The Space Helmet Show!

Four Years of Google+

2015-06-28T18:14:00.002-07:00

As Google+ chief architect Yonatan Zunger points out, today is the fourth anniversary of Google+. As I mentioned in my comment, I'll have been on G+ for four years, having followed Louis Gray with the FriendFeeders on day 2. I admit that, except for posting my blog entries and leaving the occasional comment, I haven't been active there much lately; I started with Twitter, and I still mostly hang out there. But unlike Facebook, which I never liked in the first place, I've never been fully absent from G+ for long, even if I didn't actually post.

What I always liked about G+ is the conversations, which don't descend into flame wars anywhere near as much as on Facebook. And the photographers, who were the most interesting part in the early days and who were the original reason Communities got started. And the ease of posting my blog entries, something that got very frustrating on Facebook just because Zuck hates Google.

So I've decided that now would be a good time to make myself more present there again. That means more uploading (and taking) photos, more poems (and song lyrics too, as 50 Songs in 90 Days is starting on July 4), more article links, and whatever songs and videos I feel the whim to post. Not that I'm abandoning Twitter; I'm still there, and I might even interpost.

Oh, and that "ghost town" they keep talking about in the tech media? Well, I must be seeing one hell of a lot of ghosts in my feed.

Here I come...

Man Mountains (He Died Big) -- NaPoWriMo 2015 Poem #4

2015-04-11T11:52:00.000-07:00

dudebro jams the needle in his arm
shoots up manjuice like a junkie
gonna make himself a manmountain
bigger & meaner than you
gonna grow big die big gonna
die young die strong dianabol
steroids turning muscles into mountains
shrinking his dick his balls & his brain &
growing his boobs big
& beautiful

big beautiful boobs bouncing bare
he goes fulltilt emo on your wimp ass
beats you up
screaming like a mad bull
calling you faggot mangina
& girl
furious fists flailing free in all directions
roidrage manmountain muscles straining
tries to strangle you with his
sixty inch pythons
tries to smother you between the
mountains on his chest

you land one big blow between his bitchtits
fivefinger deathpunch explodes his heart
he clutches the hole in his mountainous chest
flailing staggering moaning dying
die young die strong dianabol
death in the lockerroom
inert mass on the lockerroom floor with
massive manmountain muscles &
big bare beautiful boobs
epitaph for dudebro
he died big

Jesus in My Teeth -- NaPoWriMo 2015 Poem #3

2015-04-05T19:32:00.000-07:00

I saw Jesus in my teeth
In the X-ray my dentist took
Right there in a wisdom tooth
He can’t take it out now
While Jesus is sanctifying me
Through His presence in the X-ray
of my tooth

I saw Jesus in a pancake
He snuck onto the griddle somehow
At the restaurant where I was having breakfast
Downing a gallon of drip coffee and
Eating my bacon and eggs and bacon
and pancakes
and bacon
(Did I tell you how much I love bacon?)
And there He was,
Jesus, the Lord
appearing to me
in my pancake
And so I ate Him

I’ve got Jesus in my tummy
I ate His flesh and drank His blood
as bread and wine
at Mass
He appeared to me in my pancakes
and I ate Him
He appeared to me in my French toast
and I ate Him
He appeared to me in my hot cross bun
and I ate Him
He tasted oh so heavenly good
Like the Son of God should
And now He sanctifies my tummy
till He’s digested
And I must eat and drink Him
again

Posin' -- NaPoWriMo 2015 Poem #2

2015-04-05T16:41:00.002-07:00

please allow me 2 introduce myself im
nonentity drummer pikki pockett
prettyboy poser
sellin out rocknroll 2 the man
sellin my soul 4 big bucks
& bad drugs
brought 2 u by
sponsored by
dont think shut up & buy
xtra special offer
get urs today
i got mine
im lookin @ u
i got all ur money
i know u luv me
clap.
clap.
clap.
clap.
got my invisible blackface on
cuz im playin 4 the man
sellout rocker playin 4 fame
big bucks
& bad drugs
modern minstrel steady posin
for the amusement of the oligarchs.

lookit all the old old rockers
lookin like dear old dad who
smashed ya rekkids
(do u remember?
u put him in a nursing home)
where o where have the
rocknroll rebels gone
from days gone by
gone baby gone
gone far far away
to the nursing home
with the nice white men
in their clean white coats
or the boardrooms of the oligarchs
sellin out
im lookin @ u daltrey & townshend
who sold out
u thats who
i dont believe in who
no mo
never trust anyone over a million
sellin out rocknroll
no more screams & riots only
clap.
clap.
clap.
clap.
sellout rockers steady posin
for the amusement of the oligarchs.

