"Bees with sweet honey in their mouths have bitter stingers in their tails..." (Killah Priest)
Boy, isn't that the truth?!
"This isn't about laughter, this is about comedy..."
(Andrew "Dice" Clay. The Day the Laughter Died.)
The revelation of my tri-annual STD test has become like my own little version of the Oscars. It happens once every four months at Country Village Skate Park, and believe you me, I treat it with all of the pomp and circumstance of a black-tie affair. Typically my move is that I draw the test results from my backpack, in a sealed envelope of course, and make my way to the top of the 6-block where underneath it the wayward youth of Miami Gardens and Miami Lakes gather, as if their own degenerate, scumbag Moses was about to hand them the new law. A hush falls over the park as the sound of my shaking, neurotic hands fumbling with the envelope and frantically tearing it open becomes amplified by the anticipation. I pull the results from the envelope and quickly start flinging aside any unnecessary data that has no bearing on this moment. "My prostate is the size of and has the appearance of a jackfruit, you say? Whatever. Oh, wait, does this say my blood sugar is underneath 40mg? Um, is that bad? Fuck it! What's this here? Eh, Anemia Schlamenia... Ah... here it is..."
(The children push up closer now.) "OK, and the December 2022 bloodwork of your Droog, Lord and Master read as follows, oh gosh I'm so nervous... anyways... the results say..."
(There is no drumroll but the homies start tapping the tails of their decks on the floor to mimic tympany.)
A tear rolled down my left eye, I sighed, then I declared:
"OH MY GOD! I DON'T BELIEVE IT! GUYS... I DO NOT HAVE ANY STDs!!!"
A roar of cheers and the sound of yeeting fills the park and scares the birds out of the laurel trees. The weekend-delinquents rejoice that their "O.G." (as they so affectionately address me) has ducked social diseases like Neo eluding bullets in The Matrix and has been given a clean bill of health which he considers a license to continue to recklessly plunge his dick into everything and anything standing in his way, including the mashed potatoes, for another 4 months!
With tears in my eyes and a shaking voice I gave my speech:
"I just want to thank the creator without whom none of this would be possible."
(Have you ever seen an adult film award ceremony where girls are thanking god and their parents after having received the award for "best triple anal in a gangbang"? You'd think that those receiving their "acks" would prefer not be mentioned... But, back to my speech...)
"I want to thank everyone I've worked with in the last 4 months, but more importantly I would like to thank all the Uber drivers that dropped off broads at the "Blue Room" and then shipped them right the fuck out of here, this bloodwork is for you, the little people that made it happen.
Then, with tears again, I exclaimed to my onlooking, doe-eyed disciples... "AND I JUST WANTED TO SAY THAT I CAN CHANGE, AND IF I CAN CHANGE YOU CAN CHANGE, WE ALL CAN CHANGE!!!...
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It's the Misanthropaganda Year End Extravaganza. Fuck 2022!
Clichés, idioms and figures of speech do not always ring true and can often be based on very little substance. Take that old number for example- the one that says "no news is good news". To me, asides from being an evident mantra for the socially indifferent and a flimsy justification for neglect, it fundamentally just does not make sense to me.
"Hey man, have you heard from Fulano at all lately?"
"Nah, he's been lost!"
"Oh, OK, well then I guess that no news is good news..."
(Fulano was kidnapped by Mexican cartel members one month ago at a Chevron in Cutler Ridge. He was shot twenty seven times in the face with a .22 while being boiled alive- his hands and feet bound in barbed wire. His now donut of a noggin was then beheaded with a rusty machete. It took about 20 to 25 hacks before his melon came off, most of the hacking was to break through the bones in the neck. His body was then burned over a pile of horse feces and empty cartons of Negra Modelo while the boys from Sinaloa took turns fucking his skull through the eye sockets. No news is good news.)
My point is that my lengthy hiatus, way out of character for your droog and narrator, has not been due to some intense creative endeavors that have had me cooped up in the lab cooking up the next batch of marvelous shit that no one gives a flying fuck about. That would substantiate that obnoxious idiom "no new is good news". Really, my unfruitfulness seems to have carried over from my last post in which I had zero updates on Acid War Hippie or Curbs And Ledges, and was quite unapologetic about it. Quite frankly on the writing front, unfortunately it rings true that "no news is no news". I think that I assumed Tarantino would have bought the rights to Diazepam Dreams by now, (copies still available), which he hasn't.
Yet!
