step work
we fathom down fathoms down
must we sink, yet never drown
to breath the thin watered air
and spy the gorgon that sleeps there
sleep it must in dark see caves
among past divers in murky graves
fearful hearts were frozen stone
who choked to death and sank alone
deeper still must mariners sink
demand air from water when on the brink
of death must rip the monster's flesh
to deliver himself, now born afresh
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Postmodern Break Manifesto for Quantic
Postmodern Break Manifesto for Quantic
Comrade: This is a transmission sent via a break at 5 am. Dig? It is captured and via the groove committee. Comrade: Let us excavate ourselves from dusty crates to create funk mashups. The world as re-con-text. Comrade: if all is text then what truth is next? I can’t say. Speech is second rate, and writing simply difference. As you know it is wrapped in its own absence. But not breaks comrade. Breaks are all being. Breaks are all there, all here, all at once, all ways, mocking time, looped but perpetual. They unwind themselves in the cells, like strands of DNA, with bass kicks for proteins. They inhibit your dreams like naked angles. They infuse themselves into the air, so that you long for them like breath. Comrade: Are we not living through the last act? Is this not the last heaving joke of a dying world? Is this not the time of burn-out ? But breaks comrade! Breaks will never burn out. They will reanimate like frozen amoeba on comets after all this passes. They never go anyplace. They spin their theories around tribal fires and in binary blinks moving as code at the speed of light. They are as old as man, older. They were here at the beginning, god said let there be breaks, and there was great cosmic 16 bar grooves whirling out into infinity. They are still whirling, through all of us. Comrade: Thus you hear them. Thus you are moved.
Comrade: This is a transmission sent via a break at 5 am. Dig? It is captured and via the groove committee. Comrade: Let us excavate ourselves from dusty crates to create funk mashups. The world as re-con-text. Comrade: if all is text then what truth is next? I can’t say. Speech is second rate, and writing simply difference. As you know it is wrapped in its own absence. But not breaks comrade. Breaks are all being. Breaks are all there, all here, all at once, all ways, mocking time, looped but perpetual. They unwind themselves in the cells, like strands of DNA, with bass kicks for proteins. They inhibit your dreams like naked angles. They infuse themselves into the air, so that you long for them like breath. Comrade: Are we not living through the last act? Is this not the last heaving joke of a dying world? Is this not the time of burn-out ? But breaks comrade! Breaks will never burn out. They will reanimate like frozen amoeba on comets after all this passes. They never go anyplace. They spin their theories around tribal fires and in binary blinks moving as code at the speed of light. They are as old as man, older. They were here at the beginning, god said let there be breaks, and there was great cosmic 16 bar grooves whirling out into infinity. They are still whirling, through all of us. Comrade: Thus you hear them. Thus you are moved.
My America
Waffle house Mullets, ICP
Rent to own Hi-fi Disability
Checks for backyard moron’s ball
Get your truth from Rush Limbaugh
Jeff Foxworthy methamphetamine
Head-bang guitar adrenaline
Ann Coulter shoots bad ass guns
Mayonnaise sandwich honey buns
Kid rock fascists blow em all to hell
Buy a used Elvis at the yard sale
The sky turns black from diesel fumes
Christ smokes crack In flophouse rooms
Read more: http://www.myspace.com/aronduhon/blog?page=4#ixzz147RKWsVy
Rent to own Hi-fi Disability
Checks for backyard moron’s ball
Get your truth from Rush Limbaugh
Jeff Foxworthy methamphetamine
Head-bang guitar adrenaline
Ann Coulter shoots bad ass guns
Mayonnaise sandwich honey buns
Kid rock fascists blow em all to hell
Buy a used Elvis at the yard sale
The sky turns black from diesel fumes
Christ smokes crack In flophouse rooms
Read more: http://www.myspace.com/aronduhon/blog?page=4#ixzz147RKWsVy
sphinx
sphinx
Ask the winged goddess for a hint or sign
Perhaps she’ll let you see.
Through the darkened glass her mind
Whatever Forms might be.
Perhaps she’ll search her database
And cite the proper page,
Or she’ll lead you on a blind seers chase
To never play the sage
Ask the winged goddess for a hint or sign
Perhaps she’ll let you see.
Through the darkened glass her mind
Whatever Forms might be.
Perhaps she’ll search her database
And cite the proper page,
Or she’ll lead you on a blind seers chase
To never play the sage
Bonobo in Ameirca
Standing in the doorway of a junk shop, hair purple, evil cracked face sucking cigarette smoke, face contorts. Rotting America. Big bouncing Bonobo under a moo-moo, on the game show, new ultra light juice maker, just as justice is just ass, hey look. Yawl crazy, say, yes, yall my niggas. What did you expect of them? I feel as though you are headed for some terrible crash, where everyone turns gray and whittles away under the lights of ten-thousand television sets. What did you expect of them? Ha. Prometheus? Right. Kiddies got Daddies Adieus’ Addie ride single gear bikes, yawl no yawl my niggas, my dogs. Go sniffing back to their vomit, one laughs until hemorrhage, bloody sardonic sneer, teeth smeared, what did you expect? A seer? Sheer idealism. Blind Sardinian from Create. Certain Cretan bards. Yea right. Drinking out of cups.
