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I Don’t Like You

A. V. Cheshire:

Fucking Fantastic. Watch out for a recording of me doing this poem soon.

Originally posted on Never Quite Broken:

Because you are too Irish

Or too French

Probably a damn American!

You drink too much

Lay around the house on welfare!

Smoke pot

Put stupid things on your Facebook wall!

Because you are black

Or white

Or heaven forbid brown!

Because you are Catholic, Protestant, Jewish

Tall, short, fat, skinny, blonde, red head

Or heaven forbid you dye your damn hair like a freak!

Because you are a lesbian, or gay,

Or dammit, I think you may be!

You have a tattoo

Or you have one that I hate

Even worse, you have one that I admire!

I don’t like you because you spoke to my husband

And he is mine!

Or I think my friend likes you more than me!

You get better grades than I do

Or you are a better writer than I am

Or you came up with a better idea than I did!


View original 198 more words

::::Machines in Heaven are Playing London::::

My mates’ band is playing London. They’re pretty good. You should check them out if you’re in the area of Hackney tommorrow evening. More info here.

They sound like this.

[Aesop Rock]
5 day forecast clouds in a piss cup
Trying to pinpoint when the shit went tits up

[Kimya Dawson]
Whatcha gonna do to get your ass out of this rut
So you don’t have to live your whole life tits up

[Aesop Rock]
Precious, brothers ain’t a name in lights
A last rice cake shared under flames and dice
That know to cope, gotta swap old campfire chillers
The kind that only grow in vampire state cellars
And climb out of jars when they migrate westward
Where they were free of any chessboard square
Hi, I don’t shake beer in the dark
I write but I’m no Shakespeare in the park
I’m a grownsed up punk with an ear for a heart and I hear you
Please wait here for the ark
Yes sir. Likely to fester inactive unless they address all the death
And distraction, shake hands with a foxhole raider
Got a grip like c-c-c-c-combo breaker
Tally up the dead folk squashed in a car
Fire still warm they couldn’t have gone far

[Kimya Dawson]
Packed up tough in your double stuff swimtrunks
Cannonballs recalled when your shit split
Tits up

[Aesop Rock]
New high score on the IHop Dig-Dug
Pretty cool otherwise pretty much
Tits up

[Kimya Dawson]
How can I save you when I can barely save myself?
Codependent No More on my audiobook shelf
Cruise to your town in my cape and my unitard
See what I can do with my lyrics and my guitar
Now I got my sidekick who brings the beatdown
Have you seen the size of his feet?
Clown shoes with his own name in gold on the side
If you’re in the dark we’ll bring a little Lite Brite
Pop in the pegs
Make cute pictures
Pick up some merch, make us permanent fixtures
On the self-help shelf of your record collection
So if shit’s tits up you can make the selection
That will take you from limp to a little bit pumped up
Our HQ is gluten free bun truck
Shhh, zip your lips
Don’t tell the bad guys
Shine that giant bun signal in the sky
Wait a few months for us to arrive
Big group hug, a little awkward

[Aesop Rock]
One day you’re in luck
One day you’re stealing cigarettes from a flipped truck
Dick face, Tits up

[Kimya Dawson]
You feel a little better when we sign your high tops
When you get home it’s the same old tits up

[Aesop Rock]
One half megafawna one half mall rat, haul ass
Straight face, dove-tailed ball cap
Grape ape unveil plans for the van use
Drive to your shit town, tell you that your band rules
Live with the get down, maybe out of shampoo
Radio on scan for a stanza to lampoon
Under the bum drum cutter is a real motherfuckers’ motherfucker, motherfucker

[Kimya Dawson]
Alex Karras and Conraid Bain and Leather Tuscadero
And Pinky and the Brain re-enacting the Universal masturbation movie
Dolph cold cocks Courtney love boobies and that over the shoulder anaconda holder
You were close to the hole, you’re getting colder
Bogeyed your birdie when I powdered my putter
But there ain’t no fluffer that can fluff this nutter

[Aesop Rock]
One day you’re in love
One day you’re pills suck
One day your shits fucked
Nip tuck tits up

[Kimya Dawson]
Snookie in a snuggie at the walt witman pitstop
Cinnabon, Bon Jovi, slippery tits up

