PRESSURE PRESS ARCHIVE

JOE'S SUICIDE rattling in my living-room livid off a whole bottle of cheap rum, an intoxicated multi-belled bull frenetically yelling about current events & assholes, what the bottom line REALLY is. i, myself, enjoy the fate of my perceptions, my swirling in a swirling world. mankind is cows. a man is lucky he breathes another breath of this mutated air, whether he laughs or drinks or sits in a grave-yard mumbling or freezing like a particular headstone, jesus is dead most the human race is dead, dinosaurs are dead, what rules tribal consciousness, murder & the tiny final feather of breath ascends a foot or so, collapses, sucked into cement. & then we have a president & a government that will NEVER accept real revolution, as if such a change cld even occur amidst all the money & bottom-line conspiracies. manufacture our paranoia, poison earth's birds. feed joe gallons of daily booze because he reads the daily paper, works night-shift in a hell-hole in 90's america. mankind is insane apes, too much brain modification & ingestion, too much brain invents more than fire wants, insidious wheels flapping like preserved skins of alligators or moray eels, too many neurons splashing into dark primal pools of language: a goat digresses a couple hundred thousand years & talks like a mongoloid crow in a lush tree. it's saying what the fuck is there to do now. the sun's a new egg & a woolly mammoth wants to eat it, tries. a groomed congressman sends all the mailboxes a newsletter. joe is more that woolly mammoth, polish heritage, smashed to a point he'd kill & forget, he'd try & not remember he tried before but things are very allusive to correctly devour all the liquor in the city, all the death he has.