Even the Children are Laughing...

your momma so fat,
she's gotta use a mattress for a tampon...

---

we are not alone.

evidence:

(provided by Dr. Gordy Amede)

#1

Bullywugs

bullywugs need to dampen their skins
from time to time.
some types of these creatures are more intelligent
than others.

intelligent groups tend to dwell in caves or
deserted human habitations.

the less advantaged bullywugs hate their more intelligent
fellows and make war upon them.

---

berbalang #2

the berbalang passes the greater part
in an apparently dormant state,
hibernating

preferably
in a well-hidden cave.

though seemingly comatose, the berbalang is
actually roaming the astral plane
where it spends its time hunting creatures

weaker than itself...

---

and, of course, the eye killer

at birth,
the eye killer is limbless.

later,
it develops a bat like upper torso.

---

---

VII. Alone (at last)

And when I say alone, what I mean is, he toiled alone and in the dark.
Not easily explained or understood.
The words of the wise and their dark sayings.
Widespread ignorance,
lack of progress.
As, we are all in the dark concerning his plans.
As, plans hatched in the dark.
As, darks and lights are both necessary.
As, water is necessary to life.
That which must be done.
Labor.
Toil.
Drudgery.

Below these watery pastures lie the answers to all things, which we can only gaze upon and wonder at their unsteady reflection. The image that I see beneath is the moody moving image of my state of being. And all these words which flow and stream are but a feeble attempt to put a label on a feeling. To transform a feeling into an idea into a word into a memory into something I can recall at a later date and say ‘Oh yes, remember when and how it was and doesn’t it feel so nice that it all goes on and on and that it all isn’t meaningless?’ Because I have assigned a word and a meaning to every thing. And each experience has its category and each memory is in its cabinet and my life can be written down in a series of anecdotes and occurrences which will make men smile and frown and laugh and cry and I live and I die in an entirely rational manner.

I shall proceed to my logical conclusion.

DAD

---

Julio's Dad was born in Alabama to a family of Lunatics.

Dad was hit by two cars in the same day and had a staple shot into his head. He wrote a book on the history of Alabama, became a history professor, and had affairs with his students. He won 2nd place on Jeopardy but was unable to claim his prize because he hadn't paid child support since the divorce. Dad had an awful temper and would often be sent to his room, by Mom. Mom would make us put ice in his pants to calm him down. He once made scrambled eggs with sugar in them and threw them against the wall. He hid the household bills in shoeboxes that he kept in the closet and recorded porn movies at the end of our cartoon tapes. He tried to make me eat orange peels and hot dogs with peanut butter and cheese because "it all went to the same place anyway." Dad got born-again and wrote a 3000 page novel on the sex life of Jesus Christ. He married a Norweigian woman he met on a cruise ship and moved to Puyallup, Washington where they ran a tuxedo rental business. They would not loan my brother a tuxedo for prom. The new wife fell off a horse, hit her head and went insane. Dad heard Jesus telling him what numbers to play in Vegas. He developed cancer of the lymph nodes and died, right around Christmas time.

Holy fucks... God and his infinite gonads could simply wash us all away will one tug of his cum hose. Cleanse us of our feeble bickering bitchery. And yet, we whine, "waa waa waa... why why why...."

To wish it to be any different than it is or to think that it should have been otherwise is to think ourselves wiser than the big omni-potent love god that created the all of it all. Maybe, just maybe, everybody is doing the right thing. Serving their divine function. Suffering where suffering is needed to keep the whole big galactic fuckery going strong. Maybe everyone is in the right dimension, and our efforts to restore them to their rightful righteousness is simply a refusal to see the TRUTH, if I can be so boring, so chicken-hearted, so naive as to speak of something so pure and puffy as the fucking TRUTH. (cleaning the puke off my shoes) What I meant to say is: a cunt is a cunt is a cunt is a cunt is a cunt. Even on Mars. Bitches, Whores, and Cunts.

I am I because my little dog says so. I wake up in the morning and I wipe my own ass. I go to work. I pay my bills. I do my very best to be the very best cog I can be. Sometimes that requires slapping a bitch or two, stealing things from grocery stores, and drinking too much. There are phases we pass through. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, ELEVEN!!!! Read the book of Job. Ask yourself if you really have room to complain. Are you covered in festering boils? (I am speaking to ME now, there are no accussations. To ME, about ME: this is the diagram and diagnosis of self-perpetrating) The voice in isolation speaks to itself.

This is what it is like in my room: Table, chair, bed, many papers, a plan of action, books to read. The doors are locked and the windows drawn due to the persistence of The Peepers.

What does this have to do with the Subject at Hand? The Topic du Jour? The Monde de Vivre? The Way, The Path, and The Light?

I don't care. I don't give a fuck. I am a cunt. I am an ever-wet pussy. I'm a gooey fucking vagina machine impelled to complicate and copulate, and I don't give a fuck. I get angry. I pull on my vulvic lobes in a furious prayer for more power, more money, and WINGS!!!! If only I had wings I could swoop down and surprise the motherfuckers. The fucking Goons.

