I’ve had a change of heart!
This song should be sung by skittish school children in the dilapidated classrooms of our
bullet-riddled public schools each morning to a red flag donning 2001's weeping amnesiac caricature.

The song is touching, with the nervous frenzy of Thom Yorke as he pleads to the driver
"Hey man, slow down, slow down!" Absolutely beautiful and... frightening.

It is interesting to note also, and I'm almost certain I'm not the first to have noticed this...
But the last track ties into the first creating a sort of enigmatic full circle in regards to the plot.

In OK COMPUTER's first track Airbag Yorke croons
"In a fast German car I'm amazed that I survived, an airbag saved my life"
and then 10 tracks later we arrive at The Tourist,
where the unspecified narrator is seemingly endangered by a reckless driver.

Is this a separate event? Is the main character terrified because of the harrowing accident he experienced in the LP's opening? Or are we experiencing a paradox in the story?
Whatever the answer, this song rocks, OK COMPUTER rocks, and by fucking god
Radiohead rocks!

The Worship of Words

In my epeolatric obsession with the English language i present to you
a few neat and fantastic words...
Because being a word enthusiast is better than making people into lampshades.


Xanthodant (noun)
1. someone with yellow teeth, such as smoker or coffee-drinker.
2. Having yellow teeth

Palaver (noun)
1. A conference or discussion.
2. Profuse and idle talk; chatter.
3. Persuasive talk; flattery

Clyster (verb)
1. To adminster an enema

Gurry (noun)
1. Medical waste from dissecting rooms. Also, fishing or whaling refuse.

Gambrinous (noun, adjective)
1. A mythical Flemish king, the reputed inventor of beer.
2. Meaning full of beer
[Alternative spelling Gambrinus]

and last but not least (for now anyway)

Adnascentia (noun)
1. Root-like branches that sprout into the earth from a plant's stem.
2. Tree roots exposed through loose sod or wet soil.
[in circulation 1706 -1731]

Donkey Show Versified

A little taste of the mnemosyne, don't drink from the Lethe!
Or you'll loose your past lives in the river of forgetfulness.

Here's an example of the episodic verse that constitutes Mnemosynesiac,
inspired by a painting by Ali Fitzgerald entitled "The Donkey Show."

[Eeyorish]

Interloping barbarian bourgeois first-night rubberneckers dressed in pissburnt yellow-page tuxes inhaled and passed around, cave-painted and conveyed through metal-detectors before being weighed down by solid ground.

I go through 50,000 teeth a year,
The night was never young!
I pass through ever medium with cerebral bores to spare.

Something I hocked into respiration clipped me before I had a chance to sabotage cysts in teething rings with a stink-fisted crib that blinks rainbow pinkeye cryptographs every millisecond that its fed.

Fennel seed and frangipani air polluting vominatrix taken hence.
Clavicles of candy floss massaging mako-ten, like moonwort into goblin pups.
Crystal stalks beanstalk rear, cluster scabs of blusters fawn.

She smoked the wrong side of an anisette cigarette dead set on drafting pipettes of cold sweats.
Tortoiseshell sheathed her unclothed debris; ribs poked at snug bundles of sweat glands as if to make escape possible.

Templar was exemplar; silver cinema camarilla never saw chin-ups in uptown freezers.
Time and time again, time & ½ extruded a quintet of jellyfish threads while socially impotent posturing Cyclops’s continued to address your festers in the back of a wine-sap velvet
rumble-seat as Morgellons.

Illegal immigrants whether tight on quarantini’s or fuddle-toasting stiff-pigs to rows of lorenzini,
all end up in hotel lobbies vacuuming late into the night.

© Justin Parrinello (July 7th, 2008)

Check out Ali's incredable artwork at her website
http://www.alifitzgerald.net/

A Proper Burial

So I’ve been blinds drawn, bolt-locks bolt-locked, and cadmium (i guess steel would make more sense but cadmiums cooler) chain shackled away in my artificially lit laboratory scrambling words for my two newest narratives.

It's been a drafty couple of cold Chinese take-out and torn ACL agonized tarassis couple of weeks but I’ve submerged thus far to feel the sun on my face once more with a mess of crumbled papers and marble notebooks of material.

The first piece is something I call Mnemosynesiac.
The plot deals heavily with the concept of having your memories (or a "personality map") reinserted into a genetic duplicate or donor body if nothing else is available.

The delicate purging from whence the contents of a Plexiglas womb with a view
is spilt into the present!