minstrelsy will never die
alive & still dyin
long as there b oligarchs
fashion industrial complex
lookin far & wide 4 the
perfect face & perfect bum 2 sell out
rocknroll &
hiphop too
im lookin @ u
iggy azalea
from australia
pretty-pretty bird
with ur afroamerica ghetto gear
& no bum no brain no clue
wearin ya blackface
inside
pretentious posette steady posin
for the amusement of the
clap.
clap.
clap.
clap.
oligarchs.

rocknroll & hiphop b dead dead dead
mergered & assassinated by the
fashion industrial complex
givin the people the finger & the
clap.
clap.
clap.
clap.
for the amusement of the oligarchs
in the name of
free enterprise
intellectual property
infinite cheap profit
& absolute power
dollin u up in hifashion bluesuede
concrete galoshes
serenaded 2 the bottom of the hudson
under landscraper wallstreet view
or london thames cuttin thru airstrip 1
kingdom of lord murdoch
lord branson lord saatchi &
big brother who b
watchin watchin u

please allow me 2 introduce myself im
nonentity drummer pikki pockett
prettyboy poser
watch me pose
pretty 4 u

over the rotten stinkin corpse of

rocknroll

Foosball Riot -- NaPoWriMo 2015 Poem #1

2015-04-04T22:36:00.000-07:00

The weird kid is
not popular
not cool
not a thing at all in the eyes of the popular and the cool
But he plays a mean game of foosball.
He sees the holes you don’t
He shoots with uncanny precision
He scores before you even notice
He wins.

Riot in the cafeteria
Fake food flying in the air
Tables overturned, chairs thrown
Hair pulled, punches thrown
The faculty can’t handle it
They call in the cops.

The chaos spreads into the streets
Dumpsters on fire, flaming trash thrown
Cars turned on their sides and rolled over
Whole cases of empty beer bottles thrown
At riot cops firing tear gas back

It’s all over the news all night
These cute white kids all throwing a collective tizzy
so cute, so charming
this lily-white riot
they’re only having fun
Being dragged off to jail drunk and
foaming at the mouth
screaming at the cops
smashing news cameras
beating up reporters
looking like utter fools
Broadcast on live television to the whole world

And the whole world’s watching

All because the weird kid
Played a mean game of foosball.

After the XPocalypse: My Journey Back Up the Linux Learning Curve

2014-10-14T14:30:00.001-07:00

Okay, so I'm free from Windows XP at last and my former XP box is now running Ubuntu Studio. Thing is, I've been away from Linux long enough that I have to retrace my steps and climb my way back up the learning curve. Because at this point in time I'm faced with urgent things like a fast approaching NaNoWriMo and getting Spanner Book 1 edited for publication, I'll be doing things more slowly this time and focusing on basic commands and the desktop first.

The basic commands: stuff like cp, mv, rm, and wc. For those more familiar with Windows and MS-DOS, cp corresponds to copy, rm to del, and mv to both move and ren or rename. wc counts the number of words in text files. Actually, you can use all these commands in Windows itself if you install the GNU CoreUtils package; this may have an earlier version of the CoreUtils than the one that comes standard with Linux, but the commands work just the same. GnuWin32 has a lot of Windows versions of Linux packages that you can install and use; they may not be updated anymore, but they can still be useful. I installed most of these packages in XP and used them a lot, though the last couple of years not as much as I once did.

Also, there's the package managers standard in Linux distributions. Ubuntu is based on Debian (and Linux Mint, which I installed on a partition on my new computer, is based in turn on Ubuntu), so it uses Debian's package manager, APT. The advantage of package managers is that they make it easier to keep your software updated. I missed that. I also missed the command line tools like apt-get. When the XPocalypse finally gave me the chance, I plunged back in.

The desktop: naturally, it's got differences from Windows. For one thing, there's several you can choose from. I was a huge fan of KDE back when I had Kubuntu on my old and now defunct Gateway. Ubuntu Studio comes with XFCE; the version of Linux Mint I chose for the cute little 64-bit dual-core unit in my home theatre system uses the Cinnamon desktop that is just about as processor-intensive as the Unity desktop that comes with standard Ubuntu, or for that matter the heavy-duty desktops in Windows since Vista. In both my Linux distributions I had to assemble a few desktop components, especially some control panels that were missing. But learning the ins and outs of my chosen Linux desktops is the easy part.

The hard part is, as you'd expect, the deeper aspects of the command line, and the heavy-duty text editors I prefer but haven't been using lately, Vim and Emacs. For this, I'll have to explore deep into the jungles of documentation that surround them. NaNoWriMo is just around the corner, though, so I'll have to take my time with that.

One new thing I'll have to learn is how to use the advanced audio system called JACK (recursive acronym: JACK Audio Connection Kit). I know nothing about it. I need to find documentation and tutorials for it. I want to at least get competent in using it before FAWM, which is only 3½ months away.