Did you go hunting like Holden? Did you dawn a feathered cap. Did you see them piss on each other in bathtubs. On my face, on my face just not in my hair. Etc.., Did you go dreaming like Basquiat under the breaking surf of the dawn, waves of light blasting your hair, Spike Lee style, only to find a pawn shop on the corner and a chicken head. Go figure.
Read more: http://www.myspace.com/aronduhon/blog?page=2#ixzz147PpxPqC
Did you go hunting like Holden? Did you dawn a feathered cap. Did you see them piss on each other in bathtubs. On my face, on my face just not in my hair. Etc.., Did you go dreaming like Basquiat under the breaking surf of the dawn, waves of light blasting your hair, Spike Lee style, only to find a pawn shop on the corner and a chicken head. Go figure.
Read more: http://www.myspace.com/aronduhon/blog?page=2#ixzz147PpxPqC
Pathos
Pathos (Zealots Mix)
In Sardinia we laugh until hemorrhage
We claw our eyes out from the podium for public sport
The fat is torn from our bones by the Sphinx
We languish like lotus eaters dripping VD with temple whores
In Rome mothers bear the belly that bore them monsters
Asks a Praetorian to cut it open smiling
Our heads fall off like over-ripe poppies from the stem
Along the Via 100,000 slaves are crucified
From Crete to Rome stinking in the noon sun
Flies darken the horizon and the overwhelming perfume of dried blood
Sickens the soldiers who stand guard, poking them
To see if they still live
Read more: http://www.myspace.com/aronduhon/blog?page=2#ixzz147PKsBIc
In Sardinia we laugh until hemorrhage
We claw our eyes out from the podium for public sport
The fat is torn from our bones by the Sphinx
We languish like lotus eaters dripping VD with temple whores
In Rome mothers bear the belly that bore them monsters
Asks a Praetorian to cut it open smiling
Our heads fall off like over-ripe poppies from the stem
Along the Via 100,000 slaves are crucified
From Crete to Rome stinking in the noon sun
Flies darken the horizon and the overwhelming perfume of dried blood
Sickens the soldiers who stand guard, poking them
To see if they still live
Read more: http://www.myspace.com/aronduhon/blog?page=2#ixzz147PKsBIc
Some days are all black Beck sample
Some days are all black Beck samples
Mr Hipants loves Chopstick sushi. Thinks how fly he he get ta be. Lounge at the lounge dig bricolage found sound beats. Dorm food easy eats. We can do something. You’re a winner. You can do things. Interesting things. Get paid. Be a music god, movie god, famous at all the right parties, . Adventurer. International big time don. Sleep with the Tzar of Boraabrotia . I’m goanna be a pretty. Well adjusted. In love. Like on the commercials. Young girls in bikinis sun behind head, like halo, laughing laughing around a party fire circle. Dancing. Thin. All together. Hair like silk shine Now. Have friends. Facebook pictures doing mad interesting winner type things. Consume easy on big candy rock mountain. Things are gonna change. I’m a winner. I got young skin. I got nice hair. Proper thrift store orientation to consumption. Big 80’s style irony. I got beard sufficiently unkempt. I got I got culture capital comb-over cutoff Beck cynicism too. PICK ME! PICK ME! Standing alone like a giant dildo picking my fingernails. I want to get on the team. They picked the fat kid instead. PICK ME! The lobsters were boiled alive in their tanks. The solider had death-sex between ranks. Put your hands on the wheel. You’re a driver, you’re a winner, things are goanna change, I can feel it. My summer girl. Remember under the pier. Everything dies.
Read more: http://www.myspace.com/aronduhon/blog#ixzz147OP13dO
Mr Hipants loves Chopstick sushi. Thinks how fly he he get ta be. Lounge at the lounge dig bricolage found sound beats. Dorm food easy eats. We can do something. You’re a winner. You can do things. Interesting things. Get paid. Be a music god, movie god, famous at all the right parties, . Adventurer. International big time don. Sleep with the Tzar of Boraabrotia . I’m goanna be a pretty. Well adjusted. In love. Like on the commercials. Young girls in bikinis sun behind head, like halo, laughing laughing around a party fire circle. Dancing. Thin. All together. Hair like silk shine Now. Have friends. Facebook pictures doing mad interesting winner type things. Consume easy on big candy rock mountain. Things are gonna change. I’m a winner. I got young skin. I got nice hair. Proper thrift store orientation to consumption. Big 80’s style irony. I got beard sufficiently unkempt. I got I got culture capital comb-over cutoff Beck cynicism too. PICK ME! PICK ME! Standing alone like a giant dildo picking my fingernails. I want to get on the team. They picked the fat kid instead. PICK ME! The lobsters were boiled alive in their tanks. The solider had death-sex between ranks. Put your hands on the wheel. You’re a driver, you’re a winner, things are goanna change, I can feel it. My summer girl. Remember under the pier. Everything dies.
Read more: http://www.myspace.com/aronduhon/blog#ixzz147OP13dO
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