Ironically enough, recent adventures and incidents have put wind underneath Acid War Hippie's wings once again, so once this post is in the can and in turn up yours, I'm buckling down for real this time. This may be gnarly yet. It is now clear to me that my writing pause is due to nothing other than not having suffocating sadness from which to draw from, nor the shenanigans that usually follow my grief, implemented to try and "snap out of it". These little episodes provide about a day's worth of fast-fleeting relief but a lifetime's worth of material. Acid War Hippie may very well be my magnum opus...
...or the Magnum in my mouth!
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In between doing my very best at being a miserable prick, pushing around on a useless wooden toy and weekly (at minimum) visits to my neighborhood brothel I have not done anything but self-destruct at a yachts pace through all types of waters since my last post in January. The ghost ship sails at night when he hears the siren calls, steering straight towards the rocks his course shall not stall. In the flotsam and jetsam that's where he shall best them, as he backstrokes through wreckage that sank all the rest of them...
(Man, I do nihilism with such style and grace... I'm like a Cadillac... that is about to veer off of a cliff... Ah, let me bask in it... Let me swish it in my mouth before spitting it right in your face you green-eyed jealous twit.)
Self-destruction can be positive though. It isn't always the dark and morbid pursuit that some people find it to be. (Not entirely). Many of the eastern schools of higher thought subscribed to a "lose yourself to find yourself" philosophy in regards to enlightenment and transcendence which is why you see the Sadhus up to all sorts of whacky hijinks to mortify the flesh. The obliteration of the ego is the goal there. I am not sure if the following admission is a testament to my iron will or an indictment of my stubbornness but my ego is still well intact despite unimaginable rites of self-degradation that I have submitted it to; but I get what the Babajis have been trying to achieve for centuries, and respect it.
You cannot argue that the austerities that these holy men perform for the sake of enlightenment require some level of self-mastery. Religious austerities don't work for me I have come to learn, and believe you me that I have subscribed to a couple. My spiritual path, or perhaps just an idiosyncrasy, is to walk in both worlds- day and night, dark and light, and so good deeds deserve tasty treats- the finest choice, best cuts of meat. My spirit animal is the leopard after all and this one in particular likes gnawing on his bones till they lodge at his throat. Perhaps it is my sins that drive that innate desire in me for moments, or passages, of spirituality. Perhaps that is my balance in the universe -non balance... flux...
I've come to the realization that I need my ego to remain prominent because ultimately it is what administers my suffering. Suffering is good. It is necessary. The flesh must be mortified. You must suffer to cleanse, suffer to grow, suffer to strengthen, and suffer to know... but I digress. Ultimately, every human's ego is his own master's whip; only it is the self-aware, the truly conscious that recognize this truth best, being that they are the ones that feel the lashings down to their very souls. (Then they typically dig and poke into the lacerations, trying to find the reasons or the justifications for the scourging, causing infection that spreads and never heals.)The bigger the ego, the bigger the whip, and this is why I have managed to beat myself worse than an animal.
(Do you want to talk about Napoleon Complexes? Madonn' )
Nothing can be rebuilt upon an old foundation. It must all come tumbling down to rubble, to ashes and soot, whitewashed by countless downpours. The earth underneath the wreckage must be pounded, pressed and flattened before a new cornerstone can be laid. You cannot be born again if first you don't die. Well, I've been hanging from my rope long enough. I have been taking a sledgehammer to my walls, a claw-hammer to my balls, pulverizing block by block, blow by labored blow, scorching everything surrounding me and then doing rain dances daily to prepare the new site for what comes next, be it an opulent temple to my spirit or a shithole sanitarium for my mind.
"I'm who I always wanted to be when I grew up!"
In all of its simplicity, those eleven words have flipped my perception upside down in regards to my station in life. I am indeed who I want to be when I grow up, which I haven't yet, and that's the whole beautiful point! Sure, it has come with a price, as do all things in life be they fruitful or consequential; but now that the dust from the destruction has begun to settle, and a few heavy rains have washed away the ash and soot I can see the new foundation, and the price of this demolition job was worth every agonizing cent/tear/bead of sweat/drop of blood/jiz stain on my car seats. The juice was certainly worth the squeeze.
This is an intense moment in the timeline. Astral seals are being loosened, for better or worse, for blessing or curse, and I feel a current once again, a charge like that which carried me through my transfiguration and the writing of Diazepam Dreams that is almost palpable.
Self-realization is not a narrow path. It is not a singular path. It is not a business nor a monopoly. You can't tithe for it, or buy it at a book store. You won't reach it while in Downward Facing Dog or whatever. It eludes you. If you seek it, you will not find it. You can easily walk upon it backwards, fall into it, or have it fall off a tree. Quite possibly, even in moments of utter chaos and confusion, we may be as at-one with the universe and as detached from material nature as it gets. One could be experiencing the most divine of spiritual raptures while submersed in decadence or depravity. By this reasoning, I am no longer just your Droog, narrator, Lord and Master, but also, I'm your fucking Bodhisattva!