Anyway, I'm happy I've reunited with Linux again. I even have Wine to run Windows programs again, and I've even installed a few games (Minesweeper, that pinball game, and Hover from the Windows 95 CD). I'm not starting from scratch, actually. Still, there's a lot of stuff I have to learn before Linux becomes as intuitive to me as Windows.

Surviving the XPocalypse: The Sequel

2014-10-11T19:29:00.000-07:00

Since my last post, I've hardly blogged, tweeted, or otherwise been very publicly active on the Net at all. Mostly I've been editing my book and trying to wrestle it into readable form even as it mutated into two different shapes. But I've still been busy, for the last few months in fact, replacing the late lamented Windows XP with Ubuntu Studio Linux on my old P4 box and gradually setting up Windows 7 and Linux Mint on the cute little Core Duo unit in the living room. This is the sequel and update.

Part of the struggle involved a much delayed game of musical hard drives. The new computer came with only an 80GB hard drive, which didn't give me much room considering how much stuff I had on two hard drives on the old box, so I had it upgraded to the current industry standard of 1TB and transferred all my music, videos, and games to it. Then I cloned my 40GB C drive on the P4 box to the 250GB drive, expanded the partition on that to the full drive (except for %GB of Linux swap), transferred much of my old data back to it, replaced the 40GB drive with the 80GB one from the new computer, and installed Ubuntu Studio on that. To do this, I realized I had to buy a USB hard drive enclosure to do the clones and transfers I couldn't do over the network. After that, there was the task of reinstalling programs that is still ongoing.

The important thing is that I no longer have to deal with the dying XP's increasing lack of security. Win7 is much more secure (and still regularly updated), and Linux is more secure still (though I there still is the learning curve). Now if only the rumors of a Windows 10 upgrade being free to Win7 users were true — though I'm not holding my breath...

The bad part: it made me miss 50/90...

I Have Survived the XPocalypse!

2014-05-13T21:32:00.002-07:00

If you haven't forgotten me already (that happens), you may have noticed I haven't been online much since the middle of last month. You see, my old computer runs Windows XP. I got a new one running Windows 7 for the living-room home theatre system. It's a cute little thing with a dual-core 64-bit processor that runs XBMC Media Center like a dream, making it my set-top box of choice (I'll still play Blu-Ray discs on the Blu-Ray player, of course). It took me a few weeks to acquire the computer, install all the software I require, and get all the settings just right. That, of course, cut my NaPoWriMo short.

There was a big, big reason for all this: the XPocalypse!

You see, Microsoft ended all support for XP last month. Today was the first Patch Tuesday on which XP didn't get patched. Already the black-hat hackers are starting to exploit the vulnerabilities that will never again get patched. Today is XP's true death day. By getting my new Win7 machine, I have avoided getting caught up in the XPocalypse. Besides, I wanted Win7 anyway; it's just that a Pentium 4 cam't run it right.

And so I've disconnected my old P4 box from the Internet entirely while it still has XP installed. My next priority: to get a network drive I can move my music and videos to. Next step after that: install Ubuntu Studio to what is currently the D drive; I have to move my music, videos, and games because I'll need to reformat that drive to install Linux, which uses a completely different filesystem (EXT4 instead of Windows' NTFS). Since there's Windows programs I want to run under Linux, I'll want to install the Wine compatibility layer, then install whatever compatible Windows updates no longer available for XP. And then I'll be free of Windows XP's corpse forever!

Meanwhile, the former office terminal in my entertainment center is now my Win7 + XBMC "set-top box". In fact, I'm writing this entry on that machine as I speak...

Puzzle Game -- NaPoWriMo Poem #14

2014-04-20T19:04:00.000-07:00

You don’t smoke snort or inject it
you play it with a mouse
more addictive than drugs
hijacks your brain and
makes you dream it

I remember when it cost quarters to play at
your local video arcade
next to the beat-em-ups
platformers pinball and shmups
everybody watching

It’s a puzzle why people play it
this puzzle game
it puzzles the brain
pocket size insanity
on only a quarter

Peepfighters -- NaPoWriMo Poem #13

2014-04-20T17:47:00.000-07:00

marshmallowy sugary inedible yellow
weapons of squishy warfare candy destruction
brand name: peeps
raging teenagers overdosed on sugar
stock up on ammo half-off post-easter
load up their weapons to go to war
peepfighters
i have a machine gun made to fire peeps
he’s got a slingshot she shoots her potato gun
peeps fly around hit everyone in range
until they’re gone

in the vacuum of space peeps bloat with trapped air
back in the airlock they collapse flatter than roadkill
yum

Equinox -- NaPoWriMo Poem #12

2014-04-20T15:29:00.001-07:00

The snake of cosmic darkness swallows the invincible sun
Three days three nights the sun languishes eclipsed under the earth
On the third day he rises from the dead to shine again
The goddess of the dawn
Her ancient name: Easter
Rolls away the stone
To bid him rise again

