In the humid hubris of a caterwaulic eunuch lays the infant, tiling fantasies of infantry commanding thee

  And humbled by the humour of such nanoscopic stupour swings a netherworldly neuter with a catastrophic lethargy

  Surrounding me and pounding free of soundings we may never be
It dith foresee eventually a foundling sapling, suckling free;

  Until the tunes were tutored by the milking maids diluted as such grimace gave to grue us with an untoward whore’s uter.

  And given graven garbage rest some sealant savage seamstress with a nonchalant precedence for an undulating augur

      To transcend the topic’s silent
            salient and quaint recedence for
     an unattractive grievance that
          garrot the grounded gardens gilded glad by gnarled goblins         hanging silt and lead upon them
    quiet, calm and queerly content with a knowledge laden, unspent of the worth of mild malignance.

Offered fresh, undressed and selfless.

For the task asked lacked importance.

      So we threshed the form from content, til she screamed like scented portent, hanging dully dripping aspects lacking facts that locked her hair back into wiry spirals past tense.

  Nevermore to spore the spastics’ driven fiendly fired fanatics wired entwined thus gnashed haptic entry-cause ignored by lapses

     Into warm engulfed happenstance.

Goodluck, glistened gristly grandstand! – by the by, they cry, ampersand.

Under silken, sultry skies, a sudden wisdom plentified
defined a life, a life devised.
It lied and slipped a lifeless tier.
And words that weighed the worth of nearby unkempt stories
spoke - now children hear
about the stout, astonished, queer
regretful, squalid, insincere
storie
that me
and other
lay upon them.


It isn't nice, so my apologie, friend.

In vagabond vagrancy suspect and abject -
and tacit (of course tho, indiff'rently subject
to aspect aligned by recalcitrant incept);
to wander
to yonder -
the fields lay and tell, spent
of
truths that lay lieing wit' druids ejected

dejected admist tell of tale, tailored, unsaid -
the tale laying told in a well of unsold sense
with wondering, lo! of thrown low and bemoaned sent
to fathoms deep deep for the sake of a lone cent -

a whispered and giggled and heartfelt wish widespread -
a sailor, drown'd cold, and alone, and happ' for it.
a convict convinced his loot outweighed his torment.



there

once was a wisdom, but now i've forgotten.



it

laid in the ocean,


some glad beast begotten -

she drowned in her splendour,

(i feel cold to mention)
but, well chaps the truth is
i had no intention.

it happened a sudd'n and 'fore i could tender
a gasp or a whimper or any such canter
the belly burst out and the lisp turn'd to cancer -
the words of the fleshless and desperate dancer
admist (and alone) in a sea of cold kindness.
drew breath from the sacriledge sold with a shyness
unknown in the realms of the
ego-mad
hordes - and died of a slow sphixiate,

(but of course.)

in an emancipanic encapsulation of recalcitrant ejaculation any wine and chicken induced reduction of self-indulgent self-induction equates to a minor linguistic figuration and ergo lithe - (in an ultimate understanding !) manner, well perhaps then blythe major chord ensuite of flat and ugly misdemeanours of socially and environmentally acceptable (thus demonstrably less-than-candescant) third-dimensional appropriation of any state of which one may (or may not) wish to find oneself privy (or otherwise afloat upon) ; and hereby lies the dearth of dreaming of dreary drone-tastic drastic drift ergo-wise of cigarette-induced death-induction ; let d = y or let y = x. let thistles = thimbles and let thy equaniminous equatorialism = racism of the purest and most hilarious sort.

the myth of the fall

it is told,
by many,
that eve partook of the fig of knowledge and thus began the disrepair of humankind.
this is - well! - an truth, but a shaky one.
there are layers to being, see.
there is, in a manner of which i am content at least at this juncture to refer,
sleep and wake,
and all many in betwixt!
sleep within sleep, lo! and sleep within wake -
and.
eve's partake
was but the first venture of human into the world of being sleepless within.
this was - however!
not simply the original break - the first movement towards true understanding of time and death.
this was the being of all such.
this was - and is! - the moment of all - any! - wakefulness.
and yet! the moment of true dream.
eve woke into the dream of true life.
eve gave to us all the depth of be.
the greatest gift given to any sinch JHWH indeed partook to transcribe all.
and the break with JHWH! - ah! - but was this not the truest and most godlike of all human ventures!
well, childs, i shall tell thee now,
that yes,
it was.

