Friday, June 30, 2006

A Dissociative Distance

It began like any Discovery Channel telly the Sahara, in the brush, in the hidden heart of darkness wild and full of guns.

There weren't any rifle shots, there weren't any bombs, or secret missions of escape. The hall of this vast, ever growing jungle of soul searching, was moving back across the muck and brush of swamps and cryptic lagoons, revealing Z's modest size bed where he sat in thought.

This was in his apartment.

Each room of Z's apartment had a particular theme, each met with decor and functionality to create a little world for the little Lilliputians. The Egypt room had the feel of ancient hieroglyphics with an odd twist. It was a shrine to Elvis, in only what I presume to be a metaphor for him being the "pharaoh" of rock'n'roll?

In his room with the Curious George hanging from the lone chandelier, he had a mixture of ash trays, CD's, and a framed painting of Biggie Smalls. Besides the Jungle room, it had the ever common castle room, where his roomie, a 50's something tweeker, sat and stared into the mesmerizing orb of his telly playing a VHS tape of the Guns N roses video, "Estranged," which by the way has no real hidden storyline, no real meaning, other than a mad man with soon to be dreadlocks swimming & waiting to leave the stage forever, to hide behind the stars of stardom.

In guitars and loud beats from bass drums and electronic whips and whirs, there is spirituality hidden deep. Each time it appeared on his stereo, he would drift away, moving through a dark night's sky, like some distant fog hiding behind the crest of the moon.

There are two of Z, there are two of me, and there are definitely two of you. There is this hidden soul creature that lies dormant behind the hippocampus, where there sleeps a dragon napping on his treasures of past victories against man and its mystic legends. The dragons of mythic lore are no longer need to storm, as man continues to create his own in blasts and bombs and button pressing and shock n' awe. The legends of unicorns, elves, dragons, and fairies retreat from our wars, our possession with hate and fury and war and politicking. And that is where we go when we are quiet, still, and feeling the music drift away into our souls. That is Z will be in 20 minutes as he moves further from his Jungle apartment room on the 10th floor in the mission district of San Francisco.

In households, such as his, enlightenment hides in its silliness. The mind must prevail against the idea that material space can somehow dampen the spirit, as sometimes one must purify themselves by living in simplicity with nothing whatsoever. This induces hunger, this pushes you to the brink, the idea that tomorrow will be better because today can be no worse.

So after getting ready, he grabs his coat and his cigarettes, while the purrs of a 11 cats hound his every step as they fight for some affection. The door thuds behind him and he hears, "Crazy Train," now blaring, he shakes his head, says something to himself, and slithers across the grass.

The rather tacky gold of the Elvis shrine is directly out his driver side window, as he presses the gas and leaves. The siphon of smoke coming from the end of the filter moves through the trachea and into the tender branches of the bronchioles, across to the blood, where one could hear the rush of black tar moving and attaching itself to the sticky plasma. The orgasms from prior experiences appear out of no where and then go away, he changes to the next song and doesn't know why, he believes the government is against him and doesn't have any real proof, and he calls an old friend from high school but mistakes him for a friend from college. He continues down the hills of Oak waging a war on mediocrity, becoming nothing other than a grad school burn out.

But in a moment, with the wind in the right direction, the waves of spirituality seemed to brim from the surface of his cerebellum, moving through every nerve, and out of his eye sockets. In the past, there were periods of time where Z's consciousness would be vaporous and become something ghost-like, a shell of another life, able to freely walk the earth and gather wealth, the wealth of spiritual revelation, a deposit for a rainy day, so to speak. The ghost of his unconscious moved away to the reality of the evening, a soul about to depart on a scouting session to answer all of his questions.

This was the place, this was the way.

The lights went black along the street. Everything disappeared and a faint blossom of a blood vessel appeared upon his eyelids as the heart pulsated in response to his realization that he had lost all control.

In the space of seconds, many dreams were realized, many poems were written, many songs were composed, the lights blinking rapidly hovering above his consciousness were mixtures of greens and reds and purples, vibrant royal purple leaves falling from the atmosphere, burning as they touched his reddened, balding scalp.

His shoulders felt pulled upon and light, no longer heavy and burdensome as in the real world, the world where his car drifted along the road, moving and moving towards the barricade, ricocheting off the sides and into a ditch covered in tires and empty soda cans.

The blackness was solid, tarry, a veil over time and space.

Z awakened to a smear of blood, with iron glistening on his lips, the sirens calling to him through some forgotten hymns from psalms buried in caves and sarcophagi:

you were home, you were home, but we needed you to return; remember, this is not over and it is never a good time to quit, son, this isn't a time to remember the past and let it dwell, hollow us out; ya got to let it all go, ya gotta let yourself be hurt and healed, and feel the rebirth of a thousand baptisms, this is what is needed in your departure to another place, another space without any time.

This is where you will be, not where you are now. So open those eyes, open them up, and no longer be shell smashed, but free from bottles, free from everything, free.

Z opens the door and stretches his arms.

"I'm Okay," and he brushes off his scuffed up coat sleeve.

"Copy," the paramedic murmured, "Yes, he says he's okay, no medical attention necessary, got it... Listen, we're going to go if you're alright, " Z nods, "Okay, great... well, you tell him this will take at least 20 minutes and then we'll move on! Because I said so..."

The busy man trails off.

Z couldn't remember any thing then, his concussion scrambling his paperthin thoughts. He knew something awaited him in the future, but it was all forgotten; only sparklers and incense were left to move through his nostrils and into his skull.

