Dec. 29 redux

Tonight i decided to have a little orgiastic explosion of death from above 1979. it's just an amazing record and i strongly suggest you ka-blammy whammy give it a listen RIGHT EFFIN NOW. I also sae Life Aquatic, it was pretty cool. I liked it, really really weird though.

So yeah if you haven't heard this band go to www.deathfromabove1979.com and you can listen to the whole album o nthe internet at decent quality. Enjoy, tell em bazooka radio sent ya.

Happy new year you dirty muthas.


turn it out - death from above 1979 - you're a woman, i'm a machine CAN
romantic rights - death from above 1979 - you're a woman, i'm a machine CAN
ready to die - andrew w.k. - i get wet
going steady - death from above 1979 - you're a woman, i'm a machine CAN
the news - jack johnson - brushfire fairy tales
go home, get down - death from above 1979 - you're a woman, i'm a machine CAN
mr. tambourine man - william shatner - spaced out
blood on our hands - death from above 1979 - you're a woman, i'm a machine CAN
black history month -death from above 1979 - you're a woman, i'm a machine CAN
panasonic youth - the dillinger escape plan - miss machine
little girl - death from above 1979 - you're a woman, i'm a machine CAN
cold war - death from above 1979 - you're a woman, i'm a machine CAN
you're a woman, i'm a machine - death from above 1979 - you're a woman, i'm a machine CAN
pull out - death from above 1979 - you're a woman, i'm a machine CAN
sexy results - death from above 1979 - you're a woman, i'm a machine CAN
you give love a bad name - bon jovi - crossroads

DEc 22 playlist

bazooka radio redux - the expigated version
"I wants to get funked up."
- The Parliament Funkadelic
give up the funk - the parliament funkadelic - 20th Century masters
who gave birth to the funk? - joe tex - funk essentials 3
hey ya - outkast - the love below
dr. funkenstein - the parliament funkadelic - 20th century masters
smells like funk - the black eyed peas - elephunk
come with us - the pocket dwellers - digitally organic CAN
ch-check it out - the beastie boys - to the 5 boroughs
abc - the jackson 5 - 20th century masters
cuter than a magazine - the erin smith band - hey, nice pants CAN
i need more love - the robert randolph band - unclassified
violation detonation - jersey - generation genocide
christmas in hollis - run dmc - greatest hits

Stop Reading Maxim Magazine

red smear
bludgeoning bludgeoning
r e d tips
scratch cutting
jutting pompously


heavy with paint
unnatural
eyes of beholder daubed with shampoo

hammer glossy pages
hammer glossy pages
choke
choke
vogue the t.v. screen
feasting on vomit and laxatives
under the knife
smile for your airbrush
my pretties . . .

On My Merry Way

(a pantoum)


The wanderlust consumes my walk
Tenaciously I burgeon on the horizon
I implore my feet to bullet kings
Uterally seeking puddles of forgotten lore

Tenaciously I burgeon on the horizon
Winding down rivulets of dark brown sorrow
Uterally seeking puddles of forgotten lore
Onomatopoeia presents me with bicycle wedding rings

Winding down rivulets of dark brown sorrow
Swimming in my own crapulence
Onomatopoeia presents me with bicycle wedding rings
Occipital lotion lewdly lubricates my fingers in preparation

Swimming in my own crapulence
I please the monkey junkies with dog bricks
Occipital lotion lewdly lubricates my fingers in preparation
Crammy Grammies undulate their pudding skin on stone

I please the monkey junkies with dog bricks
Smiling incandescently they wait in rapture
Crammy Grammies undulate their pudding skin on stone
Velvet gold bricks opiate in my thoughts

I crepusculate thoughts of an onward path
The wanderlust consumes my walk
Prancing on death pins I shake my last words
I implore my feet to bullet kings.

futures

When things as insignificant as dreams are crushed we can run wild with their broken pieces,
screaming
muffled
screams
out of glass eyed gas masks. Our black rubber faces burning with old sweat and new tears.
The red mourning descends and tears the fresh dew hotly off of its grassy pinnacle, wet triumph crushed under boot heels.
Its thirst unquenchable, dying to satiate its nuclear hunger.
It knows no rest.
Scouring summer meadows and arctic plain, it sees you weeping.
Drying your tears to your salty cheeks.
Clutching the pieces of your
shattered
dreams
to your breast
Drawing blood on your palms and fury on cold canvas hearts.

Going Up?

Hitler would be cranky,
Stalin just might spank me.
The circus fat lady would leave me with little room,
Pig Pen, I hope, would bring a broom.
I’d rather ride alone.

Ryan’s parent’s dog would hump me,
A Blood or Crip would likely jump me.
Some genital lice would make me itch,
An executioner would make me twitch.
I’d rather ride alone.

Jacques Cousteau would get me all wet,
The Ku Klux Klan makes me quite upset.
Jerry Seinfeld’s not entertaining,
An umbrella salesman when it’s not raining.
I’d rather ride alone.