Order from chaos. Chaos from order. Duality. Balance. As above, so below.
(Insert esoteric cliche here.)
(Build-Destroy-Rinse-and-Repeat.)
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Have your children received the mark of the beast?
Well, what are you waiting for?
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Snappy Comebacks for the Man on the go!
i was a vandal, a common thief and a dime-bag peddler, and so i was never asked to knock on doors that concealed murderers or embezzlers... but i went behind white curtains where mysteries were revealed of spiritual roots, primal in age, oral traditions that shunned ink on page, moral fables of the old gods and their ways, but once again, the same old odds, the mystery behind the white linen sheet was that the only dark art practiced there was deceit... that men are lower than the soil beneath our feet... i'll recycle my own prose to describe our robes -they were just elegant and long enough, in primal colors with a silky buff, folkloric to add credence to the role but more importantly elegant enough to conceal the iniquities in our souls.
i was on an enlightened path, or vice versa i should say. I was on the path to enlightenment, seeing progress along the golden way and only sinning on the sabbath day. I understood the cost of my freedom which i guarded till the end, then sold it away at some jewelry store to legitimize some white-trash whore with a ring that ended up being more of a noose. the flamingo became a gander at the hands of a silly goose. i've committed suicide-by-conjugate a million times in the past but why do they all come from such low social orders all these broads that i settle for and then ditch so fast. I hung from my own custom built gallows. (at least the fall into her was shallow.) i swung there lifeless for years. My face burned from the sun and the desert sand in the wind. Then it stung when my tears would find their way in open skin, festering, gesturing the vultures to feast.
... and as i came to make the empty proclamation that through these sanguine chambers life will no longer find what joy there may be, the universe just in order to cut me down, to make me kneel without my paper crown, did worse then bring love to revive the black chasm, it brought the uncertainty of the possibility that quite possibly, just maybe, all of the pitfalls prior were to make the happy-ending that much more fruitful to the crier. A daemon incarnate or so I thought, a new love fallen off the vine, from evergreen memories of mine, to revitalize this white pigeon heart before detonation time. Man, how I cried... and for what, I'm not sure. For love or infatuation my suffering and self-flagellation was innocent, pure. But I writhed on the floor on like 4 grams of spores, actually I think more, and in the psychedelic plane i said fuck this 50/50 split, fuck the odds, fuck the gods, fuck the signs -whether hers or mines, fuck happiness to be had (it only winds up bad), fuck this 'she loves me/she loves me not', fuck this shit, fuck this bitch, i can find other ways to scratch that itch. she won't believe how fast i'm able to switch. yea, i know other ways to scratch that itch...
(...like scratching away so the wounds do not heal, so that they stay fresh, so that i can punish myself through analysis in depth, there's still so much humiliation left on that bone, and this leopard gnaws for the satisfaction of purely my throat alone...)
Still, this leopard never lost his spots. He just started noticing the halves outweigh the have-nots, seeing a little mini juggernaut in the mirror became clearer to me. The little fuck-up in the mirror became that much dearer to me. He just became forgotten in unmeasured time and predestined discrepancies. If I would have gained the whole world what would it have been to me? After all, I own a palace of wisdom yet choose to sleep in the yard, that's just my spiritual idiosyncrasy. At the end of the day, for better or worse, for blessings or curse, what the gods put together no man can tear asunder. Sure I failed and met disgrace, fingered her twat as I stroked her face, danced with her a funeral dirge with shaking hands upon her waist. (Even went down low for a taste). Salty is her coveted secret, like tears, and in the end they precede or succeed themselves, so why the fuck do I bleed myself?
well I'm dry now but that's not to say that another deluge won't wash me out again at any given day... and that's okay... because being driftwood from a ghost-ship is what I chose before I dove from the highest abode. it's the price to pay for whom and what I choose to obey, me, its the gift that I yearned for its cost -blood and tears by the day... and that's okay. i would not have wanted to be any other way, despite the humiliation, degradation, subjugation, desolation, i would not have wanted to be any other way, and ultimately, i am exactly who i want to be when i grow up, or grow out...
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Boy Harsher
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As a parting gift for the holidays, here, enjoy this little freebie... this is the titular poem from the poetry zine (Misanthropaganda002) that followed Diazepam Dreams. This thing is my baby, my favorite of all of my "children"... When I wrote this in 2020, I pretty much decided I would never write another poem again (which I have, but have never again reached the satisfaction that this piece gave me). I had never made a focused effort to write and compile poetry before the release of Death Metal Phone Sex, and once I penned the eponymous poem, it became my dark joy, my favorite piece of writing that I have ever thrown down for so many reasons. It was based on a tragic, pseudo-romance that was going on (just in my head) as I was putting together the zine and really the poem wasn't even planned. When I wrote it, I not only documented one of the darkest and most crushing infatuations that I have ever experienced in my life but I finally discovered the way to make sense of the zine's title which was a random amalgamation of words that have sat in my head for a decade.