[Aesop Rock]
High noon, milk duds, cherry cola big gulp
Corn dog, dim sum, moon die, tits up

[Kimya Dawson]
Swab your six lips with cholorform litmus
Colorforms, horshack, Rorschach
Tits up

[Aesop Rock]
Hey Mom, life’s good, works great, tip tops
P.S. send cash, half dead, Tits up

[Kimya Dawson]
Riding on the back of Undercat Battlepop
Underoos, big sword, top drawers
Tits up

[Aesop Rock]
Can’t plug and old faithful with a fist fuck
No rain coat, no dice
Go Tits up

[Kimya Dawson]
Shine my shoe kicking elevator missed hugs
Seventeenth floor nothing but bugs
Tits up

[Aesop Rock]
Brunch at the strip club, corn beef, crisp ones
Four teeth, pink tux, porn stash
Tits up

[Kimya Dawson]
Joey Martin Lawrence – WHOA!
Little Stevie King Tut
Bad taste walkaways, eternal blame
Tits up

[Aesop Rock]
This’ll be remembered as the year you ruined Christmas
Figgy pudding everywhere, shitty footing
Tits up

[Kimya Dawson]
Willy Wonka shooting blanks
Tae Bo Banks catwalk
Looking glass
Flexed ass
Fizzy lifting tits up

[Aesop Rock]
Block block, chop block, chop, kick, kick, punch
Step over the line if you ever feel tits up

[Kimya Dawson]
Bert cake
Shit’s punk
Trimmed muff not so much
Fluff’s tough
Tits up

::::briefly alluded:03::::

::::briefly alluded:02::::

::::briefly alluded:01::::


::::The Final Solution::::

The war
of parasitic ideologies was the major front
of what would eventually become known as
the real Final Solution;
the complete annihilation of civilisation


Sliced into cross sections
the meat of daily existence can
be tasted with greater intensity
- specific moments, once fleeting,
can be isolated and examined in greater detail.
It is only through such clarity
that the pattern of flavours,
meaningfully encoded and rich
in information, can truly be discerned.

Once the pattern is sampled it can be reproduced
and transmitted across greater distances that is possible
with traditional methods.

This decoupling of experiences from individual sensorium
and neural complexes
when combined with the multiplicity of consciousness
represents the most radical recapitulation of ontological reality
ever devised.

Freed from a reliance on meat constructs
these fragments of experiential time
are free to interact with each other and evolve
according to any emergent criteria which may manifest within
the morphology of this continuity.

::::kandinsky makes me horny::::

::::Bombastic Apocalypse Poem::::

Hide from the cursed day!
Let all of creation eat its own face in shame!
This stubborn stain blights us, one and all
- oh humanity! Will you ever find a hairstyle that doesn’t make you look like you’re one stamp away from a free chai latte?
And if Men’s Health declared that
the consumption of one’s own bath water was the key
to tighter glutes would you rush to embrace that Rosé-tinted dawning
of epitimous brain death?

Lest we forget, the signs hang from every rough-hewn surface. They beseech in such definitives
; irrefutable, immutable, as if language herself would deem to pass such proclamations!
Such limitation!
Nay! Before the end credits roll
and this unconscious plague becomes finally known
you would surely question this instience that any resemblance to those
living or dead
is purely coincidental?
What is still fed into this twilight of cognition on which is written
no longer hopes and dreams but residual images of pure distraction unlinked from even the most remedial of comprehensions may still provide salvation.
If only. I know too well your Meyer-briggs indicators
; some
barely sensing twisted flesh and bone and metal wreck of a passing shadow.
Oh, you’ll be there when the streets run red with our own waste chemicals
and i’m sure you’ll mutter and tut as they seep into the water table
and share your disgust across those ‘spheres you hold so dear
if only because they remind you of what you once thought was the best of yourself
but bore really as much resemblance to your ‘self as those vegan converse allstars
covering your crooked feet.

Cast your eyes for once away from that shallow depth of field periphery inside which your every gesture is forever limited and perhaps for once you’ll understand and not just see but frankly I ain’t holding my breath, baby.


Because writing is cheaper than therapy. ™

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