A Jehovah’s Witness? I think I’ll pass,
Rush Limbaugh? I don’t think so. What an ass.
Scarlet O’Hara would be dramatically fainting,
Picasso would be too busy painting.
Can I please ride with you?

Mystery Junk

Something you find in your pocket, purse, gutter, dumpster, etc. . . .
One sunny April morning I was casually rooting through my neighbor’s trash bins before the garbage man came. I had it down to an art form by this time. He hardly ever caught me anymore.
I came across something truly marvelous. A more interesting bit of refuse I had not seen in all my illustrious dumpster spelunking days. Even better than the time I liberated a months worth of groceries and a perfectly serviceable CD rack from a convenience store dumpster just around the corner. This object was so valuable to me for one reason, and one reason only.
It was a complete mystery.
I hadn’t a clue what it could possibly be. (As a side note I always use it as my item when playing 20 questions. It’s a show-stopper!) The object is no bigger than an ordinary breadbox and no smaller than a standard issue toaster. It has a three foot green chord extending from what I can only assume is it’s top.
You may ask, "Well if there’s a chord why don’t you plug it in and find out what it does?"
If I ever find my self in Romania or Uzbekistan I’ll give it a whirl. The green chord ends In a 5 pronged plug. 3 flat, 1 round and one (almost unsurprisingly) shaped like a parallelogram.
Radio Shack be damned.
Moving past the chord, which offers few clues, I enjoy its unusual texture. It has 6 of what I can only describe as protuberances. On the bottoms of the protuberances they’re rough as sandpaper. On the tops they’re smooth like crushed velvet. The main body is covered in a material that looks and acts very much like extra long shag carpeting, only there’s one major difference; it’s made of some sort of rubber.
To add to the confusion it has little rounded wheels on the ends of its three lower-most outcroppings. The kind of wheels that you might have on your luggage, you know the type that causes your luggage to swerve violently to the left when you’re in desperate need to go right.
As for the upper sticky-outey bits: one ends in the aforementioned chord and the other two have dangling springy slinky-like hangings that are festively adorned with some kind of plastic (?) jewels that sparkled so alluringly that day in the April morning sunlight.
For added effect when I shake it it has a sound like little bells tinkling around in a wool sock.
This object has remained, unsolved, on my kitchen table for 26 years. Never again did I explore my neighbors garbage. Well, not that neighbors anyway.

Qwerty

Collections.
Clarence scrubbed the grimy casing gently, working through at least forty years of grime. He had been diligently working for 3 hours with his toothbrush and non-abrasive whipes. Clarence slid his lint free cloth around the smooth rounded corners, finally being able to see a dull gleam off of its eighty-year old lacquered finish. Clarence stood back to admire his work, a mist of perspiration slowly beading up on his high forehead, but he quickly brought his face forward, pushing his half moon glasses up his nose with a stubby, dirty finger. A small smudge had jumped out to offend him through the reflected light. He examined the offending bit of tarnish on the light grey casing.
"There we go," he said with a sigh of contentment as he rubbed the unsightly stain out with his thumb.
"Oh my, you really are beautiful, aren’t you?"
Clarence stood back in awe, hands grimy, face back sweaty and shoulders sore. None of that physical discomfort mattered to Clarence right now. He would worry about himself later. This moment was for her. This moment was for his newly acquired 1926 Remington A4 27 office model typewriter in next to mint condition.
The light glinted lovingly off of it’s lightly worn keys, the lush black paper roll gently absorbed the low ambiance of the little workshop. The chrome "Remington" placard suggesting none too subtly to Clarence speed and grace.
This piece would be the crown jewel of his collection. He paid a mere $625 dollars for it when it was easily worth over two thousand dollars. That old lady thought she had his number, when really it was the other way around. This wasn’t some 1949 Olympia here, this was a 1926 Remington A4 27! There were only 750 ever made of this particular model and who knew how many remained today? Just the thought that he might have the only one left in the world made Clarence shudder with a wave of excitement.
Wait until he posted this stunning example of mechanical craftsmanship on his website. It would be the most sought after typewriter he had ever restored. This one, however, would not be for sale. This typewriter was his.
Clarence began to have second thoughts about even telling anyone at all. What if someone tried to take her away from him? Clarence flinched at the thought, his eyes widening in fear, his hands wringing themselves over his gaunt stomach. The others would covet her so . . . they would want to see her . . . they would want to . . . touch her.
"That can NEVER happen. You’re mine. MINE!"
What if someone broke in while he was away and took her away and sold her to some filthy pawn shop where they’d put her in a window to be faded by the sun’s harmful rays, or in a dusty back room to re-accumulate all that filth??
"I can’t take that risk. I must never leave you." A single tear streaked through the grime on his cheek, leaving a thin wet trail of sorrow at the thought of no longer being able to be close to her. He sat down in front of his magnificent property and gazed upon her steadfast frame and romantic construction. Clarence laid his hands upon her ebony keys and sighed, forgetting his troubles, his fears, the world.