Do byproducts of the procedure possess souls?
At what point does the old you end and the new you begin?
What could the physical, emotional and psychological implications be in a civilization
where such practices are the norm?
Immortality? Total enlightenment? Psychosis? Spiritual abrasion, none or all of the above?

Don't know yet,
but we're ten pages in on a royal and happily flinging hemoglobin, lead paint chips,
static hair follicle's, musky ribbons, and swigs of nut brown ale into
the primordial flux of still shadow and a never-ending wilderness of swirling fractals bathing in the creative aeythr.

Those paint chips tempt me oh so... in the witching hour of my mad key-punching nighttide,
their sapor elicits a delightful tang resembling chilled pineapple or the copper of cooked cows blood chased with Shots of St. Germain (if you haven't had the elderflower liquor St. Germain, stop wasting your time reading my blog and mo-ped over to your local taproom for a tasting.
It's a fine and dandy little sip of deliciousness.)

Who am i kidding? I don't eat paint chips...but Count Ferris Sesquipedalian does goddamn it!

My other literary venture focuses on employing all sorts of different devices such as ad-libs, random sections that can be shuffled and sorted to creative unique outcomes at every reading, and choose-your-adventure style page turning.

Although it hasn't been officially titled I’ve been referring to it as
How to Properly Dispose of a Ouija Board
after some fascinating magical texts i came across written by the late Aleister Crowley.

So thats what i've been so busy with lately, that and my manuel labor job of metropolis-style indentured servitude.

Something tells me i should prepare a will,
what will kill me first, the burden of writing or the heavy lifting work environment.
Anybody up for taking wagers?
All bets'll be collected in the back by lou the chinaman.

Until our next embrace,
do not forsake the rain!

The Scoop on Read & Destroy

I have just begun organizing Read & Destroy, a brand new art initiative with the sole purpose of printing, posting, and distributing visual art, fiction, and poetry free to the public.

For more on the project
check out the blog at
http://readanddestroyit.blogspot.com

And for all the creative folk
interested in submitting to the site you can send your work to
read.and.destroy@gmail.com
We respond and comment to all submissions!

You can send all questions, comments, concerns, inquiries etc.
to my email address ouija.goat@gmail.com


With Good Medicine,
Your Most Humble Goat of Boardgames

Pink Wheelchair

First some facts then some verse.


Barbie Doll Factoids & Footnotes

* Mattel makes roughly 1.9 billion dollars yearly on the Barbie Doll.

* 3 Barbie dolls are sold every second.

Barbie’s neck is twice the length it should be,
her legs are longer than her torso,
And her feet are freakishly small…suggesting possibly the practice of foot-binding.

Barbie’s features and physique converted into realistic measurements:

Height: 7 feet, 2 inches
Weight: 110 lbs
Hips: Between 30 and 36 inches
Waist: Between 18 and 28 inches
Bust: Between 38 and 48 inches

Based on this abnormal body type,
Having the spine of a prepubescent girl, overdeveloped legs, underdeveloped feet and forearms, and a hypertrophied neck,
Barbie would be forced to crawl around on all fours like a crippled giraffe.

It is worth noting that if such a being existed it would have great difficult avoiding the fracture or ultimately the disassembly of the lumbar spine due to alien joint placement.

Also, based on the converted measurements Barbie would not have the 17 to 22% body fat required to properly menstruate.




Brain-dead Barbie has Nice Tits

“Women who seek to be equal with men lack ambition”
-Dr. Timothy Leary

Zythepsary funk beat-shop swing, I found a home…I’m a lover.
I found paperback romance, enticing in the hourglass configuration and acetylene finish of curving brows twist-tied behind cardboard and finely woven polymers.

The alehouse-taproom taverns of hemp and of hop, where accordion foothills meet behind streams of moist clay and tiger lilies. Where roadhouse hussies work the gallows and plot penny dreadful infidelity.

It was in this sanctorium I rest liquored and salty, prostrating in the wisp of unworldly malaise. The vague discomfort of recent infibulation piercing like Berkowitz…stroking the Bavarian lederhosen of a Bird Lilli villenage.

A miasma of graham cracker pheromones, shambling in six inch ankle-wrap spikes; impressionable coquettes affection control to faceless contrivances drudging through
acrylic Mc-mansion’s in protest.

Teenage fashion supermodels fresh from the leucotomy farm conjugating like Wuornos barflies and flirting up like French-maids in jazz clubs thick with carbon monoxide. I was not busy embalming or honeymooning, I was lurking sinister in the effluvium of Mattel’s cocktail lounge plotting a little bit of heartbreak.

