The Salton Sea (2002)
They should drop cars on people not bombs. Cars blow up in the movies all the time… they must be highly volatile. And then we could get rid of the waste too. why not? || what time is it? about that time. lesson for a person unknown in need of a watch or a reason to care about time. as einstein found out, it doesn’t exist anywhere. It’s only an adjective.
how do you know youre happy? people around you say thank you, just go with the flow. fasten seat belt. we’re steering blind ladies and gentlemen. I guess this is the craziness of speed. fuck if i try that. im not good at resisting anything. im a total catamite.
for the straight folks, there is no talking real. if you speak in truth they freeze. solid stiff like me old grandfather. that’s the truth…HR has us all by the balls. Little capitalist appeasement commissars. Commissars patrol the ranks and weed out disloyalty to THE CAUSE. Think about it.
Another bread-winning brother-husband gunned down. And why? Others who defend their space are applauded. Looking up at the clouds, as the ocean, I can only see what is reflected on me. I cannot ever know it. Not even once. All you offer is a theory or explanation. I am the truth, always. In my center is all governance. My mast rises above all. All art is an attempt to capture all reality in an image, of whatever kind. Some of the things that flow in my veins flow in yours, and a cop gunning us will bleed us both the same, down the drain. And who are they? Really? Just spawns. Just you and me recruited into The System, like so many matrices across America.
A pack of GPCs, General Purpose Cigarettes.
And sometimes i feel so out of it, i cant get out of it. a trumpet player. a writer, my brains all smeary-eyed on the laptop screen makin’ slug trails, makin’ love to it, oozing with it it all at once. Like being on the street all suicide and murder at the same time. but walkin’ with tattoos covered, some bomber pilot off an island in the sky, swoopin’ in for the low hangin pigs and what not. And may I have a cig?
so who am i what am i? some kinda review on a page or screen for you to read or a message from the underground telling you i need some kinda (ugh) help? how can i know? Ill be dead when those tombstones are printed. You can decide because (ulllggh) I’m outie, understandamento?
But who knows when a friend will appear, from the other side, whatever that means to you or me I don’t really care that’s not the point, but that stupid friend with the bad tattoo you swear is good right to his face is there. Lurking or loving, who knows. Who cares. We’re all purring or slathering at one moment or another.
Only thing is man ain’t the measure of all things except in man’s world. So when you think you’re enlightened know, or remember rather, that you can only know as much as a man can know. And then you die, motherfucker. Curse all your gods because where we’re going there is no [THIS SPACE INTENTIONALLY LEFT BLANK]
And then, after all is said and done, I like my face too much, I could never throw away my pen. But then I never used my belly button to eat a bullet.
10:41 am • 10 October 2013
Naked Lunch (1991)
So now writing is my master, lord and darkness, where a job once was. Here we go, down the hole, the machines wont make me money unless I give them something to reproduce. Something clear and bold, but spicy enough to hit repeat a few times. Like some BBQ pornography.
A thoughtless mind is an actful mind. and where is the ethical paradox resolved? whatever happens on that typewriter anyway? Just reports to Interzone?
Women are a different species? Fuck man. I should’ve been Burroughs. I’m not into being a junkie though. Women are the tools to control the “wild” in man.
We have it on good faith he’s a convict of memory. A writer lives a sad life like anyone else, the only difference is he files a report on it.
Ideas those dangerous chemicals that leach from my skull-trap to yours. Words are only there to suppress the black beast in all of us. Words are your and my civilization. Everything we know is built with words. God wasn’t here before we named him.
As words are filed away, only the asshole in you is left to play the pipes. Nothing so absurd remains in your sucked-out gutless corpse but song and fart.
Stopped at the crossroads to another existence, at the gates on whose narrow edge sits the border of the Spectacle and some faceless past, Bill pulls out his piece again and confirms his eternal recurrence. To appear telling his story over and over. No more books from Mr Burroughs. Dead and gone, slurping semen from his mentors and fantasizing about killing women. Glued to the humid inside of a Truman Show vault.
One is left to wonder if he will take his torment with him to the afterlife. And infect the word-free lands of Annexia with putrid this-timeline madness. Religions and gods and laws and economies and racisms and tax forms and collars and carbohydrates.