By the hand she raises him from the loamy tomb
He shakes the black earth off his flaming hair
On the holy day of the dawn
Night shrinks away, day grows long
She manifests herself by northern lights in the night sky
Invoked by another of her ancient holy names: Aurora
Daring the bright sun to outshine her nocturnal glory
On this her holiest day
When the night and the day are equal

Doom and Gloom -- NaPoWriMo Poem #11

2014-04-18T22:43:00.000-07:00

Society’s going to the dogs, don’t tell me otherwise
The world’s going to hell in a handbasket, don’t deceive me with facts
People suck, so do you, I don’t believe a single word you’re saying

Doom and gloom
Doom and gloom
Doom and gloom

Society’s always going to the dogs
The world’s always going to hell in a handbasket
People always suck even when they don’t
Always did, always will

But my life sucks, always did, always will
I think I’ll go bury my head in the sand

Windows Update -- NaPoWriMo Poem #10

2014-04-18T19:53:00.006-07:00

oh no my windows just got discontinued
i’ll have to pay through the nose for an update
they’ll have to come to my house install the new ones
take out the old ones before they get hacked

damn you microsoft why do you always have to
make my windows obsolete just when i get used to them
don't worry says customer service you’ll see better
ha i reply just wait till the next big rainstorm hits

Burning His Bridges -- NaPoWriMo Poem #9

2014-04-13T13:19:00.000-07:00

He burned his first bridge back when he was a little boy

He stole his sister’s toys broke them when she told mom

He beat her up like a playground bully

he was older
he was bigger
it was his sovereign right
so he said

She never forgave him gave his reputation its first black mark

she locked him out of his life
sister no more forever
he was alone

That was only the first bridge:

he had only begun to burn

Year after year over and over he burnt bridge after bridge

robbing his relatives

backstabbing coworkers

turning friends into enemies

He thought he was all-sufficient unto himself

He thought the only friend he needed was God above

He dismissed the concept of karma as mere superstition

denying his own superstitions

dismissing his personal delusions

Looking out for number one was the whole of the law

He looked out for himself only, screw the other guy

From the burning sky above a burning bridge descended

He tried to escape it but it always adjusted its aim

It was made of all his hatreds resentments and fears

His double his shadow in monstrous form burning like an angel

Always it increased its speed in its mission to destroy him

it found him—
it landed—
impact:
his reputation ruined
his life destroyed

All he could do now was sit down and weep for himself

All the milk he spilt on everybody else

had come back to drown him

Hero for Sale -- NaPoWriMo Poem #8

2014-04-12T19:40:00.000-07:00

He had amazing superpowers and a personality cult

All the companies in America fell over themselves begging his endorsement

He could pick and choose, he just wanted exposure and beaucoup bucks

His face was plastered all over on posters magazine ads television screens

He was a hero for sale

Every person has their price, some just don't sell out

Our hero sold his soul for peanuts expecting millions

Superpower and vanity are a volatile cocktail

Watch him at every cocktail party toadying the rich

Who thinking they're superheroes buy personality cults of their own

Trading heroism for celebrity riches playboy mansions with blonde harems

Ladies and gentlemen:
our hero.

The Prestigious Reading -- NaPoWriMo Story

2014-04-12T12:46:00.000-07:00

[Note: I wrote this short story in the midst of writing poems for NaPoWriMo. Nothing annoys me more than the willful obscurity of elitist “artistes” such as the academic poet. This kind of artist really exists only to make culture-free billionaires feel "in", precisely because their art is unintelligible to us puny humans. Satire accordingly follows below.]

They are gathered here in the Temple of Art, the assembled Lords of Capital, to listen to the Bardic Elite read their works. None here care a thing for the pleasures of body, heart, mind, or soul. Modern Art exists for the ego alone. What they seek is Prestige.

For the professors, Prestige means Tenure, sponsored by the new race of aristocratic patrons whose representatives wait breathlessly for them to speak. For the executives, Prestige means Reputation among their kind, raising them in their own minds at least to the level of the merchant princes who made the Renaissance. A common conviction unites them: that Modern Art shall raise Artist and Patron alike above the people.

The first poet strides up to the podium. The projector lights up the wall behind him; the exalted audience must see what they are hearing to make sure what they hear is True Art not plebeian doggerel. Not verse but abstract words abstractly arranged like a bomb-blasted PowerPoint presentation (haven’t heard of Paul Blackburn? you philistine) assures the executive illuminati before him. They disagree as to whether the style he reads his poem is like a rabid gorilla or a psychotic robot. They sigh in contentment that, like Capitalism itself, Modern Art continues to dissolve everything solid into air (haven’t heard of Irving Fisher? you peasant). He finishes. They applaud. He smugly smiles: among the oligarchic audience, he shall find his Patron.