Candy-striping philanderers would labor for the possessive attention of lucrative stockbrokers. Permeating through the enigmatic vapor of July 9th delirium tremens. They are nothing but confounded dishonesty and dissatisfaction in the luscious tyke forms of high society!
You’ve got to thank Ruth Handler, for without her matriarchal devotion your spawnship would have been nothing more than a nocturnal emission.


She appears beloved, blossoming ambivalent with those weak stomachs of rape.
Incapable of reproduction, impeding on digestion and pinched nerves.
Barbara Millicent Roberts bares the delineate proportions prayed for by wishful thinking girl scouts. Busts and wet crotches suffused in polyvinyl chloride. Features that graze all adolescent boys onanistic daydreams, disrupted by the florescent lighting fixtures beaming
“Real living breathing women on sale!”

She is partially crystalline, partially amorphous, smiling at the mercy of that topknot ponytail and tightly curled bangs. Compromising the catheter, cauldron tubs draining…rubber stoppers cool with bottom fear and cotton perverting voices as she scrubs the elastomer from her surface skin. She’s mint in box, one of a kind decaying beneath the lace and wires of royal corsetry. A threadbare chemise corrodes her ethylene core. Distressed by lack of human contact;
soft iris’s distant glom, teary eyes sullen with lobotomy.

She will never grow old and tell me I am worthless, slam the door in a fit of rage or add Draino to my boxcar. She does not demand affection but is grateful to be at the receiving end. She enjoys caressing to nurse but only because she can’t will her limbs out of entropy.

The refrain is sometimes frightening but memories of her and I, and the goose bumps rising sibilating yesterdays maxims like “Come hither”, “Popular with children” and
“This is all for you.”

Why did it have to come to this?
Ray Croc, Walt Disney, NASA, the Nazi party, irregular menstruation, anorexia nervosa, the committee for propagation of virtue and prevention of vice, the republicans and democrats, Malibu American dream disease, half-assed superficial friendships, rabid materialism, and the fashion industry tried to infect and consume you…and you gave in smiling sullen with lobotomy.


Note: Brain-dead Barbie has Nice Tits appeared in the literary magazine Breadcrumb Scabs.

Who Wants A Bacontini?

I submit to you a interesting recipe for vodka infused with the flavor of bacon.
Revel in the light of orgiastic pleasure pork lovers and alcoholics!

BACON VODKA

Ingredients:

1 liter of 90 proof vodka
1 mason jar
1 coffee strainer
3 strips of thick cut fried bacon

Instructions:

Step 1- Fill the mason jar to the top with fire water and then slowly but enthusiastically submerge the three strips of streaky greasy goodness.

Step 2- Store the spirit urn in a cool dark place for 3 weeks.

Step 3- When you fall upon the last day of the 3 week take your bottle of bacon booze and pop it into the deep freeze, this will solidify the fats so they can be easily strained.

Step 4- Strain the porkish intoxicant until the liquid is clean and insoluble fat renderings are absent.

You will end up with a jar of light brown liquid with undertones of bacony deliciousness.



Drink Suggestions:

The Classic Bacontini

Ingredients:
3 parts bacon vodka
1 part sweet vermouth

Preparation:
Stir into a chilled martini glass, garnish with a strip of freshly cooked bacon and
serve straight up.

Breakfast in Bed

Ingredients:
2 parts bacon vodka
2 parts Bailey's irish cream
splash of real maple syrup

Preparation:
Combine 2 parts bacon vodka, 2 parts Bailey's irish cream, and splash of maple syrup (none of this ms. butterworths shit, only the real deal will do) in a shaker full of ice.
Strain into a chilled highball glass and enjoy.

Stiff Pig

Ingredients:
1 part bacon vodka
1 part soda water
1 part date syrup

Preparation:
Drizzle the inside of a chilled pilsner glass with date syrup.
Combine bacon vodka and soda water over ice and serve.

Antlered Piggy on Fire!

Ingredients:
1 part bacon vodka
1 part Jagermeister
1 part Everclear
1 beer

Preparation:

The bacon vodka, Jagermeister and ever clear are combined in a shot glass in equal parts. They are then ignited with a lighter. The shot is then extinguished in a chilled pilsner glass of beer.


Cheers!
You now know the craft of fine pork ethanol,
drink up piggies and don't set your damned heads on fire.

To Hell with Prosody!

So i figured i'd post some poetry... rather befitting a doctor of bloated-alien baby verse tee-hee.
This piece first appeared in an untitled tome of poems (the green book) i put out in the summer of 06.

