VANDALS UNITE!

Nothing makes me laugh so hard as when I happen to be riding on the shitty train or walking the streets I should not be walking, and clear as day, right before my eyes, is the word "FUCK" written in huge childish upper-case defilements. "FUCK." So blunt, so profound. It mocks factory buildings, bathroom walls, and, why nothing can be better then when the word "FUCK" corrodes the pearl-white siding of a trophy home in gated-community-ville  or the freshly waxed SUV of a soccer mom. "TITS, " "ASS," "FUCK." Why do I laugh? Why, I laugh because the vandals, making their profound statements, have given meaning as to what these victims of spray-paint and sharpies represent: SHIT. Now, there is a word. "SHIT." That's right. The shit that knocked down all the trees that made up the wooded areas I used to run through and explore as a child. The shit that clogs up the traffic, SUV gas-guzzling soccer-mommy exhaust pipe spewing "SHIT."

So, yeah, what could be better revenge than  good old-fashioned vandalism when it comes to getting some revenge against the upper classes that plug our streets with brand new, GPS included, seat warmer, butt-fucking air extinguisher, piece of shit disguised in platinum golden spokes tacky toys that clog the air, streets, MURDER...ers. "FUCK" How does that toot your horn. How horrid. I am having a heart-attack, no, wait, really, I just had that siding...ouch...just bought that Audi.....ouch...I think.....WHERE THE DICKENS ARE MY HIGH BLOOD PRESSURE PILLS!!! OUCH!..........

See, officer, I thought that stuff was cleaning fluid. Yeah, I really did. But, after all that hard work on Mr. Vanderbilt's novel audi/SUV, I had, I needed a smoke break. I hardly lit the match and POOF! Like Armageddon! I swear officer, I had no idea. Someone must have labeled the cannister wrong. I get straight A's in school. Please don't tell my mommy, please? I didn't mean it. I didn't.

Nothing like a "Gated-Community" to keep the zombies locked away from the lower classes. Thank God. Throw away the key I say!

STAY AWAY!

Oh my, what happened to this fine looking piece of plastic?

Those evil vandals! Where the police around here? How do they get in to OUR neighborhood? This land is our land what? No, no, no, This is our neighborhood; we pay to live here and we pay for its comforts. How could such a thing happen to OUR neighborhood? Beware! Vandal!

Every nice white upper-class neighborhood wishes death upon the vandals, but I believe there are more vandals than they can handle. Get to work vandals!

Jesus! Who ripped up your lawn and kicked your make-believe flamingo to the ground. Who would do such a thing! And television room window....mauled by a huge football.....strange! Is this the Armageddon? Where are the cops? I bet it was a bunch of uneducated drug fiends! Let's get em'!

Whoah Soccer Bitch! What happened to your prize? Your mobile looks terrible! You better get those suckas! Who is the sucker really? Well...uh... never mind...where'd they go?

WOOPS!!!!

UH-OH! Here comes the wrecking ball! RUN FOR COVER!!!!! How did they get hold of a goddamn wrecking ball! SHIT!!!! Here it comes!!!!

Excuse me. Just taking OUR land back. Beware.

VANDALISM IS KEY!

I live for it and i have a pet-peeve (among many) concerning artificial flowers. Actually the white suburban flash of white trash and trophy neighborhoods make the snot in my nose cry a river, albeit, a raging river. I live next to a town that claims:Stratford-The town of forest and sea. Uh, where is the motherfucking forest? All I see are made in China houses and slow restaurants, and of course, THEE OLD LIQUOR STORE. I have a pet-peeve against signs that lie. Like the Stratford, My town motto is one big lie. "A Small City With A Big Heart" is what the sign says as you enter my town. But, really it is just a dumb suburb with a big dick. FALSE! ALL OF IT! Go buy your artificial flowers and stick them in your eyes because I'm afraid you have seen too much "small-city" person. That is enough. ENOUGH! I dream of vandalizing (not that this has never happened) every shit-ugly gated-ish neighborhood that make the deer homeless. With can in hand I spray these words: YOUR LAWN LOOKS LIKE SHIT. Bye.

But vandalism can be beautiful, especially when what is being vandalized starts out ugly.-http://sniggle.net/vandalism.php out ugly.

