What is the freezing temperature for male ejaculate?

 

No, seriously, I would like to know the freezing temperature of jizz, just so that I can gauge whether I would have leaked gooey goodness or have shot icicles through my prick in the titanic presence of these two forces of nature. Post Punk Online (a great site by the way) posted this picture on Instagram and I fucking had a religious experience upon locking my gaze. I don't think there is nothing else to say. This picture is worth one thousand words, divided up into two halves -500 raps from Ice and 500 Siouxsie lyrics. I couldn't even begin to fathom standing in this field of electro-magnetic currents. I do just want to make one comment though, and that is that I came of age in the greatest musical period of all time. Right around the time of that first Lollapalooza tour, the musical landscape was fucking unbelievable. I will just refer you to the JUDGEMENT NIGHT soundtrack to illustrate my point. Satan bless the early 90s!!!

Bolts!

High-Kool

if god does exist,

and had not a thing to do,

he would kill himself.

Real Men

Real men don't like art or books

            Real men just want meat on hooks

        Real men have no time for love

   Real men worship god above

            Real men need to hunt and fish

                        Real men lick blood off their dish

Real men like to fuck and fight

                       Real men like their pussy tight

                   Real men earn 75k a year

                          Real men never show pain or fear

                       Real men love to drink their beer

  Real men love proving "they ain't queers"

          Real men love big tits and ass

                  Real men need their diesel gas

              Real men never, ever take drugs

                               Real men enjoy busting metal slugs

Real men are naturally born to kill

  Real men do it for the thrill

                 Real men love calling for a blitz

Real men wives often get hit

            Real men are married, have a girlfriend and another

Real men honor their father and mother

            Real men where jewelry and pluck their brows

    Real men eat poultry and cows

                   Real men have big, veiny cocks

 Real men growl and grunt when they talk

Real men are manly as can be

                          Real men are fucking abhorrent to me

"Masculinity, beats the living hell out of me"

                                                         - 108 "Solitary Confinement"

Misanthropaganda Publication's maiden voyage, Lord Teardrop's debut novel Diazepam Dreams out now. Email or DM for info on how to hook up! Bolts!!

Contact:

misanthropaganda@yahoo.com

IG: misanthropaganda_blogspot

Atlanta Girls

 If I were to tell you that this poem has been stashed away for ten years in the archives of my heart and mind, just waiting to see the light of day, would you believe me? The vivid, emotional memories of a Union business trip to Hotlanta ten plus years ago have been holding 'Freaknik' in my mind ever since. All of the thoughts and feelings that I had conceived and experienced on that trip have been bursting at my seams for a decade... until today! Today, I put all of my depression and related ills aside for a bit and tip-toed back to that week in A-T-L, and if for a moment, I basked in the wonderland of women that I had at least been fortunate to have been able to enjoy even if as a mere spectator to the game and not a participator. Atlanta may have been the exact place and time which I realized two things:

1) How "girl-crazy" I really am, and

2) That marriage was a big, big, BIG mistake.

You live and you learn. You chill and you burn...

Anyways, today, I decided to throw back a pair of Bombay doubles and tinker with a couple of lines just to finally be able to get some weight off my chest regarding that wonderful city. I couldn't possibly transform into prose every anecdote from that eventful week, but I was able to cite the standout moments of that trip. Atlanta, I love you...

Atlanta Girls

Ah, Brooke, Brooke, my babbling Brooke...

The beautiful Brooke Baldwin is cable news' bright shining star! 

Those bulbous, iridescent cheekbones as if pearls (my regards to her makeup person), the most beautifully structured I've ever seen by far; and those eyes of hers perfectly combined by color and shape, she bats them just so and I disintegrate...

What can you expect? She's an Atlanta girl!

And now, it is finally about that time... 

May the feelings of a decade past manifest into paper flesh without the threat of a dragon's breath down the nape of my neck. Atlanta, Georgia may well be where I truly learned the wonders of women -the thunder of physiques fed by southern fare, your words blundering as a response to their southern charms. Southern hospitality they come bearing with both arms and now you are rendered vulnerable, disarmed.

Brunettes and blondes, Caucasian to Black from Red-bones to Bronzed to Ebony graven images carved in honor of the gods of aesthetics, I just had to stare even if apologetic for my eyes lack of etiquette. They all sent me in search of the rhetoric that could extract a smile and a wink, a giggle as they cover their lips, if granted time to share a drink it'd be even better yet.

At the world famous "Gladys Knight's" I broke bread with a Jamaican daughter 'mi a fi sight up'. 

