Some Freestyle Self-Help Hip Hop (With a Brief Note on Episode Eight of Twin Peaks: The Return)

Beaucoup spokespersons for the times, quick-witted and with many a prescient point, will halve some truth and leave it stood above their con, wobbling expensively. Self-helpists, professional or charity driven, net gurus and their treatments, those who functionally lubricate the insidious protectorate organized around their own stranglehold, shill out categories. Science might be the template by which we climb back up the diving board of our hereditary evolution and mark off what we need fixed with a dry highlighter. (At least it provides a tool or two, participating in any politics overall is the same as spray painting sand.) The DMT prism at the end of the tunnel pimps your brain, rewarding drug trip interest after a pointless life cherry-picking snake oils so you might feel better about being a cellular confab tumbling minutely for one cosmic blip. Of course the most logical solution is to always act like a happily replicating cell, it’s what we are: running, grouped in terror, all the way up evolution from the surface waste of (I to us: the first and worst pronoun mishap) us as the primordial single cell. Staunch system, some analogue evidence you can really kick the tires on, a few intellectual notches above astrology in its diagnostics, but ever been a brain fetishist’s wank romper? Fun meeting someone who’s your boss that fast just in conversation. Too many people stuff a grid behind their insufferable confidence. Astrology is like psychology with more flowers in its hair. Of any organized religion (now including atheism) or occult dupery there are only two categories: airheads vs. dickheads. Whoever says they’re just here to help should have a bazooka trained on them at all times.

Love is a lie used to excuse chemical response. When you are no longer young, love means housework. You become crotch hostages blighted by dishes. Hate, however, is centrifugal, concrete, abstract, awestruck, molecular, entirely without limits. It breaks said dishes. Hate is a hostage-taker negotiating our collective worth and it never pipe-dreams you in proximity, stranding you in your own fluid, unless you copyright it on a leash like everyone else in order to rear another dependent, placing their face on legal tender to stay sumptuously motivated. Love’s portly shield is an epidemic of tandem self-suck, the passing genes proclaimed behind so many paychecks. People limit their hate to ocular hairdresser-level superficialities such as: glandular skeet, country, gender, or ethnic makeup – those kiddie hatreds hopping up and down in the midst of your bowels, the need to monitor white eye meat from any unknown encounter, or to reconnoiter likenesses cave to cave – private cautions from the spine are a corny recidivism, an increasingly petty neurosis. A good citizen bears false witness against its own inarticulate emotions.

Women have the ability to simultaneously encourage what they can barely tolerate, to disguise that encouragement in themselves (and before their mate) so well that both parties, if they are inexperienced, will mistake her obligation (biding time in the background of a relationship) for returned affection and end up nourishing joint resentment. One doesn’t accuse a woman of putting on queenly airs, because she is already biological royalty. The throne is built in and displays itself in nine month intervals. By contrast, the pinnacle of desirability lies in the physical gesticulation of her offering herself, teasing out a chemical response, a baying decimal that might outgun astronomy. Nature insists, proffers its throat; swallows you as you chew it: a fun game if done right, benumbing felony if not. If a flower could ensnare every sense at once. If each petal can be an assault you perpetrate against yourself because you miss it. If you cried in a pile like your tears were Tetris, would there be any other reason to exist? I have been arthritic with love. So much so that only the darkest atherosclerotic plaque exits my mouth when I speak. Luckily, no one shaped my sentimental nature into a diaper, where it belongs.