Vandalism is what I want to be when I grow up. My middle name  revenge. Now get into your over-sized gas waste shit soccer mom vehicle (All spray painted with the word "FUCK" on it) and drive to the nearest garbage can. Amen.

WHY?

WHY?

WHY Do People refrain from asking...

WHY? WHY? WHY? WHY?

Amy Miret of the band Nausea asked WHY?

Why or How? Why do you think that? I quote Bryan Loder of the Trick-Vatican, an expert on "WHAT?" says that all the philosophers have given up on why. WHY? WHY do you think this is? Do you think?

Do you ever ask WHY when you see this man?

WHY?

To ask why is to endanger the ignoramotic-hypnosis Our Country 'Tis of Thee has given us in many different forms. Capitalism, for one, and the one with the most toys wins......Who needs to think? I am still worried about how the rims on my new Lexus Supreme are going to come up. I hope those dirty mechanics do not fuck them up again.

'Why? Come on REALLY?!

I do not understand: Why not ask why?

William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)

    THE SECOND COMING
    Turning and turning in the widening gyre
    The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
    Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
    Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
    The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
    The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
    The best lack all conviction, while the worst
    Are full of passionate intensity.

WHY? WHY? WHY? 

Do you want to know why... never mind, I know you have to buy Slaughter Vampire Fucker IV...you're busy.

Falling From Grace...Are you?

Falling From Grace (Personally, a true story)

Falling from grace, falling from grace,
Lord, you have a pretty face.
Take it away and pack it in a suitcase
Then forget about falling from grace.

Don't look at me like that, I never said a word.
Don't ask me where I've been, I'll pretend I never heard.
Don't put it in the paper — please, don't!
I never said I will, I never said I won't.

Falling from grace, falling from grace,
Lord, you have a pretty face.
Take it away and pack it in a suitcase
Then forget about falling from grace.

It's looking bad I know, I'm an outlaw
Don't pity me, I never felt like this before.
Please tell me you believe me, please say
I'll get along without you — anyway.

Falling from grace, falling from grace,
Lord, you have a pretty face.
Take it away and pack it in a suitcase
Then forget about falling from grace.

Feeling hunted, I'm lying low.
Don't tell me who it is, I never said so.
Put yourself in my place, please try.
I never told the truth — I never told a lie.

Falling from grace, falling from grace,
Lord, you have a pretty face.
Take it away and pack it in a suitcase,
Then forget about falling from grace.

Falling from grace, falling from grace,
Lord, you have a pretty face.
Take it away and pack it in a suitcase,
Then forget about falling from grace.

Falling from grace
Falling from grace, falling from grace
Falling from grace
Falling from grace, falling from grace
Falling from grace
Falling from grace, falling from grace
Falling from grace
Falling from grace, falling from grace
Falling from grace
Falling from grace, falling from grace
Falling from grace
Falling from grace, falling from grace ...

-Marianne Faithfull

BIG SISTER IS WATCHING YOU!: Pfizer Cares, so does Shire, Knoll As Well...

BIG SISTER IS WATCHING YOU!: Pfizer Cares, so does Shire, Knoll As Well...

Perspective. Stupid kid. Karate sucks.

My thoughts exactly. Stupid kid.

All Society's Fault.

All Society's Fault.
Originally uploaded by STANIAM

               They lied. Now look at me.

A Poison Tree-William Blake

Today, I decided, is Blake day, not easter. So here is one of my favorite Blake poems for all you Easter Bunnies out there.


A Poison Tree

I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not. my wrath did grow.

And I watered it with fears.
Night and morning with my tears:
And I sunned it with smiles,                                
And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright.
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine.

And into my garden stole.
When the night had veiled the pole;
In the morning glad I see,
My foe outstrechd beneath the tree.

The_Whirlwind_of_Lovers,_1824-1826,_William_Blake.

Dance of the Headless Bourgeoisie - No Means No

Fuck you Bourgeoisie! Nomeansno still rocks!