No, from these poets you won’t hear the feigned concern for the oppressed women and colored people all too common in the academic presses. To these men it reeks of Communism: let them spew their rot among the rabble. Here the true purpose of Modern Art is known: to comfort the comfortable and afflict the afflicted. The Bardic Elite speak only of Higher Things, that which cannot be spoken by human tongues, that which the Lords of Capital are taught by their gurus and the Ascended Masters they channel. To them the Great Chain of Being still stands unbroken; to them hierarchy is still the abstract essence of Nature.

Poet after poet speaks the unspeakable, deconstructed into glossolalia, exciting executive egos and raising them into gods. The air here in the Temple of Art is hushed like the atmosphere of a sacred temple before the holy golden image of the god. The god hovering over this ritual has no image, though painted and sculpted icons of the ineffable surround them; yet his blood runs freely in checkbooks, credit cards, and bank accounts: he is the god of this world, and the Lords of Capital are his chosen race, beyond good and evil (haven’t heard of Friedrich Nietzsche? you plebeian).

The ritual ends. The contracts are signed. The Bards find their Patrons; the Patrons find their Bards: all united by the smug sense of occult conspiracy against the unenlightened masses. The poets are pleased; the executives are pleased; the god they serve is pleased: they shall be rewarded with Profit and Prestige.

Meanwhile, many social layers below, heedless of the dance of egos among elites in the exclusivist Temple of Art, people with two and three jobs create their art, not to social-climb, but because they must.

Rational Anthem -- NaPoWriMo Poem #7

2014-04-11T19:57:00.000-07:00

[Note: my first poem this NaPoWriMo intended to be "songified" come 50 Songs in 90 Days.]

Rational man
Standing alone
Against an irrational world
Transcending
Condemning
Try to get out of it
You crusade against it
You stand alone

Radical man
Standing alone
Against the whole human race
Dispassion
No compassion
What did they do to you
Their lifeblood’s delicious
You stand alone

Thought into man
Standing alone
Against your prison of flesh
You thought it
You bought it
You will must triumph over
The desert of the real
And stand alone

God that was man
Standing alone
Against the material world
Transcend it
Destroy it
Judge and find it wanting
Jealous shall be your name
You stand alone

It Bleeds, It Leads -- NaPoWriMo Poem #6

2014-04-11T19:34:00.000-07:00

[Note: Originally written 4/7/14.]

Booyah booyah booyah boom:

the terrorist shoots up the cocktail party with his boomstick

murderous buckshot making hedge fund billionaires bleed money

vapid socialites trophy wives last-gasping soap-operatically

celebrities entering the ideal death-state of infinite profitability

chinaware fixtures bodies drapes all ruined in photogenic ways

white wine red blood stream together into delicious new cocktails

security agents with black blood steel muscles bulletproof skin

swarm into the ruined room fire a leaden hailstorm into his body

red gushers fountain beautifully from the heroic corpse before it crumples

the dying face forms a smug grin as he drifts off to Valhalla

First Law Of Media:
It Bleeds, It Leads

The dead killer’s defiant mugshot front-page plastered on all editions

newsbabbling talking heads breathlessly gush over his dastardly feat

nobody cares what he stood for, he’s the hot new criminal celebrity

up there with Carlos the jackal Green River Gary and Scarface Al

and the Twenty-Seven Club of rockers dead from willful self-destruction

what was his cause again? nobody even bothers to remember

all we care to know is he burned out to keep from fading away

his humanity a fading memory, now deified into tabloid celebrity

a growth industry, a boom stock, he and all his opulent victims

their heirs now suing each other, we cry out hurry up and shoot already

smugly we bask in the glamourous heroic aura of his brave exit

our excuse to remain passive complacent conformist in our decay

This is how you lose by winning.

Rugged individual heroism: the true occult secret to all true villainy

Make yourself a badass name to echo through the stony chambers of Valhalla

Beat the Man, crown yourself emperor, proclaim yourself a god, become the Man

Fail to beat the Man, die a superstar, a profit center for decades to come

The demigods who rule the world are not like you and me

All complete unto themselves, no need for society

What humans see as mortal sin, they call morality

The demigods care nothing for nature and humanity:

let them bleed.

Lotus -- NaPoWriMo Poem #5

2014-04-11T19:20:00.000-07:00

[Note: Originally written 4/6/14. The second of my Buddhist-themed poems.]

the wind catches a petal off a lotus blossom

carries it gently in its invisible currents

deposits it with softest touch onto the still pond surface

the floating petal generates softest ripples

travelling invisibly, touching everything around it

lilypad reed insect fish other lotus and the distant shore

the flower attracts the bee who inseminates it with pollen

then falls petal by petal to make way for fruit and seed

but the lotus blossom unfolds to reveal the simultaneous seed

the seed slowly descends the whole depth of the pond water

settles at the bottom into soft mud where it sends out its roots

and raises its stalk the full height to the surface

to unfold new flower and new seed

The Transparent Eye -- NaPoWriMo Poem #4

2014-04-08T21:23:00.000-07:00

[Note: Originally written 4/5/2014. The first of my Buddhist-themed poems.]