'Dem brains mi a fi flight out' when she heard me speak in patois sword. 'Mi a fi bring ya home to me mum fi Sunday dinner'. To hear those words from a 'society gyal', man, I felt like such a winner... My sweet, sweet Roxanne, turned me into a roasted breadfruit in her hand. Now I fully understand Gregory when he moans and says "oh gosh".

The coffee kiosk at the Hyatt Regency became a bazaar or as if a market square of eons past, where her ancient stare pierced my armor. I could smell her fragrant oil which took me there to Addis Ababa. "Are you Ethiopian?" I had the nerve to inquire. Her dark eyes brightened with wonder and riddle.

"I am, I am, how did you know, you odd little man?" 

Me:"My beloved, it's all over your face, it's like a map of the place. Your nametag may as well spell out your name in Amharic, your mystic beauty as if a spiritual retreat, now please, I'll have an almond milk latte and not too sweet."

One night in my stay this blue Lexus swerved and swayed and slid up beside me. The window cracked and a billow of weed smoke blinded me. "Come inside, boo, you look cold." It was a working girl cruising her stroll, wheeling and dealing for love on chrome dubs. I may have been drunk but luckily I was broke because I may have laid with her but Thoth knows where I would have awoke. Fuck, that weed smelled dank, wish I could have taken a toke. That leather seat couldn't have been beat on that chilly October night, and so seemed her invitation to end the trip right. But as the [G.O.D.] said "E&J had mind flippin'", and so I was spittin' hot fire with no slurring or skipping. She said "you're charming you know that?" I said "what is that you say?" She asked me "do all Miami guys holler at girls that way?" She looked like Diana Ross with six golds to the bottom. That year, she made my whole Autumn as I floated on the implications of a sex worker's words that my style and finesse can still be observed.

It was no wonder that my last day here I flooded Peach Tree Street in a deluge of tears, as I took an early morning walk to watch the Korean office girl running to the job in heels and a pencil skirt. That morning , I swear my chest hurt thinking of the million birds in the bush only to return to a vulture in hand. Atlanta, a free man took his last stand in a garden of illusions before returning to a sentence in the institution of unholy acrimony, that is, to die slowly in matrimony.  

And now that I am no longer bound, my old flesh and bones nowhere to be found, perhaps another trip to A-T-L will conjure the lustful me right back up from hell so that this tale I may tell (only with a different ending) and resurrect my passion (oh I can just imagine). Had I have been a bachelor in Hotlanta -Goddamn! There is no other way to enjoy the few small triumphs of being man. First thing on my list -a little roasted breadfruit and Ackee for Sunday breakfast with sweet, sweet Roxanne... 

Just an unfriendly reminder, Misanthropaganda Publications, a small, obscure publishing house has just pressed its first release, Diazepam Dreams, a novel by the Editor-in-Chief/High Priest under the nom de plum 'Franky Teardrop'. The novel, in a very loose way, can be appraised as an odd combination of Catcher In The Rye with Fear And Loathing In Las Vegas. This is a (reality-based) fictional work with an emphasis on mood and tone rather than on chills and thrills. The venture into fiction is a new one, as Teardrop's work has typically till now consisted of satire and critique. Anyone interested can drop a line at either our email or Instagram account for info on how to obtain a copy. There are currently 100 hand numbered copies in existence.

misanthropaganda@yahoo.com

Instagram: misanthropaganda_publications

Besitos...

Depeche Mode 'Violator'

The proper listing for an album title, at least according to the guidelines presented to me at my first official music reviewing gig (PopMatters.com, like every other wannabe writer) is to print it in Italics, and the song titles are to be listed in quotation marks. Unfortunately, this Blogger software does not allow me to apply the Italics into the title field, and so I have been relegated to an improper listing method for two years now. I'm just putting it out there -washing my hands as if Pontius Pilate. I know my business and know it well, and if there is some impropriety in the midst there is a perfectly logical explanation for it. On with it then...

I'm at a very good place right now musically. By now I have become a colossal, amorphous black mass absorbing all things that make a pleasing sound into my null organism, making them my own for all intents and purposes -sort of like a musical Akira. I'm not sure if it's attributable to maturity because frankly I've regressed so far back that I'm practically one toe deep in my mother's toxic twat again. I think, rather, it is a victory to be chalked up for this new unprecedented level of "I-Don't-Give-A-Fuck" I have recently reached that has just smashed any and all lines -perimeters- regarding the aesthetics of music, literature and their respective genres, art, fashion and perhaps even sexuality. I am boundless now. (Only through the merit of being nothing.)