Thursday, June 29, 2006

Thus far, the layout

1. Zeus Zaps Like a Thunderclap (music at myspace, search our name, music is ambient, industrial)- breakdown, hip hop still work in progress, melodies complete

2. The Hominids are All Asleep (music by band)- melodies complete

3. Your Face and Plane Drifting to the Bottom (tone's bass line, music by band)

4. Why Conversations; use a audio tape recorder and capture conversation from this site, then add these lyrics after quote, melodies complete-

These are not the only words
Once spoken
You have said them to so many people
Why? Why? Why?

Updates to come

Tuesday, June 27, 2006

First 2 Songs Begun

Last night was our first full on practice of a band, with this dude Doyle from Phoenix who is a freakin bad ass drummer and my brother

We finished the Hominid Poem and The Bottom of the Sea poem seen below, and both are incredibly different from one another

We plan on adding very epic, ISIS type guitars over the second all spoken word piece, the Hominid one is an actual song with a discernable chours

Then my brother has two instrumentals from before sitting around, so we're going to use those two, I have to find a piece that will fit over it

Stay tuned

these are changes for The Hominids are All Asleep:

In streams you seem to move
ever so slowly
a hand swimming in
the river bed and all their
the heads relieved of exhaustation
"You will not
because you cannot

can only remember sins"

you can only remember sins X 4

and lest
you wish to
preyed upon

ever there
glimmering and glittering
to gather and horde
millions of eyes
looking on
shifting on
the quiet song
will forever long
will dance and draw
to worship her countenance

you can only remember sins X4

in the
reflections staring back
from the stream serene (in the)
Be-lieve (it's)
no longer a forgotten memory
or funeral late night revelry
it's a burial ground
an explosive rush

of putting this
of shoving this
of believing this

of believing this (repeat)

the following to be spoken or ascension:

it falls to the ground
the act complete
her face hidden
by the hands
now stuck


fixed to




Thursday, June 22, 2006

It has begun

After much work and talk, Geppetto Gestapo will happen this summer, we are changing this album/book a bit, in the interest of money and time, we will record 3-5 tracks this summer that will include vocals, three poems from here, and the stories will be included in a pdf file or in book form

The vibe we are going for can be a cross between noise/indie/hiphop/industrial, some groups that are inspiration include dialect, 13 & God, Themselves, The Dragon Experience, Skinny Puppy, the anticon collective, nick cave, bob dylan, kurt vonnegut, haruki murakami, and the list could probably go on

Anyway, I may be posting more stories and poems, we will see how the inspiration surfaces, there has been many changes in my life that probably inspire a thoughtful, meaningful dialogue on life and death and happiness and loneliness

if all goes well, this could be done by next year, until then, this is geppetto gestapo (known now as gG) related, probably simply an intro for the CD:

the hands move through
the movements of voyeurs
as they witness
as they preserve
the grips of gripes and holds of
strings that hang like
from Atlanta's greens,
their dope fiends descending as
means to behoove you as
we move you
to simply let go
and follow us into

the hollowest figments of your imagination
merely forgotten remnants of
insidious details of
what sour dreams are to become of
this world
as these atoms circulate and perculate
you to let go

let this master take you
forsake you
cake you
in make up
and wake you
from your eternal slumber

of endless nightmares
of meandering day dreams
of hallucinations that are anything but
which one
do you figure will
be the spell cast to
hash it all out
with your shadow man, your
fellow man you left behind
in a trail of fast food signs
and empty voting polls

so here we are two from the same
origin, not one in blood
but molded in flesh to notes
to pictures and soundscapes
no longer beholden
to the molten lava
slowly dripping
to the tarry black surfaces

you look up

there is no one
there was no one
there will never be


Thursday, June 15, 2006

Wednesday, June 14, 2006

My Top, the Hip Hop, and the Twenty Cop Questions

story comin soon

with the same procedures,

how- do- I?

get the love that I
need from you

start with a long deserved break

may i

another foci
for your utmost pleasure

another symphony
for you to consider

while playing it
over and over

will you

remember these last 2 years
with a soft
faint heart
gettin fainter
the faintest miracles seen

in what was
the songs coming from the sun
over light years and into
our ipods,
the concept of gods
bringing eternity and
the circadian rhythm
of our footprints
night and day
being swept over
tornadoes dating hurricanes
typhoons chasing earthquakes
nuclear radioation outbreaks
with the nuclear
holocaust cleaning dishes
under the faucet
of the nuclear family
scrubbing the ashes
mixed with plasma
stashed in their
family owned
biologically enhanced
blood banks

as I'm calling

can I

with the toast of this stye
can i
get what I need from you? as I

with the same

how do I?
get the love that i need from you?

as with graves
and neonatal clinics
the cycle becomes
the cynic

who repeats

in the morning with car horns
in the distance behind
the hum of street sweepers

swimming strickly
north to south like
shaking lamppoles
as instantly as incredible
as papa once performed
unimaginable feats

while gentlemen coddle their wives
in red carpeted
armchair seats

as they drift off and push off
into their vericose veins
and ready
to move beyond tissues

and become dreams of seas
of midnight romance novels
as we move to meander through
highlight reels and indiscretions

and the camera stay on
and the siren come on
and we all run on
and the TV come on
and the alarm turn on
and it won't stop goin on

so how
do we make it stop

and for who?
and to prove

what exactly?

What has this allllllllllll
got to do with me
and whyyyyyyyyyyyyy
am I writing this allllllllllllllll
down when out that door
there's money to be made

it's 'cause I fiend
for a conclusion I
want it all to appear
at some kinda cross roads
and pry open my eyes
and see the heart
that drapes
that hates
that breaks
me wide open
so I know when
to say no when
I know then
that the answer is,

I don't know either
will we as citizens
continue to do what we have done for hundreds and hundreds
of years
change those same ,
into some constitution,
anything you want,


how do I with same exact sutures,

how do I

get the love
that i need from you