first things last
i've been up for hours
tending flowers in the ailses of sally
beauty , it's a duty found and bound
like icing on a hound, let's make another sound
for the lasting writes of wound
up
for the new year. i hear it said in 08
it's all gonna stop and i ask cal
shoulda asked but didn't i ask cal
well don't you wanna be around fa dat?
instead i tell him i hear rumours of 29
asteriods named after egyptian death gods
rojection of the preerectuion.''
i am doubled over on my chair
brave gravity pulls on me i ask cal
if i feel like this now, and i'm only
half your age, tell me, how will i manage
then? easy answer is i won/t. cal sez
he can't work like this anymore, bending
over the boards, hunched shoulders
twisting, turning. i tell him to take a vacation.
he could do it. a few weeks off and he'll
be ready to come back. the loneliness
the rigor mortis the curse of excess time.
i always go on one image too long.
we are concerned with originality.
the genesis of thought. instead of integration.
i don't wanna be an ant? what deeds have they done?
ah but the queen. the filter of her organism.
see every ant is a cell for her. a vast network
connecting with the whole of her territory.
when she wants to experience more, she moves outward.
or maybe she actually does just breed, blindly.
can you imagine such empires as hers with no art?
there's the rub.
if i consider myself as ant queen, and all the worker bs
merely cells or extensions of self then where would
where could
art come from? no interaction, no excuse me
excuse the fuck outta me, no audience.
such a queen must needs be a solipsist.
which is why i dont believe ant colonies are ruled
by a single mind. controlled. ummmmmm,
mindless drones. inside the worker ants is poetry.
ruled, yes. driven and enslaved--perhaps not.
i mean everyone's gotta eat. this is very unclear.
ok, so the hive queen does exercise absolute authority
over her worker bs. the kind of authority required
to make the hive hum. but she's not inconsiderate.
she allows for time off. it would be foolish to expend
energy on a cell just to have it die off cuz you
push it too hard. in other words,she'd have respect
for her body. there are societies within the nest.
soldier, food gatherer, queen attendant, weaver, shepard.
one of these shall be your lot. and to dream of more
might be your fate. but you are assigned, by your very genetic
design, to be one of these. there is no room
for yearning. could they then, even desire art?
look at the inelegant tower. haifid's crew worked
the commision for three thons. there is to be a stationary
battle in a click hence. haifid may live to see it.
they say the queen contemplates attendance. o to die
with the honour of wicket. thrust into the nextling for food.
perhaps the thought is too great for haifid. his antennae
droop, half power, then fall off. his dream must
have disturbed her. he is taken to the reservior, spite meat.
the tower squats, holding arches curved into the spine
of the riverroot. so many places to hang in various positions
of attack and defeat. the tableaux is of the queen's favorite
battle, whence her mighty empire was born from
this humble site. intriques were many, beheadings abound.
then the soldiers with their heavy fighting jaws
defeated her cousin of the twelveth noth. no room, sister dear,
for your genes. the captured birthed enough to fill
their empty huts and more. i taste you on my tongue
even now, and together we blend into the wide domain beyond.
she admires the tower for its transtimegloss
but to admit that chemical into the bounty of the hive
could be cancerous. better to let sand sift it back to earth's
bowels. so, art. my cells do art. in the tracks of my veins
they paint grafitti with pheromones. why do they not
share it with me? she begins to hunger. the stationary soldiers
wither from their hold, fall to the floor. she marches
them up the tube into the open. she wishes the earth
to rumble. find an enemy she commands. sting it to me.
the mad queen returns to her egg laying. outisde
they can do nothing
without me. i weary of these eggs. she lays
a queen. attendants have the jelly sack ready.
she passes her weariness into the sack.
begins again.
tending flowers in the ailses of sally
beauty , it's a duty found and bound
like icing on a hound, let's make another sound
for the lasting writes of wound
up
for the new year. i hear it said in 08
it's all gonna stop and i ask cal
shoulda asked but didn't i ask cal
well don't you wanna be around fa dat?
instead i tell him i hear rumours of 29
asteriods named after egyptian death gods
rojection of the preerectuion.''
i am doubled over on my chair
brave gravity pulls on me i ask cal
if i feel like this now, and i'm only
half your age, tell me, how will i manage
then? easy answer is i won/t. cal sez
he can't work like this anymore, bending
over the boards, hunched shoulders
twisting, turning. i tell him to take a vacation.
he could do it. a few weeks off and he'll
be ready to come back. the loneliness
the rigor mortis the curse of excess time.
i always go on one image too long.
we are concerned with originality.
the genesis of thought. instead of integration.
i don't wanna be an ant? what deeds have they done?
ah but the queen. the filter of her organism.
see every ant is a cell for her. a vast network
connecting with the whole of her territory.
when she wants to experience more, she moves outward.
or maybe she actually does just breed, blindly.
can you imagine such empires as hers with no art?
there's the rub.
if i consider myself as ant queen, and all the worker bs
merely cells or extensions of self then where would
where could
art come from? no interaction, no excuse me
excuse the fuck outta me, no audience.
such a queen must needs be a solipsist.
which is why i dont believe ant colonies are ruled
by a single mind. controlled. ummmmmm,
mindless drones. inside the worker ants is poetry.
ruled, yes. driven and enslaved--perhaps not.
i mean everyone's gotta eat. this is very unclear.
ok, so the hive queen does exercise absolute authority
over her worker bs. the kind of authority required
to make the hive hum. but she's not inconsiderate.
she allows for time off. it would be foolish to expend
energy on a cell just to have it die off cuz you
push it too hard. in other words,she'd have respect
for her body. there are societies within the nest.
soldier, food gatherer, queen attendant, weaver, shepard.
one of these shall be your lot. and to dream of more
might be your fate. but you are assigned, by your very genetic
design, to be one of these. there is no room
for yearning. could they then, even desire art?
look at the inelegant tower. haifid's crew worked
the commision for three thons. there is to be a stationary
battle in a click hence. haifid may live to see it.
they say the queen contemplates attendance. o to die
with the honour of wicket. thrust into the nextling for food.
perhaps the thought is too great for haifid. his antennae
droop, half power, then fall off. his dream must
have disturbed her. he is taken to the reservior, spite meat.
the tower squats, holding arches curved into the spine
of the riverroot. so many places to hang in various positions
of attack and defeat. the tableaux is of the queen's favorite
battle, whence her mighty empire was born from
this humble site. intriques were many, beheadings abound.
then the soldiers with their heavy fighting jaws
defeated her cousin of the twelveth noth. no room, sister dear,
for your genes. the captured birthed enough to fill
their empty huts and more. i taste you on my tongue
even now, and together we blend into the wide domain beyond.
she admires the tower for its transtimegloss
but to admit that chemical into the bounty of the hive
could be cancerous. better to let sand sift it back to earth's
bowels. so, art. my cells do art. in the tracks of my veins
they paint grafitti with pheromones. why do they not
share it with me? she begins to hunger. the stationary soldiers
wither from their hold, fall to the floor. she marches
them up the tube into the open. she wishes the earth
to rumble. find an enemy she commands. sting it to me.
the mad queen returns to her egg laying. outisde
they can do nothing
without me. i weary of these eggs. she lays
a queen. attendants have the jelly sack ready.
she passes her weariness into the sack.
begins again.
posted by hiccup at 7:57 AM
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