reach out and touch me

white boys and black music

"oh a memo from an old hipster man. what was that fashion, shit. I remember it was anything goes, from the ages of modern man. but it had to be crazy, it couldn't be a replica outfit, it had to be shifted. or, angleurized, some sort of hyper-realistic perspective shift, man. it had to be better and best and really sort of mad. I guess in a lot of ways that madness became very factory and everyone bought a piece of it, but uniqueness is always appreciated and that sort of self-indulgent/harmless madness is fashionable in any circle at any time. But if it wasn't crazy enough (and that is why it couldn't be an exact replica but had to be skewed), and I mean to say, if it broke convention but didn't break it enough then it was fucking lame man, or even gay as the dudes would say. fucking gay. fucking lame ass gayness. ah old hipters, OLD HIPSTERS, fucking the hipsters in general. What happened to the days of just being a cool whitey, a honkey who loved hot jazzzzz. But you know, I suppose, even then it had that pseudo connotation. A fakeness inherent in its properties. A hipster, originally, was a cool white guy who was into hot jazz. What was a black guy who was into hot jazz? Well he was just a black guy. Jazz and blues are the negro music, and so any negro owns it. It's a part of the negro culture, the black culture. A black man was supposed to love hot jazz and heavy blues, it was a part of who he was as a man, as a black man. So then a hipster, or a white guy who was into that jazz... well it wasn't his culture, but man did he sure love it. He loved it and wanted to own it as much as the black man owned it, but he could not. So then what is a white guy who is into hot jazz, man? That makes him some sort of facsimile of the real deal. A pseudo black man. So you see, hipster has been a longing and a failure to be the real deal from the very start. That isn't to say that we all wanna be black. But some of us are real, and the rest of us just try to take what they can."


- from the future

The sons and daughters of Virgil

Andy Virgil

Orville and his brother Wright

Erotica

Fat Sally

Claustrophobia

the rattle of the yak bone chimes 12 o'clock in the evening 

the castafiore (the chaste flower) blooms upon the hour 

knee deep in a hurricane with red eyes off yonder somewhere 

to the east and the pleasures of a simulated empire 

and she trudges through the spice fields and universal aids 

marking her territory with musk and perfume from scent glands that sleep between her legs that are castoffs of bamboo temples in a jungle near saigon 

she tightrope walks on stilts made of ivory fastened with gold 

stripped from the tusks of mastodons that raped women in universal nightmares - cocks posable and deadly as the russel viper - moist 

minutes shrink by hasted by coca leaves and magic mushrooms 

spirals of colour tangle together before the eyes of mysterious union 

she hallucinates and her visions are the work of some dark poison 

fathers of time study her body and tell the world how to grow 

and over the stroke of the dawn the heart palpitations of the devote stop 

they dissolve into wet green grass that stains her thighs the same 

when she goes home her rump will be covered in dirt and she will have lost her panties and some plants and animals will have pollinated her and left 

saplings to prey upon her body, making succulent fruits develop inside 

then when arms and legs sprout like the heads of eyes on a potato 

and some merciless drum howls from a stone dais reading the sun 

nurturing the small facts of life that have no sense of smell 

but know that the time is ripe and the leaves are turning gold to brown 

then the fear of enclosed spaces unsheathes itself like a phallus 

where the pink head of embarrassment cleaves young people in two 

there shall be imprints left on the soft flesh of internal walls 

purple stains tattooing the empty sides of pickled limbs 

sometime a light will seizure into existence 

extinguishing everything else 

there will be a smack of tears 

a horrible cry 

and some cessation of the fear 

that none of us can remember 

and clastafiore shall be chaste no more 

as the time becomes one o'clock

A most beautiful happening