Unfavorable Topography: 10/01/2003 - 11/01/2003

Tuesday, October 28, 2003

Hello I'm stress, Fuck you!
You're fired, and pregnant
'Cause I control this twisted carnival, hit the exits
I spent your rent on killin' children, chasin' red cents
Tasted birthday cake, wanna vote?
Invade with dead cents
From hemp scented bar parking lots where justice don't chill
To money hungry starvin' artists dressin' up with no skills
So hush, pretend it's a game
Just remember the pain
Write a song about the industries dust intrigued lust
Then it's the same jargon hardened garbage
How's your liver? How's your sister?
Drown her kids in liquor sips
Stereo sounds for six figures
It's bigger then right and wrong
It's writing songs for singing sheep to sleep
Bleach the sheets, Teathin' leeches teach the feast
On your babies dreams, 'cause maybe things ain't that bad
Not considering, I'm not the victim cop this image, cop this insulin
Rip the infants limb from limb
Stretch their skins for instruments
Bang the drum, bang the gun
Buy the jeans by the hope
Buy the smoke by the gallon
Buy the rope by the throat
Buy the talon by the rope
Buy the throat by the talon
Mimicking riddles fillin' ablutions
Filling these shoes that's impossible
Fossils rockin' Big Macs and public hip hop and toppled obstacles, and stumbling
You've got a shot, humilities just an anchor
Work to turn the slaves into graves
Ashes to cash dust to pay dirt
Chalk up a favor, pay it later
For now we'll fake the sound
Ground shakin' anti-gravity
When your wallet weighs you down
Hip hop cultures flourishing worth worshiping these vulture skulls
Of target markets, red targets and carbon multiples
Of headings beading sevens, sixes and small print
I'll be Tyreseus to lead these lemmings towards the dolphin shit
I'll be Tyreseus to lead these lemmings towards the dolphin shit
They have eyes but do not see
I'm not the victim, cop this image, cop this insulin
I'm not the victim, cop this image, cop this insulin
I'm not the victim, cop this image, cop this insulin
I'm not the victim, I'm not the victim, I'm not the victim


-Qwel Stress.com

Monday, October 27, 2003

So let's dissect one raindrop by and by: The molecular structure remains intact after several chances of disintegration while reaching the green siding of the gray roof house that peaks through my window so unabashedly.

Simple, yet archetypal in size and shape.
Stunningly congruent to all malls, desks (outside) and lambs.
Lifted by an upburst of air, snares, and lairs.
Bashed by several thirsty tiny children on airs.

Although many people wish the rain to come and shelter them, I disagree since our culture is neither agrarian nor beloved by nature in many respects. 'Tis a shame to live in such comfort and be so bestial in the way we act towards the weather.
A quick thought on ranchers from the seventeenth century and their relationship to Zaborzhie Cossacks. Most seventeenth century American west ranchers were not alive when their Slavic brethren were writing letters to the sultan mocking his mere existence. So inside out, a painting depicting these said Cossacks writing said letter to not said American cattle ranchers in the seventeenth century is preposterous because most of this happened in the eighteenth century. So let us revamp this idea and in doing so bring in the fascination of Russians superstitions dealing with vampires and the zodiac mixed in with horrorscopes to depict certain midnight creatures joining together in a roustabout fashion to dispose of certain humans incapable of feeding on themselves! Preposterous! I've seen people in this world and I live in the twenty first century where people are known for eating each other at 3000 degrees or light 3000 degrees, neither makes any difference since one will remix the other and put in some sort of hydrogen molecule which makes all of us yearn for one another.

Just ten minutes ago buildings danced as if Bill-zebub were controlling them in his sleep. Ha! Laughable, just like spanish moss. Thanks dad! But anyway, I should wrap this up or else Anton and Mikhail will have my head. Oh you men!

Tuesday, October 21, 2003

Night descended on the small village near an outpost of soldiers trained to mistake their children for Cossacks and shoot them on sight. Unfortunately every child in the village knew this and found ways to decieve the young lieutenants and brigadier generals of Peter's army. Many years later a man trained in the arts of ficticious healing and posing as a monk left the tiny village of Prokovskaia and went to the capital to heal a young boy. Later that young boy would end up in a well outside of Ekaterinburg right before the white army descended on its villages inside its kremlin. Outside another kremlin lie this beaten, poisoned, and bullet-ridden magician/monk healer and then thrown into the icy Neva. Christ sat on his chair. Jesus, as a little kid, maybe the age of an elementary school teenager revoked the charter of his school in an attempt to slay beasts and dragons. But at the time, neither he nor his brother realized that they too were magical/monk healers and possibly dragon-slaying ficticious healers.