sfb et al.

let's not get into the whole superlatively superlative laden argument against canonisation of literary (or anysuch) works here, and yet, indeed, as i am aware, (don't think i'm that fucking stupid) every time i say something such it essentially equates to 'here we go with an argument driven by an appreciation of said position without any essential realisation of methodology behind understanding or otherwise of such position' well who gives a fuck. you? then fuck off.

brownrig expresses something undeniably visceral and yet intensely laden with the history and histrionics of cinema and american exploitation cinema in general. ok look for fucks sake i've only seen two of this motherfuckers films but seriously don't look in the basement and keep my grave open are epic and darkly, morbidly pathological works of ineptness of a type that only the truest of all true shitcore art (read: streetkid jake) can even yearn to splendour in the wake of. (deal is, of course, i reckon that i make really good shitcore and that's why i get to talk about such)

cinema has given those of us with a real yearning for psycho-pathological non-invasive interpretations of fetishisation within an framework of pure unadalterated aesthetic socio-phobic realisation-manipulation more of and more than any could imagine before such an being was such.

and my little boy sfb has encapsulated all that is truest upon false of cinematology in his works.

mental illness is an issue of which cinema has chosen to follow the traditional line, to the point of creating an horribly splendifourous paternalistic, socio-normalistic Howardite love-in of despicably patriotic regalia.

an holier-than-thou, trad Christian uber-understanding that encapsulated only the necessity of suchness to create an other, and give it a tag.

like a fucking pet.

brownrig doesn't do this.

oh, sure, to the PC-trained eye, he is exploiting mental instability. BUT NO.

there is no untruth, because, BROWNRIG IS CREATING CINEMA.

creating an work.

and working within the framework of creation that such an juncture engenders.

THERE IS NO PHONY SELF-INDULGENT PLEASANTRIES TOWARDS THE MENTALLY ILL.

there is the melodrama, and melancholie, that is at the heart of great psycho-exploitative yankee cinema.

there is no honesty.

there is being, and BEING WITHIN THE REALMS OF CINEMA.

forsooth, and yet, upon the merry way

became, admist, ast didst not stay.
an lie - an bein', upon thy hay?
an sweetest tooth whom 'got thine way.

and yet, forsooth, this merry travell'r
i need'st to mix ine unsooth ravell'r
mine sadness doth emcompeth minest say.

it ist, ast ith, mine sad decay.

and holy raptures mine unfold - !
thine twice upon thine lies untold.
mine ist ist an enbein' oft gold -

ine be, ipswitch, an oft of old.

oft saddest and both merry flight.
ich liebeviest, ine seinest nicht!
ich wantonest forsooth ich gleicht.
ich liest vergot mine ist gyest!
upon thine merry, est of best.

thine wordischwist oft twine oft swear.
thou minest thee dith ungest vere!
ke sara, mine, ich fliegest where?
forgottest truth, and lay down there.

quite sadly doth the bein' of old.
enrapture stature for ine cold
beliesest oft of never where -
dismiss the tritest oft nightmare.

i gaveth thee ine sad and lone
to whittle with, upon ine throne,

and giants leapt, as was thee wont.

forsooth such? admit thine cunt.
ist cunt, ist phallic western been.
dismiss thou-est of sordid crate of adjunct -

exactitude ist pain and tears.
and wisdom doth bestow its leer!
upon ine hatred of which glee woth plenty -

and give, and lay, and die for such.
for nothing is a nothing much -
i wish, with heartest true and full of empty

that all that ist ist minest dear.
that sorrow doth become thine tear,
that now, of all, denies itself its torment! -

that silly, sadly, songs of yore
avast with which to feign ignore
thy dearth of ist upon thine doth dismiss them.

of love.

it feels upon feel - at almost all of time! as if the wonder, the splendour of pure individuation is naught but a curse, a horror of which to struggle is the only excuse.