The Ideal suspended before us like the apple of Tantalus,

unreachable: we reach, and it recedes into the distance or fades away,

or worse, lead on corrupted minds ever deeper into burning hells,

collecting hellfire to cast onto earth: sweetest daughter of Māra,

weaving her veil of illusion to distract from the cries of a suffering world.

Close your eyes: quiet the mind: observe the commotion fade to silence:

become a transparent eye penetrating the veil to the true reality of things:

dissolve the confusion that clouds vision and distorts consciousness:

perceive the connections among all things from beginning to end of time:

rediscover that what is real and that what is not is not.

Go, bodhisattva, return to the suffering world with clear vision and pure heart:

countless living beings cry for relief from incessant suffering: reconnect:

leave behind the lesser self, distortion of self, moulted like snake's skin:

your self is not the outer shell or inner layers but the center:

as you walk further down the path, show them where it begins:

but they must choose to walk it
for some are blinded by shining ideals
and others by midnight-black despair
confusion clouds their eyes and makes them think
that what is not real is real
and what is real is not real:

clarity reveals the path, and the cosmic currents

that flow through you and me and all beings and all reality,

and the true nature of reality unclouded by faulty vision

and by the three afflictions, addiction repulsion confusion,

and by the lesser self that divides self from self and self from others.

Siddhārtha meditated under a pipal tree
when Māra spied him and panicked:
first he unleashed all the terrors of infinite hells:
failing that, he tried to seduce the prince
with carnal pleasures and illusory ideals:

Siddhārtha endured,
achieved extinction,
and woke up a Buddha.

Crucify Yourself (Punk Blues in Spanner Time) -- NaPoWriMo Poem #3

2014-04-08T18:28:00.000-07:00

[Note: Written 4/4/2014. A possible replacement Interlude 2 for Chaos Angel Spanner, featuring several major Spanner characters, motifs, and themes.]

Poe’s Law
(as in Edgar Allan’s preacher cousin):
The Church must put on the World’s culture
like unto a garment:
then it can take over.

Once upon a time, in a city by the sea,

before it caught the sheen and glitter of celebrity,

a dervish-capped man began a church amidst apostasy,

and gathered up his flock, and lo! it grew ambitiously,

and as his congregation grew, his power grew by degrees,

until the Lord commanded: bring this Babylon to its knees!

The city was called Seattle,
the man was Pastor Scofield,
Byron Herbert Scofield,
a man of same mind as Chuck Norris:
he looked like a football star
with a top hat upon his head
but wanted to be a Rock Star
and preaching the Lord was his way:
but the ring of ultimate power
lay on the road of Kurt Cobain.

Celebrity secret to fame and fortune
Crucify yourself
Suicide will make you immortal
Crucify yourself

Willa Richter-Thomas,
Rocker and psychologist,
came up with a theory
and put it into doggerel:

This preacher steals our Rock ’N’ Roll
and uses it to rule,
then strips it of its integrity
and calls it RadiCool.

He brought his intensities into ten more cities and nationwide,

parlaying his charisma into bigger more hysterical flocks and pastoral stardom;

but to him they were just a power base: higher ambitions fuelled his burning ego;

television’s siren song called out his name, drew him into its studio

where with his old friend Bram Savage he red- and pinkbaited uppity womankind

and their old enemy Willa, and built mighty fortresses in the sky

manned with manly crusaders against democracy, the devil’s daughter

and rapist of virgin manliness: communism was dead, they said,

we the people was passé and uncool: only fascism had edge and cool,

government by superhero, manly celebrity like Pastor Byron, the Lord’s linebacker.

He got his biggest ratings.
He was a fast rising star.
Next step to power: Fox News.
The devil looked up with a smirk.

And Willa went on with her theory
in defiance of his denial:

Patriarchs so desperate
to capture all the youth
Mix their jargon in dead slang
and brand it RadiCool.

Speculation abounds as to the time he sold his soul,

Sacrificing integrity for his ambitious goal:

Taking command of city towers and hostile city streets,

Liberal wimpy millions begging sobbing at his feet:

seize his dominion
take his revenge

Conservative celebrity compounded on itself and turned his head

He concocted the most audacious hostile takeover since the March on Rome

Bloodless castrated unmen and mere women populated the Babylon he sought to rule

They would fall and be conquered by the magic manly essence of God’s linebacker

By God’s sign he would conquer
Lo! this Babylon would fall

But ambition made him overconfident, unearned pride made him ripe for a fall

The city people feared he’d make them all illegal aliens in their own city

Fame fortune fear and fanatical hordes provoked the spirit of resistance

Mainstream media propaganda blitz couldn’t save him from humiliating defeat

and the Great White Father
was about to become Black

And Willa’s theory continued as
he closed his ears to reason:

They won’t let you escape their Word
at work or play or school;
They’ll rape your mind and kill your soul
à mode de RadiCool.