What a gas, thinking.
10:36 am • 26 September 2013 • 1 note
Vanishing Point (1971)
Everything’s nicer on a Honda.
It used to be pilgrims traveled roads and bandits harassed them. knights would take care of these travelers. now what? police rule the freeway, armed bands called the Highway Patrol. With duk-a-duk dragons to fly and steel horses to corral. “Let us sit in absolute tribunal outside your car door.” I hear but I think the record shows “pull over”. Should i have to pay because you noticed me driving and made an opinion about it?
Otherwise, this is a movie about a man who simply had to go fast. And a story about the sheeple left behind, begging their heroes to return and walk among them. But that’s not how it happens. The heroes are heroes only because they look that way to you. To the hero, it’s just a quest by yourself. A personal test. Just remember this— all heroes betray and all people sell out. That’s the sad truth, Kowalski. There are moving GIFs of his old life, jack-of-all-transmissions vignettes. But none of the scenes explain shit, and Super Soul turns coat. It’s a smack-into-the-steam-shovel existence that only gets you nowhere because in the end all the masses know is you hit the wall running faster and longer than anyone else. In a sweet car.
10:10 am • 26 September 2013
Strange Days (1995)
I haven’t reviewed a movie in forever but as usual I write all throughout watching them. I can’t review this movie, I think I have too much to say about it that I’ll have to take time with. But, in fact, I think it’s seriously underrated. It’s hokey and poorly made by Hollywood standards but has a really modern sensibility that obviously draws from noir tastes. Moments of stupid comedy intersperse in the whole reality of it enough that you can remember you’re along for a ride and the message shouldn’t detract from that.
However, the message in this movie is intoxicating and that is its wealth. Keep your mind open to how infected your own life is with image and you will get a powerful and orgiastic squeeze of citric acid in your brain for a moment, as you realize, all too clearly, if you can step outside your head for a second, that your life isn’t all too different from this one presented here, minus the action movie buffoonery. It’s nothing but words from people! Where’s the truth?
But it’s still not as hard to follow as Mulholland Drive. Anyway in lieu of reviewing I’m gonna post what I wrote during the movie. Unedited. Just what I wrote. It looks like a poem. I’m as disgusted as you are, believe me. (Also, think of this movie BEFORE you go watch Her), and also read Philip K Dick’s Time Out of Joint.
2000 happened. im not in the big cities but nothing happened.
the big cities arent saying anything the rest of us hear
youre doing nothing. we wanted new millenium and it opened
with old millenium 9/11 bang.
smack two and no spares,
right in the side of buildings that didn’t fall on new york
but on my little brother, signing up for war.
has he ever met a muslim? what enemy does he know?
at 13, he says he wants to defend THIS.
for what it’s given him.
no one has taught him what they stole to make it. what
heap is he trying to get on top of
am i related to it?
so the war has dragged on. but the last one televised was vietnam
now there are reality shows about no reality
and we watch those instead of reality.
the soldiers fight in darkness now,
slaves as they ever were to rich men,
but now the Roman triumphs have been cancelled.
no one hails the victors,
the victors aren’t seen, only pictures on screens,
and the screens aren’t people,
but they seem to generate fights between people.
and for that i dont trust them,
or any human who uses one.
my own doubt comes to the fore, at least,
the real me full of doubt doubts
you just as fully. as i must prove myself to you,
o might manager,
you, must give me good fuckin reason too.
we’re all waiting.
pucker up buttercup, and make it good. you’ve got one
last chance to say something.
basic rules for human life:
if you see a cop beating a human,
the enemy is in your face, not the internet battlefield.
trample a cop, or next time he tramples you.
they do not train them to be our friends.
i understand their existence to protect the peace,
but if peace needs protecting, there wasn’t
peace in the first place.
they are there to maintain the crystal
digital palaces of power that are behind them,
supporting them. the front line is always always in your face
not in the news.
what makes me sad is tomorrow i will go to work
in the morning. i am a writer
not a revolutionary. i cannot see revolution
only write about it. otherwise we wouldn’t be here
together, on this page.
but, maybe, and im interested,
maybe you’re a revolutionary?
i can only see a need to be.
maybe you can see a could be.
2:40 am • 12 August 2013