how be this? how be it that even with the depth of sorry sadness, with the abuse of all poesy and metaphor, one cannot escape the ugliness of ones being one?

well, it is but a little too easy to say that such is because one is ugly.

the argument falls, and the words decay, because there is a greater, as there is in all.

except in such! and such is the word upon words, the greatest and most significant creator of sadness that ever was.

god and thought and word are empty in the face of love. and yet love, in wisdom, has encapsulated all of these - and all of the many and many more.

there is nothing without thee, just as there is no occasion for nothingness - all that is, is not only is, all that is is permeated and simultaneously alienated by love! all yes and no, all such and be, all emptiness and horror, all then and now, all of thee and thou.

and yet, let it not be said, as many have, such a dispicably empty diatribe such as (ugh) god is love. or, worse, all is love.

love is a self-centered, nihilistic cunt. love permeates as being permeates - and yet, the many and varying forces at work in our disgusting universe play against our little friend. and life is oft robbed of such. and being is oft robbed of such! and emptiness, and sadness, are even robbed of such! and it is only, and, i mean, only, with the greatest of all of all efforts that one comes to be anywhere near such suchness.

but what else are we here to do, if not to love?

the realms of being with god

certainly, this seemed, as many who have, for want of a better way to express (which, mind you, instantly renders them worthless!) 'found' thee, as thine of all thine truisms. and yet, as those whom spend our time in the sorry and perplexing wittgensteinian caverns of yonder appreciate, all of a truism is the greatest of all truths. is there not the essence of the east in fundamental truism? is there not the notion of the dismantling of truth, and the subterfuge of reason, in all nonsense? and is not the truest of all the greatest of all nonsenses! ah, but here we have the essence of the word, the essence of what makes god. for, as we are told from the very very outset, god is pure upon pure linguistic. IN THE BEGINNING WAS THE WORD. says thou, and thou ist fine upon fine, let it be spread upon the yonder! let the layers upon layers of dogma fall away like the remains of a slowly roasted lamb, and be of all purity as thou wilt in the eyes and the heart of the lord. BE AS THOU SHALT BE EXRPRESSED. and care not that suchness is a sin - and care not that all is untruth, and horror - and care not, even, that all that is expressed is untruth and horror! for the true and the sad and the bountiful good are here, permeating all. it is for another day for mine to express the nature of time, but let it be said here that the meaning, the true spirit of JHWH is his words (and his meaning) I AM WHAT I WILL BE. let not your soul be misguided that the end is not already upon us! all is as all is. and such, my dear ones, is the purest beauty of eternal now.

recalcitrant! what and wherefore,
i've kept my sordid eye to whore -
upon the long and gladly sadly,
io! i've wandered (hear you hear! upon the berry, blithely queer)
mine whist and curtains doth tomb's leer
the leer of torrid horrid chants of lonely mangy ragged ants
of geising, sizing - ha! doth chance!
to whist and wordid whilst mine eye
ist been and before lays goodbye.
ist goodbye, sordid, loathsome fiend,
my nestles do enjoin thy bein'.

atavism as an avatar

sans coda

exists the child of merriment whose adventures and plentures were spelt with only the finest of green pastures and yeller, that ol' dog from the cat pound whose nose smelt like fucking velvet underground lyrics told me to desist and right she was.

first, sakes - of nervous tense, breathe lonely liquid, slow and dense

against the whole of what was understood - is this not the basis of all that is ugly and debased in conservatism? is not conservatism itself sold to the lowest bidder, slavenly poached as though a necessity for bile and limpid recalcitrance were the basest necessities? let's not imagine they were - or perhaps, let's, but then let us change our base of interest elsewhere, for who wants to get stuck with that kind of nonsense?

there existed, once, or so they tell me, or to be honest they never did, because such a thing never was, and here we are on conservatism's doorstep, and let's ponder and also let's peek a greedy eyeful into the keyhole, shall we?

if theres one thing that has always embarressed the unembarrassable, it is the notion of the inalienable subtlety of self-indulgent solipsism - for one is only ever embarrassed in front of oneself.

what a pathetic fuck one is.