Donald Lev, the bearded archon of New York coffeeshop epigrams was kind enough to publish this ditty
(minus the music in this and all contexts in the name of all things holy) in his quarterly publication
"Home Planet News."

Enjoy my delicate snow flakes.

Exiles Human Sushi

Amid the flowing rapture, full bodied caramel.
Sky is hell red, dreamy eyes stranded.

We’ve got to bury this hatchet, It’s getting old.
We’ve got to bury this red-light before it seesaws you raw.
We’ve got to get back our fingertips,
and bury these sooty meat cuts in the patio section.

Thinking of things that can top each others miserable company;
Like no-doze ronin demanding sweet rice, refuge and beer.

Something soft and somehow slightly wet caressed the inline of your temple.
The serum of your injury ran down your rundown torso.
And you said “mankind suffers the little children, sucking joyfully.”
And your words became you.

A snow white leper riving watermelon steaks,
Setting up and sending out wakame sake and love bites for the lady boy geishas.

And you said
“I like to play with my food before I swallow” and so you did.
Carrying your broken English like a handbag.
I see so much of myself in you.


Your dotty to call that the “breakfast of wastrels“,
It’s obviously a “broadband brunch” with violent comedy options.
Your clothes are all ripped up, your moneys in the streets. Your in the end inessential, but it’ll be just fine by me.
Accommodating a bunch of sportsters with their punch-perms and swords, sifting through the refuse for their disconnected pinkies.
And through all of this human sushi, not a single female body.

A thousand years of cold handshakes, just within reach.
I like to sneak in at night and lay down on the table saw...
They fine-tuned insomnia for the yakuza!

Honeyed integument---sweetmeat gaudy redskins had taken them,
nailing them naked to colored.

A small rustle of wings in sacred woods, In singing phosphorus,
muzzles low hanging speckled emerald.

And all these worlds lead back to her rosy navel and rows of deep ocean.


© Justin F. Parrinello (August 2006)
*- Exiles Human Sushi appeared in Home Planet News issue #63

Animus

Really what is the point in all of this?

Animus

The answer, I have absolutely no clue...

Submit to me a thoroughly informative and imaginative assemblage of assertions outlining, defining, and summarizing the functional purpose and intent of this reverse-chronological log of thoughts, verse, and blundering about in a clean crisp grammatically correct description paragraph and I will send you your choice of either a mint condition

Zuni hunting doll fetish
or a freshly shaven almost certainly purblind mogwai

free of charge...just pay shipping and handling.

No really. I'm serious!

U.S. Patent # 5,063, 163

Who knew it was the counterfeit detector pen?
The funny money super stylus!
The currency-discoloring imposter-detecting amalgamation of simple ink and iodine.

Yellow or clean and its the real Mccoy, brown or grey... and its bullshit.
Tough rap my man.

I read recently that a band of Hungarian counterfeiters had developed a complex method of reproducing U.S. water marks and security strips. And they're using expensive fiber woven papers to avoid reaction from detector pens who only pass judgment on wood-based parchment. Good stuff!

We'll have to voodoo conjure Willem Dafoe from a thespian sepulcher in Appleton, Wisconsin to reprise his legendary role as Rick Masters!

"19th Century Cameroon, yes? Your taste is in your ass."
Followed by a volatile blast of a 9mm Glock with a water-cooled suppressor into Carl's cranium and through his prefrontal cortex and onto the Persian rug and dilapidated Venetian blinds.

I just got all 1985 crime drama nostalgic on ya ass.

Perhaps the first and last time I will ever use the pronoun "Ya" in place of your... i cringe at its utterance and yet i have allowed its careful composition in my first post at that.

To Live and Die in L.A. is a wonderful film though, if you haven't seen it immediately stop what you are doing put on some ill-fitting pastels , grab your snuggly (sinfully ugly) cabbage patch kid cinema companion, and take a swing in your 2-door Chrysler Lebaron over to the local VHS rental outlet. Don't forget to pop "I Ran" by Flock of Seagulls into your cassette deck.


This is what I have to show for by the way,
after an assiduous half hour of deep cerebral contemplation.

What new and exciting, visionary and profoundly interesting mass of subject matter will i hurl onto the wandering monitors that stumble across the concertina-wired cobblestoned
brick-ways of my first official blog entry?

Effortless movie plugs,
Banter about counterfeit money, and the word Falanouc...which is the name of an awesome carnivorous mongoose-like mammal native to Madagascar.