Do we think we can get to the bottom of this? Are we still so feeble minded and short-termed that we think that any of us is right? Do we still believe in the dualities? Light/Dark, Day/Night, Right/Wrong, Good/Bad.... wait wait wait... that's not the point. The point is... TAKE A LOOK AROUND. WE ARE HERE! THIS IS WHAT WE'VE BEEN WAITING FOR! The good life!

The good life is here! We sit in the muck of our freedoms and feelings discussing the finer points of aural history and the nature of arts and crafts facing the glowing portal to a fine fun-filled world of exploitation on a cock-sucking anal-animal rape fuck frenzy free porn download super site. In 5 seconds I can roll through a random series of gore, gash, and mutant-nippled grandmas that would sterilize any healthy breeder. Lord, lord. And this is God.

Either God is everything, or God is nothing, and therefore, by a logical process of deduction, I can safely say that if God is, God is I. God is StileProject, God is Gore, God is a pearly drop of cum burning the retna out of some poor bitches eyesocket as we speak. God is rotten shit drippings seeping out of our dear Uncle Goatse's mutilated anus. God is a donkey's dong. God is Woman, God is Man. God is Love.

I wrote this poem once, after spending some time looking at Sugimoto's pictures of still oceans: I am thankful that the crushing weight that keeps the water inside the ocean hasn't broken me yet. That was it. That may have been my first conscious episode of basic gratitude. Grateful for Gravity. Just for Today, I'm Keepin' it Simple.

---

There is an argument raging over at the Stile Project Forum on the pussy ass whiny fuck topic of "why aren't there more great woman artists?"

Some stupid bitches argue that it is a problem of 'time', the years of oppression, and the idea-theivery of fathers, brothers, sons and husbands. Playing the victim (just like a stupid feeble bitch) and blaming the years of home-bound civil enslavement--wives, mothers, daughters, all nothing more than poor poor poor slaves to the grind.

Napoleon Bonaparte, that short, dastardly bastard, once said, "Women are nothing but machines for producing children."

He was not wrong.

Women are biologically rigged to be the great creators, channels of the universe, cum-catching, baby-making, earth populating vessels. Our primary purpose is to reproduce. Our immortality is assured as we breed. We are the vessel through which all hope for the species must pass. A most noble position. Most ancient civilization worshipped this role, and our singularity of significance was revered. And now...

We have feminism, equal rights...the great homogenization marches on. We all want to be the same, same, same...droning, moaning, replicable, replaceable, interchangable, clonable...boring boring boring. No diversity, no focus, blah blah blah. We are confused. We have no sense of purpose, function, or destiny. It is chaos. We are transforming, trangendering, transmogrifying, with no signs of sublimation. When a genetic line ceases to be interesting, it also ceases to be, period. Blandness is not tolerated by the universe. This is a scientific fact. (If there can be any "facts" in science--but that's for another discussion.)

What I meant to say is, women don't have to sweat the attainment of immortality via art and acheivement in the same way as men. Fuck that shit. Play your games, paint your paintings, write your novels, and cling to some hope of continuation in space and time through the memories of man and the mercy of temporary infamy. Believe in the illusion of this material plane whilst the women generously transmit all of their art, creativity, inspiration, and instinct into the young. Employed by the Great Creator in the service of the evolution of human consciousness, the mothers are the great artists, the children the great art work, the human psyche the most complex canvas to work upon.

In the meantime, let us pray...

Lord, make me a channel of Thy peace. That where there is hatred, I may bring love. That where there is injury, pardon. That where there is doubt, faith. Where there is darkness, light. Where there is sadness, joy.

Oh Divine Master, grant that I may not seek so much to be consoled, as to console. To be understood, as to understand. To be loved, as to love. For it is in giving that we receive, it is in pardoning that we are pardoned, and it is in dying that we are born to everlasting life.

Suffer the little children. It is the children that are going to suffer from our lack of contact. The lack of mental mating and project conception. The lack of random acts of creation due to the slovenly selfishness and possessiveness of the weak and the scared.

Anthony De Mello pointed out the root of all of our pain. As did Buddha. It is a simple and shining statement that glows as a beacon of our hope and ultimate demise: "Let go, fuckers." (this is God speaking now, speaking to ME) "Let the fuck go. Stop feeding yourself like a selfish pig, gobbling up gutter trash with one hand, trying to defend your little pile of shit with the other. You are ugly. You are a goon. You are rotting on the inside and your heart is drying up. You will disappear in a puff of smoke and leave behind no legacy, due to your utter selfishness. Your pathetic preventing of pain."

I hope you rot.

I hope it someday hurts bad enough.

Pain is the touchstone of growth.

I love you and I'll always love you.

(god slaps my face, spits on me and laughs, one of those good and firm fatherly laughs.... I do more push ups. I become stronger. I jack off in the corner and eat my own ejaculation. I am unstopped. Self-creating.)

