When I have time. I'm busy.
In the meantime, here's a preview video:
11/13/09
"Science is Magical" up in a couple of days
When I have time. I'm busy.
In the meantime, here's a preview video:
Fizzishing
10/24/09
Science is Magical
9/21/09
Version Galore
Our good friend Gregory Kraj of A1 Records is a recording machine. The latest thing on the A1 menu: version records. Check 'em out for free or give Greg money and help him out. Click on the album covers below to download.
Other A1 Records albums for (free) download:
Two new ambitious poems to be used as libation in ceremonies concerning the Dynamo GODFORM
Proletariat Boogie
(to be read in the factory, Mayakovsky style, as aggressive slam poetry with extra points for being jeered at and ignored by the workers)
When you prove to be a theoretician, it's the happiest day of my life baby, because I'm a fucking vampire and I'm coming for you...
coming downtown in the frown-crown alley way; swinging round the poles and holes; gallivanting like a fuck duck luck truck who never deserved it with my baby skin thin body-rim garbage trim and that worthless gleam in my eam courting my smirk (born of too many girls and too little inspiration) and I watch as the fucking commiseration comes swooping in fast at last — moment, give me a —, because we'll help you out but only after sufficient devolution-clout (and only after we've witnessed it of course because our comprehension skills and cognitive abilities are of high mythological proportion and not ideological extortion and did I mention that your face is an abortion), but I only scoff — like a loff troff hoff b'goff — maniacally at this point, far beyond the land of respect (because I'm in debt [to your aborted face]), eternally ungrateful (like a crate full) of hateful Canadian maple (syrup — oh shit was it good up until now, as if you have taste, recommend a movie to the ineffability of my laugh) and ready to burn holes in your torso with my laser-eyes; and ready to relentlessly suck the fucking blood out of your avant-communist theories.
(to be read in the factory, Mayakovsky style, as aggressive slam poetry with extra points for being jeered at and ignored by the workers)
When you prove to be a theoretician, it's the happiest day of my life baby, because I'm a fucking vampire and I'm coming for you...
coming downtown in the frown-crown alley way; swinging round the poles and holes; gallivanting like a fuck duck luck truck who never deserved it with my baby skin thin body-rim garbage trim and that worthless gleam in my eam courting my smirk (born of too many girls and too little inspiration) and I watch as the fucking commiseration comes swooping in fast at last — moment, give me a —, because we'll help you out but only after sufficient devolution-clout (and only after we've witnessed it of course because our comprehension skills and cognitive abilities are of high mythological proportion and not ideological extortion and did I mention that your face is an abortion), but I only scoff — like a loff troff hoff b'goff — maniacally at this point, far beyond the land of respect (because I'm in debt [to your aborted face]), eternally ungrateful (like a crate full) of hateful Canadian maple (syrup — oh shit was it good up until now, as if you have taste, recommend a movie to the ineffability of my laugh) and ready to burn holes in your torso with my laser-eyes; and ready to relentlessly suck the fucking blood out of your avant-communist theories.
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