That's a good thing! In a way, it is like getting a second stroll through life. With my horizons now widened exponentially, there is an entire universe out there waiting to fill me with delight at this opportune time in my journey through this dump. The time is right, the time is now, to get the best out of my midlife crisis somehow. I mean, true, life has lodged a rather large, uncircumcised, veiny member in my little balloon knot; now it is up to me to figure out which way to wiggle my ass so that I get the pleasure out of the violation (pun intended). This I am currently doing by having stumbled back into my post eighth grade/pre-high school self, with a significance that I'm sure my shrink would give a proud nod to, then he'd press the red button under his desk to have the boys with the butterfly nets rush me. This timeframe that I'm recreating was the last summer before losing myself, the real me, and becoming a cardboard cutout that I wore before myself to hide the cowering little boy behind it.

 Lately, it feels as if the universe has brought me back there by way of undertow to try and give this thing a second go. Among the many things that I have (re)discovered in this benign manifestation of my midlife crisis as my alter-ego/nom d' plum Teardrop (Frank Redux) is Depeche Mode's Violator album.  Violator was very much a soundtrack (not a personal one) of those days. I did possess the cassette at one point, but never paid it a fraction of the mind it is getting this week now that I own it on CD. There are also other reasons why Violator is in heavy spin, and it is because of the single "Enjoy The Silence", which is tied in to some recurring fantasy that I have been having regarding a character from my novel, Diazepam Dreams. Her name is Yajaira...

Violator was DM's seventh outing and it would be hard to imagine that it isn't their most critically acclaimed (I didn't feel like researching). Depeche Mode are good at what they do, which is basically just electronic music but if you would like to get more specific, then OK, synth-pop (?), Euro-pop (?). Certainly that genre is not for everyone and I am more than certain that particular hazy figures from my previous life are saying "oh, now you like it, eh Maricon?" Yes, Maricon, now I like it. The bottom line is that good music transcends genre. Also, I challenge you to sit through 10 minutes of modern day pop as opposed to 20 minutes of Violator. Go ahead, I'll wait... Back so soon?!

As for the 'danceability' of the music, so what? Let me see the most masculine of you cheloveks out there have three highballs and then not not want to dance with a smoldering hot broad to "Personal Jesus". Certainly I did more than my share of dancing (and falling down with broads) during college at Club 609 on Thursday nights. Also, my body involuntarily responds to Reggae -I go into instant skanking 'when mi a fi 'ir a chune, ya kno'... Consider that not everyone wants to stagedive and bang heads with each other. Sometimes its nice to slink around with a girl in front of you. I am a big stickler for mood music in any given situation, and there is absolutely a right time and place for this joint.

The program on Violator consists of nine tracks and clocks in at 47 minutes. I am not going to reiterate yet again my gripes with running times but this thing is right in the sweet spot. That aside, though the production is ice cold and squeaky clean, it has a wonderful dark ambient quality to it -a great musical tone that David Gahan's voice accompanies like a hand in glove. I find a type of solace in his vocal style. I am familiar with their earlier single "Strangelove" which is a great dance tune but this album is a whole other level, having received five consecutive spins since it arrived at my shithole and there are no signs that it is going to get shelved anytime soon. 

In 1990 when it dropped this thing was pretty huge, as right it should have been with all of the promotional dollars that went into hyping it. I remember as if it was yesterday the huge promo visual displays at EVERY local record store whether they were the chain shops or the two/three indies that we had here in Miami. That promotional rush costs money! That's okay, I am positive that the record company recouped and DM made out like fat rats. Violator sprung three radio hits in "Personal Jesus", "Enjoy The Silence" and "Policy Of Truth". Then, on top of the commercial success of this album, the fellas embarked on the "World Violation" tour, packing many, many stadiums in the process; and well, touring dollars are the real bread and butter of a music act. 

Anyways, this record is dope, it has loads of vibe to it. A blow by blow synopsis of Violator three decades after the fact is obsolete and unsolicited. The takeaway from this should hopefully be that this is record with a great tone, it has hints of darkness and melancholy without a full goth tilt, whereas it can be utilized as party music and keep the vibe festive yet sexy and not some "Do-the-Limbo" shit or "Guess How Many Nails In My Coffin" either. Today I may even give it a second spin as soon as I'm finished with The Exploited Punks Not Dead which is celebrating a 30-something anniversary.