Dance of the Headless Bourgeoisie

Listen man, never mind who this is
We've got your wife
Yea, your better half, your partner in life
You'll find her Volvo abandoned at the mall
Her credit cards are in the trunk
We don't want that junk
We want the money, and we want it in cash
Cause there are ten sticks of dynamite stuck togethe with duct tape
They're wrapped around her new perm, strapped around her little face
So don't do anything funny, man, don't do anything smart, or we'll
Blow up her head

Listen man, we've got your son
Yea, your one and only heir
The scion of your loins the chosen one e picked him up oft the playing field
You'll get bis short pants by priority mail
We need sonne cash to finance our political aims
Put it in your work-out bag and leave it at the gym
Cause there are ten sticks of dynamitestuck together with duct tape
They're wrapped around his little skull just to stop the constant snivelling
And it we don't hear from you by tomorrow, we'II
Blow up his head

We've got your daughter, that's right
Daddy's little girl, the light of your life
And all we want is every penny you've saved
Empty out your retirement fund and put it in an old suitcase
How do you know we've got her?
We'II send you her little pinkie
You can shove it up your ass and call it stinky
Cause there are ten sticks of dynamite wrapped around her golden locks
And only you have the power to make this stop
And if we don't get everything that we want, we'II
Blow up her head

Forget it man
We're coming after you
We have no political beliefs
We don't want your fucking money
There's just one thing that motivates us -ac
-nomeansno

Stupid Satan.

"Get behind me, Satan! You are a stumbling block to me; you do not have in mind the things of God, but the things of men." - Matthew 16:23

and as an after-thought that is connected by some strange force in my brain: DO NOT BELIEVE EVERYTHING YOU READ ON THE INTERNET!
Who Goes To Hell?