This generation of reporters have given a lot of birdbrained persecution complexes their wings with the racism racket (on the Klu Klux whim of every identity), but to embrace racism to a point where it becomes an ideology is to pour sugar in the gas tank of that emotion’s release. It is a facetiously reactionary feeling most people who are able to reason beyond the current moment experience only through provocations either directed or imaginary, for a fleeting illogical burst, before the sentiment is shed, sometimes followed by the guilt of its having been expressed even to oneself alone. However, there are noticeably enough of the fanatically lost, of course, expulsing whichever dementia of lifestyle or disease, valuing one’s origin above beer preference, who, on occasion, will kill you, fair enough, or who cater a racist concept into a conspiratorially naughty viewpoint and coat it with jokes, not realizing that jokes are the main place slurs live best, because quality comedy never explains or excuses itself with dogma unless that dogma is an encapsulated irony strangled and confused by intent. That is, the joke can be on you for a limited number of steps before you have to turn and fire the dueling pistol, before a rough game of catch becomes genocide on skates. Journalistic rabblerousing was always the most muckraked dilemma behind whoever funds each individual hack, and now they got us all convinced that racial faux pas and minor sexual no-no’s are more of note than being kept poor while they profit from their college-manufactured fool’s gold sense of justice. Hey, at least their goddamn debts will get paid that way. Draw a chalk outline around those metaphors and slander me not.

Yes, art too is bullshit, my plainspoken folk, upcoming amateurs with the Bukowski PR, desperate to distinguish yourselves by slashing your contemporaries with age-old marketing techniques. We can continue pretending that a lust for conservatively foundational accessibility with one’s output doesn’t produce the exact same amount of mediocrity as the conceptually abstracted avant period blood collage skewings that brattily find Marx and Satan neat. Fluff bespeaks its lack in every shade. Though, outside a rare buzz of mockery, traditionally lazy tales find reward by the mass they sustain much sooner, the corny shittiness therein often kept a communal secret, whereas university gibberish is treated with open hostility by all involved and the invisible ink they’re written in goes poof alongside the overpriced degree. Art is for yourself, done to prevent a fucking massacre, so when you call it out, for specious reasons, you mean me, you little cunts. Arty types: if you are sick of art you are in possession of too many fucking friends. Above the age of thirty, the proper number of friends is zero. Even from birth, a couple “respected contemporaries” and “acquaintances” sound much preferable overall. We landed this gig because our fellow man is a big problem, outward from the problem of oneself. Promoting your trifles is like picking a fun hairdo, shallow, but necessary according to the practitioner’s whims. Hey, imagine how many youngsters were stumbled awake by an accidental sighting of Twin Peaks Episode Eight. The forthcoming generation had a solidly doomed baptism.

Aside from accessibility to items, neat tomes of information, and platforms to extol one’s fave or recently composed knickknacks, the internet is merely a jury of its own peers. Anything accomplished by committee will never be a justice worthy of its sales pitch and that means all law is comical. The internet is the hydrogen bomb of the “TV will rot your brain” argument, the atom at critical mass, the biggest light switch on our final iteration of morality. Every society asphyxiates on its own stamen’s honeyshot – in controlled bursts, less and less, or more the more comfy everyone unfortunately is. We still mistake (or intentionally mislabel) numbness and stupidity for strength, plain mediocrities for communication, sentiment for meaning. Not to fistfuck my own halo, but, concerning meaning: eschew it by the ounce. At least let’s chalk its tip.

I’ve weighed in too many years to an audience of mostly my own vain revisions. I regret every moment spent looking out the window upon this or any culture. Cheers to disappearances. The best I can perfect of an edited, collapsed, condensed, remastered works from 2003-2018 will, by next year (two years tops), be shopped as a book tentatively (it’s all tentative) called Tantrums, a horror orthogenesis, a self-anthologized culture promoting immoral entertainment and criminal behavior, dystopias of race and gender reduced to online factions in some unidentified dystopia (re: ours), including prose (porn, a proposed TV show remake of Witchfinder General called Twitterfinder General, a play and a film script), poetry, and criticism (about 170k tooled words (tooled from probably a mil) altogether, and 30k+ words of collaborative efforts). I’m moving on to a few closing remarks of (unforgivable, insufferable) literary criticism (the closing trifecta of the previously mentioned collection) and you bet your ass it will get specific (this recently, moronically (by journalists) misused word “reckoning” will be employed right fucking proper (promise – you few know who you are)) – title: Revenge.