Currently, a new elaborated version of the piece is being worked on by an ultra-talented homie from the local skate spot who will be creating artwork inspired by the poem itself. I'm looking into releasing DMPS with maybe four (at most) new poems and the homie's visual take on them in nice glossy paper as a small digest-format zine. (Super-stoked on this! I always wanted to give this thing a much more proper release.) Please enjoy and hopefully you shall do so to the extent that I do when I read this... so here it is... the poem that made the very frigid MisAnthro' assistant editor Samantha Cadiz exclaim, in her words, "get moist"...
Death Metal Phone Sex
Lets have Death Metal Phone Sex, just you and I, where I will softly describe the unspeakable horrors that will thrill you and scratch that itch that has been nagging for some time now.
(If the curiosity doesn’t kill you… )
You can be my personal dancer.(I will become your emotional cancer.)
At last you’ll hear my tales of terror as only I can make them plush, I’ll make sure you get all of the pleasure out of it when I’m the one to gush.
My attribute is brutality, like my honesty (it’s the erotica of apostasy.)
An unveiling… an autopsy… no coroner, just me.
But don’t dare put it past me, I can be a ballad too- sweet and full of
comforts (sterile, yet so nasty.)
My crescendo from slow grind to a frenzied pummeling… but musical and lyrical at base. My tone- distorted and overdriven, makes your metronome heart race and blood to start bubbling…
You’ll find it so fucking hot that the content is all so troubling ( Much like flesh veiled in lavender lace as you become my Clarisse and I feast
on your face.)
Lets have Death Metal Phone Sex; but you have to try and decipher the words. Read between the lines and look past the signs, it’s not so much about what you thought you heard; rather, it is more about the depths that I stir when my breakdown drops-
the murky chasm that is deep within…
a luxurious, obscure abyss where my interment begins.
An abandoned chamber, a sweet iniquitous den, yearning to be filled by a
private Leviathan; it aches and throbs to be rubbed raw vicariously through the
goriest slashes of my poison pen.
Lets have Death Metal Phone Sex, because once you understand the nuances of this form and fall into the groove, and brace yourself for the sudden blasts, and realize its all just math -the algebra of all I am…
of everywhere I’ve been…
of all my dissonant notes and sad melodies combined (passion and rage
intertwined),
of my virtues, of my sins…
that is when you’ll reach your peak… as I speak you into the state and you bask in the aftermath with my dissected heart draining into your bubble bath.
Then it will all become clear, true and sincere, the origin of this train
of ghouls that I’m the engine for- this tragic magick of contamination evermore,
contracted when succubae drop their wares on my shiny floors.
What better score for my morbid metaphors than you moaning over my distant,
muffled cries of pain?
Only, your moans will be of mourning, as if groaning in lamentation, as
when our distance makes me howl just the same.
Lets have Death Metal Phone Sex, just you and I.
I’ll expose myself to you in the form of a penetrating song, just short of
three minutes long.
I will skip the intro and get straight into the script, the flesh of it… to the entrails of your preferred victim- a gory description veiled by allegory and encryption, a story of such naïve perversion to which there is no censored version.
You pop out of one of your heels, press your knees together, quivering hands clutch pearls, drag them to your mouth into clenched teeth, but then you pull them tight against your throat. Welcome to my cold, grey world.
Auto-erotic asphyxiation or sympathetic suicide, you decide the way to go…
(Myself, I’ve chosen infatuation, a morbid fixation –the cruelest means to my own end that I know)
With tears I’ve watered seeds you’ve planted, but I dare not reap what you
have sown.
With no fear I’ve buried my slaughtered needs, but I’ll be candid, there
will always be meat on their bones.
When I end-call it will be the end-all of the curiosity that has slain you, the great revelation of the two-headed beast.
You’ll melt and drip all down your throne as I melt and drip into the brimstone.
I’ve dealt my trip, a rip-and-dip through the circle of salt that I've cast around the friend-zone.
Now press your lips for the goodbye kiss, I'm sure you'll 'blow it' right after the
dial-tone.
Lets have Death Metal Phone Sex, whenever you like…
just call me…
I’m usually all alone in the dead of night...
Eat your heart out bee-yotch...... see you next year...
bye!!!
Franky what is your adress
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