A dozen winters,,,

The heater is ringing. The electricity is humming. The bed is breaking. The floor is a flood. Objects water-logged and tarnished. Just things. Why should she care? They don't breathe. Now, they don't exist. Her comforts are snaking away from her:  a socio-pathological tint of green. The green slips like silk and thorns; out the cracks into the cold dark-time air; out the creases of her estranged family's worry. The girl will be fine. They don't believe her. She can hear a beautiful song start to mist up the tired air; it only tells her to live, to endure. How come no one else can see the double-barrel hole through her chest, the microscope-view, untethered scrutiny, the epitome of hollow. Can you see through her into the dirt? The flowers lay the way lovers do after intensity. Fragrant. Lazy. Blurred with a wave of thrush. Six feet, a pit of dirt, ugly dirt, the kind that mummifies and strangles...and the heater. It rings. Hum. Hum. Hum. The beautiful song melts her ears awkwardly. The song glues itself into her person and eases the decay, the fright, the strain. Let it. Let it. The room full of rubbish is actually quite vacant. The trash masquerades what her jaw cannot move; to have movement, to have speech, it is not automatic; it is hindered by weight and the weight is the rubbish that could not be taken to the street side due to a self-induced coma: she allows herself one or two comas a month because  lull, the sleep does, lull: it disguises the tradition of loneliness. How else could she get through? How else survive the sheath of dense aphotic cloaked about her paralyzed face-how the dense aphotic clogs up her airways and makes things stranger and harder and less life-like, but, what? Does she live it or think it or dream it?  No one, ever, shall know. This is her cross. All of them with aching joints carry the cross. It is heavy, more heavy than the burden stupid Atlas mythically, and oh so like a martyr, must bear. The circle. The relentless call of Ophelia. But, she is not Ophelia. She is herself all mummified and without thought or direction...a slip of the tray breaks the crystal tumblers and the horror of. the aftermath , the disconcertion, nudges her raft enough to be made to float without direction into an ocean no other has claimed. Nor should they acknowledge its aimless gesture. Peacefully, gently, the song, floating and impossible to capture,  the slow stream-line away, the great Indian-giver, mortality. As all this passes, she is at ease, quite like a groggy marionette. Let them pull and pull....she will cave in and follow. It does not matter anymore what is right or wrong. These things happen. So what if it is misfortune? It is all the same now or never, now or later: endurance cannot succeed the human condition. They ceased to perceive her perceptions- ghastly real only to her. We are all given the gift of reality and it sometimes causes us to lose credibility if it not match what he or she and ten thousand others claim it to be. What they see. What they cannot see. Flesh can touch flesh and yet be one million miles away, pressing into the cement of some remote pillar that upholds a watercolor bridge. It can be anything that you or she or he will never witness, but alone and without witness. Slowly the pillar weakens due to some mistake; a mistake only a human can make. And the bridge falls away before she could hold fast to their hands as they reached out with no choice but to give in due to their limitations-the gape was too wide. When all hope bleeds out the body and forms a thick puddle of sludge on her pretty and expensive shoes, will she have the strength to clean up the loss? Certainly with no blood one cannot survive. Not a human was built to survive the absence of its nectar. The pump of the heart and the pulse of the veins is essential to sustain such a breed. The Human. And human she was. That is until the clamps were placed over her mouth, but gently, gently tightening the screws. She will learn pain the gentle way, the cruelest way, and have no voice to capture her monsters-to expel and relieve the grime that corrodes her nature. They stay in. They stay in and sneak dialogue, the nature converses with the iniquity; the dialogue becomes a desperate peal, agonizing for mother, for father, for sister, brother, but the sounds she makes terrifies them, and they in their helplessness cannot perceive anything familiar, cannot recognize the foreign creature she has been forced into by God knows what indignity. They have to put the monster in its cage so as to avoid harm. Harm to herself or others. But, no, no, no, no, she does not want to commit violence: why then does she commit such violence. The confusion and the buried human suffocate in a self that is no longer a self. The self has become the monster by some freak of  brain chemistry all wrongly routed  into a wretched display of  imbalance, discordance and ill-fortune, bad genetics, hell-hounds. She becomes a hostage before their very eyes: a stranger, a beast. But if only she could learn to beat the dialogue of iniquity that sullies the good, the natural, the her; she must be able to in order to survive. She has learned inside the cages, claustrophobic endless sterile walls and sick rooms, that this only instigates the monster, strengthens the stranger. kidnaps the psyche, and oh hell does come pouring out her every orifice, spraying the natural prescriber's, doctors, nurses, garbage mental health workers, with a plasma thick and ill. She is no longer one of them. She has become ostracized and brainwashed wit terrible trances. They see an animal. Get it in the claustrophobic, sanitary, scum-fucked sick room before it makes anymore mess. Inside the cage her joints start to burn and twist, infected, perverted painfully abnormal stretches and strains, the joints grind in terror of the air becoming too thick to breathe and the cage too small to move and the relentless infestation of her physique more uncompliant and betraying her grace, her lips spread across her face: it is now time for the fetal position to mask the discomfort of the reckless forces that compromise and control, any sense of what used to be human has left her. So strong is the monster. So sudden. So much like an enemy inside of her, rotting her, abandonment of essential self-care and hygiene insignificant and abandoned. The film on her teeth and the crud on her lips grotesque and exaggerated. A stranger. A foreigner. A grime beyond recognition. She has gone. Tired. Too tired and bitter self-betrayal like a wrecking ball destroy her willingness to fight. She goes into a coma. Self-induced. A new trick to outwit the monster. In sleep she can find freedom and nothingness. A state of bliss much like a weapon. Not being. Not existing. Sleep as self-medication for a week and escape the prison with relentless rage she learns to stand up again and become motivated as if in a fight for survival....slip through the cracks, not missed. The rats all resemble each other. Surely one will not be missed. The air is so thick and she presses against it full-force. Where is the exit? All doors and hallways and rat infested sickness like a montage of no escape. There has to be a way out. They cannot help her. They can only haunt her with large sums of money she cannot afford, and for what? Does it make sense to be in a cage of sick animals and ominous environment? Will she benefit? No. No she will not. It is not her fault. Every monster is unique and must be treated according to the rule of the individual. For each of us have our own set of rules. And they make sense. Right? They make sense and she must barrel through the adversaries that keep her sickness well fed. She is not bad. She is fighting to relieve herself of the additional stress of inadequate treatment as it only makes her ache and drool like the plague. Somewhere in the remote regions of her psyche she can see the dim sane light of hope trying to free itself from the monsters greed and instruct her back to shelter. She attempts to slip past them, as if invisible, but their eyes, too gargantuan, ridicule her back, down, down, into the pit of white hard homely bright tormenting capsule of solitude. She hates the noises. The gnawing and shuffling and disruption of the sick. Pierces her ears, they do. The best idea she has to relieve herself of their persistent bitching is to focus on digging her nails deep into her face and across, and across, until her face is demarcated and the swell takes her focus off the suffocation of idiots and tyrants and sick fuck you mothers. Her reality is distorted by the screaming brain. Stranger brain. Screw up brain. All is a deluge and it cracks and knocks and the stinging of her raw face and oh what has she done! The nurses scurry in their annoyed way to fix their paws on some medicated toxicated gauze that burns like lemon-drops and oh she must stay for at least six weeks just look at her. Oh, and remember, no smoking. Hence her nails become breakfast lunch and dinner until there is only raw skin to gnaw at....at least a goddamn cigarette. The walls leer and laugh at her with their fluorescent putridity. Fetal position. Self-induced coma. Where are you Sister Morphine? She does not care anymore. The apathy disease has been added to the sick-package. She wants to let go. She prays for someone to kill her or to die in her sleep. Help. Help. She laughs idly at the thought of a receiving voice, a fairy fuckity angel to hear her desperate, pathetic....help me, help me. Silence. Sink into the hated white walls and their bright bitching. "Please" she says. "Please let the sleep come....the coma....the death...the end of this. No more.   ...A Dozen Winters..

