A Dreamer Solstice
JRR, JFK, JK Rowling, and the richest writer assholes on the planet had nothing on this guy. Nothing! He took a no-story and delivered it into the mid-section bin ready to print, smoking hot (actually slightly burned round them edges). He liked to feast on peanut butter and jam (the weird-berry one) and seemed as if this nutritional input was what produced the lyrical output…. Freaking mechanics, man…
Solid and consistent as a happy-go-lucky black guy from the suburbs. Can’t play basketball, likes to talk, has a son somewhere, wife left, mother raised him. Trying to make an impression on everyone. As he heads home an overcast moon is shining down on the tight rows of houses, trimmed lawns, colorful dwarves, and the group of Irish goofy kids on the corner playing craps. He rolls by, heads home, gets set for another day. I’m his OTHER neighbour, watching him from behind the curtain. I know him, don’t I?…Waaait, AM I from the ghetto too?!...nooooOO!…..
Superman! It’s not a bird, nor a plane, it’s not even close to being a toothbrush, nor anything. It’s a theme song, solidified into a plastic silhouette of crappy Chinese Lego bricks. It’s a never-has-been page from a generic comic book that grows to life when the TV electro-light hits it. It’s a blue and red and yellow moron drifting purposelessly around the Dutch ancestry of New Amsterdam’s skyline. Land down smack in the Village and we’ll see how many cocktails you can afford you tight-assed, no-pocket-to-hold-money-suit-wearing retard! Spot you a tenner? Super hell no!
Timmy liked to play with brands. We had brands in that room, oh boy, did we ever! Timmy was in brand heaven, jacking this one from its consumer, switching around target groups, fucking up the brand wheels and reinventing the connection moments, chuckling all throughout like this was the best thing ever. A group of bald men with glasses in white overcoats, standing behind a bullet-proof glass window, screamed and banged on the glass to no avail as it was also sound-proof. It was grotesque, kinda like watching the G7 trying unsuccessfully to stop from afar an old cleaning lady about to inadvertently push The nuclear button…
Man, did you see that last night? Was that a fireworks display OR WWWHAT! First it hit the building downtown, turned it into a lit-up electric chromosome, with laser sparks running up and down its spine, then it evaporated Mladost 3, then it struck the whole mountain of Vitosha and transformed into a resort city with tall hotels, all of them unfinished, still in construction. A German tourist with half a duner in hand, a Ballack shirt and DDR cap looked up in frozen disbelief, and I wanted to tell him it’s OK but couldn’t find the heart to lie…
A cute girl is standing in your kitchen, mitts on the hands, pots on the stove, water running. She’s wearing no top, just an apron. The yellow bulb light shines down her apron and curves. Oh, those curves…. The perfect neckline continues straight down, bulges into the apron… The clock ticks away as the soup starts to boil. A crazy cat jumps out from behind the fridge, into the soup, and starts swimming backstroke around the soup, like some Super Mario of freakin’ backstroke. Gives you a condescending glance after the third lap, then stops, takes a breath, rolls down and throws away the swimming cap, exits and shakes the soup liquid off so it splashes all over you. You are incensed, but what are you going to do! It’s a freakin’ cat for cryin’ out loud!
Jump up jump up and get down….After that unfortunate cat episode, which has totally overshadowed the much more important curve lines in your kitchen, you don’t look back ‘cause you are in anger, you go out for some fresh air, enter the bar, kick the ballroom doors, open all safe boxes, take out all the freaking Famous Grouse miniatures in them, drink half of them and pour down on the floor the rest. The Security comes, naturally interested in what the hell you are doing. You do your best to settle their unease, fail, fight, get your ass kicked, drag yourself home and sleep off the weekend with a cut eyebrow, dreaming about them curves….
JRR, JFK, JK Rowling, and the richest writer assholes on the planet had nothing on this guy. Nothing! He took a no-story and delivered it into the mid-section bin ready to print, smoking hot (actually slightly burned round them edges). He liked to feast on peanut butter and jam (the weird-berry one) and seemed as if this nutritional input was what produced the lyrical output…. Freaking mechanics, man…
Solid and consistent as a happy-go-lucky black guy from the suburbs. Can’t play basketball, likes to talk, has a son somewhere, wife left, mother raised him. Trying to make an impression on everyone. As he heads home an overcast moon is shining down on the tight rows of houses, trimmed lawns, colorful dwarves, and the group of Irish goofy kids on the corner playing craps. He rolls by, heads home, gets set for another day. I’m his OTHER neighbour, watching him from behind the curtain. I know him, don’t I?…Waaait, AM I from the ghetto too?!...nooooOO!…..
Superman! It’s not a bird, nor a plane, it’s not even close to being a toothbrush, nor anything. It’s a theme song, solidified into a plastic silhouette of crappy Chinese Lego bricks. It’s a never-has-been page from a generic comic book that grows to life when the TV electro-light hits it. It’s a blue and red and yellow moron drifting purposelessly around the Dutch ancestry of New Amsterdam’s skyline. Land down smack in the Village and we’ll see how many cocktails you can afford you tight-assed, no-pocket-to-hold-money-suit-wearing retard! Spot you a tenner? Super hell no!
Timmy liked to play with brands. We had brands in that room, oh boy, did we ever! Timmy was in brand heaven, jacking this one from its consumer, switching around target groups, fucking up the brand wheels and reinventing the connection moments, chuckling all throughout like this was the best thing ever. A group of bald men with glasses in white overcoats, standing behind a bullet-proof glass window, screamed and banged on the glass to no avail as it was also sound-proof. It was grotesque, kinda like watching the G7 trying unsuccessfully to stop from afar an old cleaning lady about to inadvertently push The nuclear button…
Man, did you see that last night? Was that a fireworks display OR WWWHAT! First it hit the building downtown, turned it into a lit-up electric chromosome, with laser sparks running up and down its spine, then it evaporated Mladost 3, then it struck the whole mountain of Vitosha and transformed into a resort city with tall hotels, all of them unfinished, still in construction. A German tourist with half a duner in hand, a Ballack shirt and DDR cap looked up in frozen disbelief, and I wanted to tell him it’s OK but couldn’t find the heart to lie…
A cute girl is standing in your kitchen, mitts on the hands, pots on the stove, water running. She’s wearing no top, just an apron. The yellow bulb light shines down her apron and curves. Oh, those curves…. The perfect neckline continues straight down, bulges into the apron… The clock ticks away as the soup starts to boil. A crazy cat jumps out from behind the fridge, into the soup, and starts swimming backstroke around the soup, like some Super Mario of freakin’ backstroke. Gives you a condescending glance after the third lap, then stops, takes a breath, rolls down and throws away the swimming cap, exits and shakes the soup liquid off so it splashes all over you. You are incensed, but what are you going to do! It’s a freakin’ cat for cryin’ out loud!
Jump up jump up and get down….After that unfortunate cat episode, which has totally overshadowed the much more important curve lines in your kitchen, you don’t look back ‘cause you are in anger, you go out for some fresh air, enter the bar, kick the ballroom doors, open all safe boxes, take out all the freaking Famous Grouse miniatures in them, drink half of them and pour down on the floor the rest. The Security comes, naturally interested in what the hell you are doing. You do your best to settle their unease, fail, fight, get your ass kicked, drag yourself home and sleep off the weekend with a cut eyebrow, dreaming about them curves….
posted by a4etivo at 6:55 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home