Archive for September, 2007

Post Mortem Blues Of Succession

From the spoken word album Puissance -1 by Big-Hired Assassin

you wanted it, so here it comes…

america is fast cars, spinning wildly out of control.

america is aluminum, and radiates metallic growth.

america is the land of disillusion, fiery depths of nihilism and torture, fatigued souls spitting lethargic words, cowards taming cannibalistic rage, penny pinching, soul stenching, straight up fucking confusion wrapped, or rather warped in commercialism and sad tales of defeat.

spineless rabid dogs chasing parked cars outside of abandoned warehouses where prostitutes are sucking off some nine year olds father figure and then purchasing crack in order to deal with the taste of his business cum.

america is a lie, brought to us by our forefathers, who were bastards themselves, and suffered from severe bouts of fixation and mutilation to others genitalia. as if this was not enough, their complex with oedipus rex made it so that they could only ejaculate while fantasizing about their own mother slicing and dicing their penis after they slaughtered daddy and mutilated his.

america is the land of opportunity, and every preacher, junkie, alcoholic, stripper, prostitute, porn star, and bum will confess to that very fact.

america is proud, strong and independent.
just ask any country that has been bombed, manipulated, lied to, or taking advantage of by our vast, and fully armed military.

america believes in killing one another over job loss, trendy shoes, colors, parking spaces, obsession, possession, drugs, gambling, speeding tickets, and t.v.

america loves to give rights to criminals and take rights away from law abiding citizens who go to work for low wages and then are forced to pay taxes, so that congress can sit in some large room with their thumbs in each others ass and think of new ways to fuck things up.

america loves instant gratification and this is displayed by all of our daily interactions with uncanny intercourse. we have instant food prepared in radioactive microwaves and processed meats delivered to us through little windows by popular demand. we have feature films brought to us with an immediate phone call. we have countless acts of treason at our command and we indulge mindlessly within them.

america is sold out, perverted, introverted, extroverted, malicious and volatile.

america is a land of waste, tyranny, and fatigue, lethargic beings sucking venom from open wounds in a fast and disillusioned state of mind.

america does not know art, and does not cherish creative intellect.

america is a condition, a disease, a serious ailment, and should be viewed as such. one might add that this ailment, if left untreated, will bring a far worse condition than the human mind can imagine.

america will become a colony, a concentration camp, and will eventually slaughter many men, women and children in an attempt to control individual liberty and creative expression.

i am quite sure that some people will have the urge to argue, debate, analyze, and deface my observations. however, let me forewarn them. if these perceptions are disregarded, horror and unambiguous tyranny shall reign in absolute terror and disbelief.

america assassinated many native american tribes in order to build this concrete jungle. what makes you so sure that you will not be butchered as well? naivety and ignorance, i presume.

even if i make myself out to be an arrogant, condescending, hypocritical, pompous ass, there is still truth in these words.

i believe that we are dangerously close to this atrocious destination, that we will become man made tools for which the stagnant minds, so disdainfully abuse.

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Liquid Art

From the spoken word album Puissance -1 by Big-Hired Assassin

no more rules
i will no longer obey your gods
i will kill them in their sleep
i will take over the seasons
and walk w/ you to the gate
there is no reason, nor time, to weep
i control the midgets
the battered spouses
and the rebellious teens
the mad and obscene
psychological machines
pumping me w/ fluids
made from lead and concentrated venom
you strange men
who create liquid art
w/ no passion
you trendy bastards
who follow the latest fashion
will burn in the ovens
along w/ the rest of the dead
and in the showers
w/ the rest of the dead
and on the beaches
w/ the rest of the dead
listen as we mourn
w/ the forgotten troops
and the destined losers
you who sleep safely
will not forget me
i am on my way
to take what is already mine
to claim my paradise
you will wish you were dead
after i let loose what is in my head
take out the trash…burn the evidence
and keep watch
i’ll be there soon
to comfort you

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Agent Orange

From the spoken word album Puissance -1 by Big-Hired Assassin

whatever happened to me must have taken my pity
whatever happened to me must have taken my skin
the needle left me paralyzed
the monsters damned me
junkies ripped me limb from limb
and fed me w/ laughter
now, every time i see one of you
i kill
i don’t even consider it anymore
i just kill
it’s become worse
now, i kill people who don’t even resemble you
they are nothing like you
but i kill them anyways
i can’t stop
i must kill
all i think about …all i dream about
i am consumed by murder
i murdered jimmy
i murdered mozart
i murdered lincoln
i murdered jfk
i murdered lennon
i murdered roosevelt
i murdered dickinson
i murdered baudelaire
i really shouldn’t say much more
agent orange
he now knows me because i checked out a book
at the library
i entered a chat on the net
i own a rollins book
purchased a vocabulary builder
read helter skelter
attended a seance
and lived in manitou springs

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Traitor

From the spoken word album Puissance -1 by Big-Hired Assassin

i have electrical veins as i spit at the newspaper clippings
from our disillusioned houses of ridicule
i picture you sitting in the transformed halls of idiocy
w/ your heels slit from rusty razors which were dipped in chlorine
and then saturated in salt
this is my fantasy
maybe, you can sue me for inspiring horrid and atrocious thoughts
to enter into your psyche
therefore, you will not be held accountable for your actions
i will be responsible for your weak will
i will place you on my hate list and piss on your bedding
i will leave you a rose from my decaying garden
i will love you when you are beaten by the masses
i will help guide you to the fleshly curiosa
i will help you to find the underground tunnels that lead to zarathustra
you can decide for yourself which side to devour
there is no need for us to speak w/ arsenic tongues
or to bear metal on our defiant skin for the shrewdness
from apes, asses, peddlers and swine who live in the
reunification of villainous plutocracies
there is no need for us to wither in this putrid cesspool
w/ our eyes sown shut, our mouths silenced and our hands tied
waiting for the dogs to bite
there is no honor in silence
i refuse to be the maker…i refuse to be the man
nonetheless, our people are strong…now is the time
know your enemy
i saw you for the first time delivering a sermon
at a widely accredited university
i shook your hand firmly
i commented on your vast array of knowledge
i built you
now, i am the distributor of massive air raids
and redundant executions…tragic stories and history
believe me when i say that i understand anger
i am the arbitrator
i know my enemies

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Antebellum

From the spoken word album Puissance -1 by Big-Hired Assassin

there used to be a tremendous appreciation for artistic endeavors.
now there is only the act of appreciation.

there used to be magnificent statues built in honor of the chosen few.
now there is only photographs of the artist’s epitaph.

how they have forgotten us, my friend,
as our remains are spread over barren soil.

our tempers appeased by xeroxed copies of hamlet.
our words pacified by men with laconic tongues.

with our minds mutilated by labor
and our inspiration murdered by wanton desire
we struggle to maintain at minimum, at least, one creative thought.
this desperation is what ails me the most.

we used to be so courageous; braver than rattlesnakes.
now we are all just ruled by indolence and worst yet, politics.

forgive us artists, for walking on your petunias.
your grand gardens of indulgence
and your syphilitic, sybaritic trophy rooms.

a thousand nights of fever, justifiably so.

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