Many a year has passed and unknowlingly a small town drug addict by the name of Cody got in a fight outside of his school walls where he reigned as king of his footsteps. On a whim he 'jacked another dude in the gullet' and watched as the 'other dude' lay on the ground trying to catch his breath in spasms and similar to a computer mouse moved his hand over the keys and ripped out a small chunk of 'change' from this young upstart. Just a few days ago he saw this Cody fellow standing on the street next to five men in workman's outfits chilling to an old school beat and loitering the shit out of this fine convenience mart/bazaar/homoegenous milk product. Oh boy! What a tremendous day it is today shouted Ted Hoben, a retired Vietnam vet. who was slightly retarded and working with Bill, Kane, and Chevro were all retired army vets and somehow managed to put on these workingman's outfits on the same day as if the fourth of july celebration required them to do this while eating bananas and apple pie.

You see, Cody was a true, bleeding heart Bohemian. I know what you are thinking. No, he didn't smoke 'weed' or 'pot' or 'grass'. For some reason Bohemia has this crazy stretch of land that confuses people into thinking that it is located somewhere in the Caribbean, but it is not. No, Sir Menchev was straight outta Bucharest! Damn straight and darn tootin'. Don't make a liar out of a sausage, you can't simmer a ham on four days rest and no bacon!!!!!!!!

Hey you! What the h...why....quit fuckin...with my cable...damnit!

Saturday, October 18, 2003

Tonight is not a good night to blog so don't expect me to blog, don't expect me to come to you on the street and wave a hearty 'hello' because frankly, it is too late and I won't get into that right now. Like I said earlier tonight is not a good night to blog.

Don't expect me to complain about my bitterness towards mankind, towards humankind, even women fall into this incredibly vague, yet animalistic category. Vague and animalistic? Do they go together, you ask? Well, by putting them in that language context, then they should go together. I am essentially comparing the two words 'vague' and 'animalistic'. Why should they be compared in the manner in which they are compared? Perhaps it is the way one defines vagueness and the animosity towards others that one shows in humankind. But there, again, 'animosity'? Come now, let us realize that animalistic and animosity are two different words. However that sentence being grammatically correct since the conjunction follows the rules of its own existence, does not matter in this context, and is totally irrelevant to the point of comparing two words that have a similar prefix, yet completely different meanings and outcomes on life share a vague, yet interesting connection to the matter of point here, which is how tonight is not a good night to blog.

Let us not even dwell on the bad luck, or ne'udacha in russian, that has befallen a select group of my friends and myself. I will not get into it because as I have stated before, tonight is not a good night to blog. Tonight is not the best night to blog since I am no longer right in assuming the cynicism of a male heir to the throne. I cannot even tell you about the utter bitterness and resentment, the undeniable loss of passion and faith that I have in human beings, but I will not discuss this topic with you because in a way, I wish tonight was a better night to blog, but in fact is a very bad night, a night that will disguise itself from me for several weeks until finally deceiving me and showing me a light that I have yet not seen before, but I should be familiar to this light. If tonight were a better night I would delve into the fact of this light religiously, but as aforementioned above tonight is not the best night to do this.

I realized though that I am leaving something out for the reader at this exact moment. In fact I should be telling you of a very pleasant time in my childhood where everything worked, everything went together, I could hit my head on the table while crawling on the ground and not feel a slight bit of pain. Technically, I should still be able to do that, but now certain outside observers are no longer indifferent to my social behavior and in fact I face consequences of 10-20 years hard labor in a mental prison for allowing my wishes and desires to go so unabashedly out of control! But I do not blame them, I can't, for it is my fault that I put them through this, I am alive! Simple and plain. What is your idea of self-actuality and self-idealism? Two words that make about as much sense as 'cents making sense' in this world. Too much profit is to be won by blind soldiers falling forward on a morbid battlefield raking in all the dough while death becomes them, in a physical form, but not mental, not yet at least. Soon enough they will be covered with masks and chains and given a home in the hills to provide local radio feeds while eating children baked in a delicate Greek marinade.

So much has been riding on this night, but I fear for your sake and safety and my karma, I must give up and give in to the night by not allowing to speak further of this since tonight, yet again I swear to you, is not a good night to speak. Please do not expect me to bleed my hardcore heart onto your black construction paper so you can origami your flight out of my self-consciousness. Speak further I must not. Tonight is a bad night. I give up.

Sunday, October 12, 2003

Good bye Zinaida, Good morning egg!