In the depths of his darkest despair
he sat in his executive chair
and telephoned Doctor Julian Blair
whose mad science controlled the mind
with a hubris that would make him blind
for he would turn Benedict Arnold
and they would make his name taboo
and they would call him Doctor X
and the mad doctor gave him this advice:

A Western movie cowboy
said these words so wise:
Before you live forever,
first you’ve got to die.

The martyr way to absolute power
Crucify yourself
You gotta die to become immortal
Crucify yourself

He sentenced himself to death,
he nailed himself to the cross,
he punctured himself in the side
with spear held in his own hands
and applied the final fatal sponge
and drank death deep to the bitter end:

his grief-maddened followers
believed he would rise bodily

but he appeared unto them
in mass hallucination:
they were now his body,
their faith his resurrection,
their life his transmutation:
like evil Osama bin Laden,
he was now a god.

The Conservative Revolution
went to its full conclusion
a black man vanished from the earth
again dread giants walked the earth:
the Spirit of Rock ’N’ Roll was now his:
he rocked the Word of Command:
Patriot Metal!

And all the Rockers sang along
as Willa summoned her Charmer niece:

We the people must take back
our culture from his rule,
even if our freedom requires
the sacrifice of the Cool.

Poe’s Law
(as in Nathan from Usenet):
The more fanatically you believe,
the less your belief can be distinguished
from parody.

She had slain the slender man
She could kill the mind of faith
A girl with skin of cinnamon
And outlaw style and hardened mind
And superpower to cloud the mind
And dark charisma rousing lust
too sexy for her age
and she had many names
Shira Thomas she said she was
But he kept calling her Rebel Styles
the evil child seductress
who slew the men of faith
his suicide assault was fuelled
by dread and holy hate
She stole from him the power of Rock
She terrified away his flock
He faced his nemesis alone
Inside a body not his own
abandoned by God:
She put an end to his Word of Command
his top hat fell
his mind flickered out
his name was forgot
the devil got his man
and that was the end.

The Twilight of the New Gods -- NaPoWriMo Poem #2

2014-04-07T23:30:00.000-07:00

[Note: Originally written 4/2/2014.]

America the Midas kingdom turning everything it touches into gold

Acquired collected competed-over turning base men into gods

Turning against the people, building impregnable castles in the sky

Thundering over and over at all times the word from on high: obey

Turning on each other for all gods are jealous and there can only be one

The will of the gods
Is written on stone
The name of the poet
Is carved into water

The new generation of gods, overthrowing the previous one,

Throwing them off Olympus, casting them into the abyss,

erasing their names:

Carving their own names into palimpsest temple walls

Carving their commandments with lightning into the air

Carving their emblems out of nightmare into the human mind

demanding sacrifice:

You will be organized
Your soul converted to money
All resistance is futile
They call you by a number
And take away your name

Another heaven destroyed, a new one raised against the chaos of earth

Old hierarchy destroyed, a new one built to tame traitor humankind with faith

Everything good confiscated by heaven to turn earth once again into hell

New aliens invade
To conquer and subdue
The humans they once were
And make the world their zoo

High above them, looking down, standing taller than the sky

The new Titan generation bearing corporate conglomerate names

Emanating terror commandment police from eyes brighter than the sun

Speaking the word of the profits: buy sell acquire steal nyah

Too much can never be enough, stab your neighbour in the back

Make their life nasty brutish and short, for all must war against all

For the magic the power and the ecstasy of gold

Hark! commotion below—
Lo! rebellion, it grows—
Behold! the threat from below!

Alone one human cannot stand against the pettiest god;

Together as one they can stand against pantheons and storm heaven!

“The black-headed ones' voices have become deafening.”

“Let us unleash the flood and drown them with water!”

“Let us unleash the sun and burn them with fire!”

“Let us unleash the whirlwind and blast them with air!”

“Let us unleash the earthquake and bury them in earth!”

“So mote it be.”

The new gods build giant new bodies out of swarms of angry machines

They dig their snouts deep and eat the earth from deep within

They organize their cults into crusader armies screaming to wreak jihad

Their will: to destroy the mind of man, initiate him back into the earth

Their word: seek and destroy—

By terror and power they overdo
But we are many and they are few

The gods are bodied in flesh and steel
The people pull together for survival
The final battle is on!

Believe in a god and he will assimilate
Fight him alone and he will annihilate
Withdraw your sanction, end his game
Erase the memory of his name
The system is not for human use
The system was made for gods by gods

“Why is the river of heaven going dry?”

“It can't be! Our blood is the real, matter but a flickering shadow.”

“Look down, you fools! The black-headed ones have ceased to believe!”