Eh, what the fuck, what are you going to do? Anyways, check out Violator by Depeche Mode regardless of your typical genre. You would be surprised just how many musicians from the Punk, Hardcore and Metal scenes rock this album. You should follow suit. I recommend it for moody relaxation, sexy contemplation, and aural masturbation. Toodles. I have to get back to trying and place a complain with the Customer Service Department of the National Suicide Hotline. The guy that I got last night was a piece of shit. Their argument is that he clearly did his job since I am alive to call back today and complain.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            

   

Toy Heap

It was a glorious day in that musty, grey encasement...

While to my captors it is just a basement, to me it was a conquered realm of which I am at the helm - the top dog sitting at the apex of this food chain. Mines is a Cinderella story, from the toy gutter to toy glory, and this story all played out by the hands of fate. I did not have to inconvenience myself one bit, never once did I fret or perspire, which is why I still lay in disbelief (the whole thing is so uncharacteristic and strange)...

Fuck, has my mood changed!

The toy soldiers were trampled all the way at the bottom of the pile, since Autumn they've been buried beneath the Lincoln-logs and soccer cleats. No one will be coming to their aid for a while. The ambulance is lodged in between the TV and the wall. Sewing string entangled in countless spirals on the axles, the emergency medical transport for the battalion of "No Man's Fort" will not deliver dispatch of cover nor comfort. Over-achieving Alpha-Males, Good-Samaritans to the fifth power, now cower under a possible avalanche of teetering hobby items and novelties. It boggled me that they -the first responders had no one to respond when the ping pong table turned on them. Had the ambulance not have been bound, regardless, it never would have come around to them because...   

... the Hot Wheels cars are in gridlock at the foot of the toy chest. If I didn't know best I'd say they are never getting home, for some of them that is just fine and dandy. In stagnation they stagnate, frustrated, bored, alone, no radio on the dashboard, no meters, no gauges, a sterile vessel going nowhere. The driver of the Buick Regal, barely alive and hardly believable gropes the glove compartment for his personal armament, going to make a point-it to the center of his plastic brain basket and blast it. Toys die all the time, victims of human on toy murder, typically dismemberment, their suicide rates would blow your mind as well.

That is why there are so many Hot Wheels 'tracks' loose and with no use strewn about. Infrastructure here is somewhat obtuse since none of the vehicles here have a conductor. There is a small black slate with chalk by the tracks, but no one in the realm to be entrusted as instructor. Here, we are all just empty headed puppets at best, hollow Easter eggs in a shredded paper nest, full of nothing more than chewy gooey and sugary treats. A miniature sized bible, for some reason, also was buried in the heap, and an uproar amongst toys stoked like a furnace over who the possessor to be. All the toys wanted to be be preacher, guess work made easier from the the lack of teachers in the realm. Hanging from a branch of the Elm outside the basement hang inverted the last who blurted blasphemy against the leader -Lionel. They claimed that they had converted to another faith and repudiated his hand over this place and now as deterrent they hang in effigy and disgrace. 

Barbie and Ken were seen again half naked in shame, one is in the toy chest one is halfway out. Barbie making a quick escape before Ken's mani-pedi is done. Her and He-Man are going to have some real fun. Ken likes boy dolls and Barbie has an itch. He-Man goes both ways and for blondes will gladly hit a switch. Sometimes he and Skeletor dispel of her with haste because She-Ra is hot and bothered and will give all suitors a taste. Even Battle Cat she'll make him purr, she has beastly appetites that transcend the acceptable limits of peers.  

Balls of all sizes from Ping-Pong to Beach Inflatables, strewn about the atmosphere, one over there, three perpendicular, one in particular right before me, as in the center of gravity, the nucleus of a solar system that has fallen around me yet left me uncrushed by its force. Now I am the devourer of worlds. I'll create a new galaxy and name it after me. It seems I am the last Toy standing, though really I am just laying, my broken friends not withstanding.   

The Legos interlocked into an amorphous cluster, I prayed that those blocks would converge to build me a home where I may dwell alone; or a monolith at the very least. One that when I face my eyes point due East, towards some type of hope or wisdom. My multicolored obelisk, brightly colored, ominous, yet stupidly obvious it means nothing. Just a landmark to commemorate the day that brought this realm to a collapse while it just so happened that I remained intact, at the top of the stack -a new solar system, a new origin story to adapt...

I hereby declare myself, the Rag Doll, just inches tall, as ragged as small, torn and stitched,  The Rag Doll Emperor atop the toy heap!    

As for today I rule this kingdom. Either by luck or by right, by day or by night, I managed to be the uppermost toy, at first reach of the boy, laying at the top of a mountain of rubbish that no One wants to play with, yet sovereign I lay with, or over, the refuse that has been long forgotten. 

I am thy Lord and master, of this realm of make believe. The Rag Doll Emperor atop the toy heap.