What a bunch of whining fucks we are! God Bless Us Every One! There will never be enough love and attention and name and fame and immortal renown to satisfy us because we are greedy, frightened fuckers and we are suffering from what the illustrious faggot Carl Jung called a Spiritual Malady.

My Friend and Nemesis John Maus summed it up nicely this morning:

So you know what I want. Technology and wonder. Spiritual Experiences. Fancy places in Europe with cool stair cases. Nice suites, nice food, a beautiful intelligent loving inspiring courageous fanastic inspiring inspiring muse-of-my-life thunderbolts from hell caring parnter. Complexity. Simplicity (not meant to be poetic, sincerely). Video Equipment. Music Equipment (pianos, cellos, violins, Bassoons, weird percussion stuff from Indo-china). Pin ball machines... Black Knight 2000. Books on Relegion, Philosophy, Art, Critical Theory, New Music, Old Music, Critical Examinations of Pop music. A library of great music. A couple films I've made. A couple books I've written. A couple Albums of Pop. A couple Film Scores. A couple cannonized pieces of mind-expanding serious music I've written. Books on tape in my nice-but-modest new car. A bank account with more than 6 zeros in it (not including cents of course). Trips to Hawaii with my lover, lover, lover LOVER LOVER LOVER.... Unamuno... THe master of them all... Ths brilliant, brilliant, brilliant wonderful yet horrifyingly overlooked thinker, more-or-less-said (back me up on this George) it was all about the One... The Lover...

The Lover... The Lover...

I have much to say on the matter of The One. I have written songs and plays and novels and graffiti and love letters about The One. I am gangrened to the marrow of my bones by romanticism and it disgusts me. I am trapped by my own illusion of a soulmate and a someone who understands ME. I am a silly bitch.

I am the liar, the fool. The finger is pointing at me. I am a chicken-heart, a raisin. A shrivelled mass of fear and dried blood. There is no love.

The debate rages on about why, why, why aren't there any great women artist's. Who cares? Women aren't famous because they are silly bitches. Their voices whine and creak and everything they exude is contaminated by their unction and function, the vaginal imperative to absorbed, conceive, and breed. Men are famous because they are frightened impotent globe fuckers. They pull on their flabby growths until it toughens up into a blood-filled knob and then they spit, spew, stammer and stutter their viscous goop like some babies gurgling vomit. It is time for the great truth: we all suck ass. It is time for the unified theory of who gives a fuck.

This existence is an illusion, and we are all suffering from a disease of distorted perception. I blast contradictions and generalizations shamelessly out of my anus with no thought of the messes which ensue.

The slime, stench, and puss of my glowing adoration for mankind oozes through every word, betwixt the teeth, through the pores, oils the hairs, drips down the small of my back. I stand in a puddle of thick, aged love. I am just like you. We are all the same. It all means the same thing.

Anthony De Mello keeps chanting in my ear with his clanging dentures, rattling every word with the old breath of the aged and dying: Denial defines us. That which we reject binds us. Such is the way the pendulum swings.

Why can't I stand the sound of my own voice? Why am I consumed by an intense self hatred that is only counter balanced by a relentless egoism which decrees that I am in fact flawless and divine, whilst I live the life of a gutter rat, playing in my own feces?

It is a pickle. A fucking pickle.

p.s. I am not a lesbian, but I would gladly fuck your girlfriend silly just to spite you. I'm funny that way.

---

We've all had those mornings where we wake up with a what the fuck?

Wondering how many beans were spilled the night before. Sometimes I get excitable and start telling more stories than the world is ready for. Such may have been the case last night.

Yesterday Miss Lisa Dee turned as old as Jesus ever did. One step before eternal life, the target age for transcendental experience is set at the modest rate of 33 years of earthbound experience. To celebrate the day, I shot a music video for Lisa's other band, KillSonic, and after a rousing nightcap of country songs we devolved into reveries of the days of sex on acid.

There are the pros and the cons.

The pros being the utter abandon and animalistic intensity of acid sex. The cons being the lasting disgust that we would later feel for ourselves and the person (or persons) we were with, due to the perceptual shifts in their skin tones, tooth size, and pore diameter.

Personally, my greatest fear was that I would "cross the line" and in a fit of Dionysian delirium I would chew the tongue out of the person I was with, suck out his eyeballs, rip the skin off his back, tear open his ribs with my bare hands and eat his fucking heart out.


Please let me introduce you to Miss Lisa Dee:

That's Miss Dee on the pink poster, looking all Night of the Living Zombie-Gerrmanic.

I feel I should put forth some sort of explaination as to contextualize her being. However, how can one explain the inexplicable? This woman is a phenomenon. An inter-galactic starburst materializing for a limited time in pussycat form. This is a limited time offer. This lady has worlds to conquer. Miss Dee is a classically trained Opera singer and High Priestess of the Evangenitals.

This poster is from a mad tour we did back in '99. The piece was a kind of psycho-sexual-horror-epic-german-rock-opera that we made up one day while frying zucchini's in the middle of the Joshua Tree National Park.

Der Schamlippensauger is German for Vagina Sucker.