The masses below vow to produce for their need not the profits of gods

The gods enraged send angels and demons of vengeance to ravage the earth

The word of chaos is implanted into the heavenly horde, they crash inert

Nations, corporations, tyrants, tycoons, all titans fall to mass deicide

The names of the last generation of gods,

like those of all generations of gods come before,

dissolve into nothing:

Empire is no more:
and now the dragons' reign
has ceased!

Humanity their own master at last, they start to rebuild:

Life blooms again, restored to the wasteland of the real:

and life goes on.

Dead Rocker Song -- NaPoWriMo Poem #1

2014-04-01T18:44:00.002-07:00

He was a legend to himself, obscure to everyone else,
all ambition, no talent, and twenty-seven.
Membership in the Twenty-Seven Club was still open.
Nobody cared about him. He'd show them all.

You saw him on stage. You booed him from the audience.
There he was, guitar and voice out of tune,
imaginary target on his face as you cocked back your arm
and let loose the rotten tomato that hovered
and arced a pretty parabola on its way to his face.
Impact: face reddened by tomato and rage,
he stage-dived into the seething audience
and hit only floor. It was three months
before they let him out of the hospital.

Now he was twenty-seven. Club membership was open.
High on dexedrine and oxycodone,
more alcohol than blood in his veins,
he slipped behind the wheel to speed like a freak
to Dead Man's Curve with bomb in his trunk
and camera behind to watch him die live on YouTube.
He slammed foot to pedal, the car lurched and jerked,
he sped down the highway wobbling and weaving,
an army of cops in hot pursuit of a mad suicide
to the place of a million car crashes to crash and burn.
Impact: the exploding car sent shrapnel into cop
and bystander, made a pretty sight on live video.
Ten million viewers were amused. What a way to go.

Only three people came to his funeral,
mother and sister and widow catfighting over
the insurance policy they took out on him
and cashed in knowing how he wanted to go.
He was lowered in the ground under a generic tombstone.
A priest said pretty words that did not apply,
heaven and eternal life and the resurrection and all that,
denying that everything left of him was
the formaldehyded and formally dressed corpse
destined to decay into dirt and fade from memory.
Impact: he achieved his Twenty-Seven Club ambition but
everybody knew him as a short story far back in the paper,
yesterday's birdcage liner, recycled tomorrow.
Membership in the Rock Hall of Fame forever closed,
he ended as he began, a footnote to a footnote,
and nobody cared.

NaPoWriMo 2014: Now That Script Frenzy's Dead... Poems!

2014-03-31T21:54:00.002-07:00

Two years ago, NaNoWriMo discontinued their April scriptwriting spinoff Script Frenzy and replaced it with an April CampNaNo. As I'm not writing another new novel until next NaNo in November or I finish editing Chaos Angel Spanner book 1, whichever comes first, I've decided to do the next best thing until it became the best thing: NaPoWriMo, National Poetry Writing Month. Basically, you write a poem a day for 30 days, or just 30 poems this month. Considering my typical FAWM song output (28 songs this year, 14 of them in just the last two days), that should be easy. And my NaPoWriMo will be happening right here in this blog! Brace yourselves!

February Album Writing Month 2014 Now in Progress: or, 14 in '14!

2014-02-05T16:55:00.001-08:00

Actually, I should have posted this on January 31. Well, it's FAWM again, and I'm going to write at least another 14 songs. Unlike the last 2 FAWMs, I'm going to record as many as I can, like I did during my first 2 (2009 and 2010), when I wasn't possessed by a monomania for editing three drafts of Chaos Angel Spanner nonstop. And unlike the past 2 years, I didn't wait until the last day or two to start posting songs. So far I have the lyrics posted for:

Too Close
Electric Boy (a song that's been haunting me for at least 2 years)

In addition to those, at this writing I'm also working on the music to these songs:

Bet He's Dead (another song on my inner playlist, originally "Eddie's Dead" then "Freddy's Dead" until I realized those names would be troublesome)
It's All Wrong (a song I originally planned for last FAWM)
Pure (new for 2014)
Tails You Lose, Heads I Win (also new)

I also have these songs planned:

Mokey Done Been Smoked (the sequel to 2009's "Smoke the Mokey", the original "mokey rock song, a genre that grew out of a type on FAWM's "add a song" form page)
Dream Becomes Real (a straight synthpop song; I need to do at least one, after all)
Soundtrack to an Imaginary Film (a dreamy instrumental)
False Flag (a song I originally planned for 50/90 2012)
Final Burn (new)
Pretty Kill in Glorious HD (new)

Whenever I get a full recording posted, I'll post it here on the main blog. I'm also seriously thinking of signing up for Soundcloud so my demos will be accessible to all, especially now that its embedded music player now works with the FAWM site.

So I've started at last. For the next month, or at least until NaNoEdMo comes around in March, I'll be agonizing over songs instead of Spanner rewrites...