Harriett?

Image via Wikipedia

Harriett. Oh Harriett. I can hear the rats rustling in the trash and the room is smothered with debris. The rotting half eaten yogurt I attempted to eat two days ago looks like my apathy. I wish you were here. The drapery dust reminds me of my idle and solitary life. The chair has been stuck to my bottom for almost over a year and my teeth are beginning to detach themselves from my gums: I have not brushed my teeth since autumn. I am afraid of hygiene because it means I have to move and moving is oh so scary for me. My hypoglycemic hands shake. My legs shake so hard I am weary of taking the stairs to the kitchen for some water. I curl in a ball just like you Harriett. You pull every limb, every part of yourself inward-an attempt to console the fragile line you know you must walk soon in order to be free. Must stop hiding from the mean spirited force of action that threatens your comfort. Should you spread yourself out too far, Harriett, you will lose all that you thought was you and give  in to the inevitable gravity that betrays you. If I truly were Jesus, Harriett, I would die for all your sins. Our kinship may be remote, but it is all we have as far as outside the box goes. And how we tire each other out with sighs. How can I remind you of Jesus if I have no followers: I have no love in me. I have not the ability to make anyone's eyes shine and sing along with the sun's medicinal voice. I am invisible as the dead. You say you see me, but you were always an exception. I have become old and crippled since the darkness swallowed my youth. I no longer glow or dance. I do not deserve the ceremony of crucifixion; I have accomplished only a few cracked glasses and minor injuries such as spiritual deprivation and self-starvation. Nothing in particular took place Harriett. My body barks at me as I refuse to nourish it. Nothing happened. I just do not eat anymore. I hope you are well wherever you are. Your demons infect me just as if they were my own. No, I have not seen the sun in a great while. I cannot even remember the hypnotic warmth of the sun lighting up my skin. I only squint when trying to read or when I am so sleep deprived the writing on the wall is so obscure that I doubt it exists. Harriett please come to me. We are both alone, but we are tied together in the most supernatural and odd way. I miss your presence even when your presence reflects absence...

-Visual by Otto Dix

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BIG SISTER IS WATCHING YOU!: These Colors.....Wha?

BIG SISTER IS WATCHING YOU!: These Colors.....Wha?

Us not Them-Click for Lex Talionis

Originally uploaded by STANIAM

For your own information

reBlog from LEX TALIONIS: I am Scatology

Image by UIC Digital Collections via Flickr

I found this fascinating quote today:

I am Scatology: 1-800-GIMCRACKI am Scatology: 1-800-GIMCRACK Blah-ed by LEX TALIONIS0 SAY SOMETHING!Links to this CATastrophe Think? reBlog from LEX TALIONIS: I am ScatologyLEX TALIONIS, I am Scatology, Mar 2010

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BIG SISTER IS WATCHING YOU!: ALL NEW PROPAGANDA FOR YOU!

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BIG SISTER IS WATCHING YOU!: These Colors.....Wha?

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I am Scatology: 1-800-GIMCRACK

I am Scatology: 1-800-GIMCRACK

reBlog from LEX TALIONIS: I am Scatology

Image by Getty Images via Daylife

I found this fascinating quote today:

Do 1-800 numbers give birth to several million cavalcades in your head, a procession that echoes:CALL NOW...Call Now... Call Now...LEX TALIONIS, I am Scatology, Feb 2010

You should read the whole article.

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HA HA!

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