The Final Insurrection

 

 I’m all about nothing to lose,
all hope lost but still I breathe,
there is nothing left to bemuse,
I’m their target because I’m naive.

The final phase has begun,
no one is safe from their wrath,
say goodbye to freedom and fun,
prepare for a four-blood-moon bloodbath.

You can’t escape or run away,
they know your name and address,
it can happen any upcoming day,
they’ll torture though you’ll have nothing to confess.

Bad people everywhere and good are few & far between,
the truth is out there and you know just where,
the ugly are most beautiful of all and feed off being seen,
but to acknowledge its presence more than you dare.

They are slaves to greed and possessions,
you are just free enough to choose your professions,
there will be no one left to hear your confessions,
your only last hope will be the insurrections.

The Eye-light Essence [Sun Trance Virus Pt. 2]

Part 1

suneye

Pt. 2

To trance or not to trance became the only asked question
it became the dividing line that everyone could see being drawn
it didn’t matter where you came from or how much money was yours
to trance was not a choice but many would make it or fake it if they could
everyone that started trancing would become a Trancer and most a roughneck
it was impossible to hide and eventually everyone is suspect and gets the check
fakers were everywhere on both sides of the line taking more than they should
once the eye-light could be captured they became free trancing whores
a wide open free range and homes designed to capture their dawn
a weekly visit to the treatment center where they plugged-in.

Trancers transferred their energy to the grid
everyone on Earth became somewhat maladjusted
chaos ensued and wars erupted where once there was peace
there were many different types of trancers but the world had been divided
a type of pseudo alliance emerged that would take a millennia to be grasped fully
enemies became united as society disintegrated and transmogrified simultaneously
it wasn’t an infectious disease but rather a bio-code that’s been coincided
the trancers realized they were not the problem but the fleece
a rebellion occurred and while no one could be trusted
a trancer could tell one of their own by their eyelid.

There is only one natural way to Sun Trance
everyone still ate the same food even in the disarray
the hunters entrusted with the secret have become the hunted
people wanted what the trancers had and would do anything for eye-light
it became what replaced all religion and became the primary reason to be distressed
even though many knew the secret of the source they waged to keep it suppressed
a lie like reality was created that would blur the lines of who there was to fight
the mystery of the source was like an invisible wedge that shunted
like playing ping-pong with a player who doesn’t want to play
Sun Trancers and blue bloods just could not dance.

Ultra Trancers can kinda read your complete thoughts
when this was discovered they began to call it a disorder
they medicated all of the senses away almost without trying
they did everything possible to suppress the Trance from the masses
they say it gave them unfair advantages in an otherwise corrupt playing field
they began to be excluded from activities and some expected them to yield
Not all were Ultra but had enhanced talent when wearing sunglasses
among their abilities is that they can tell when someone is lying
it began slowly without needing a fired first shot or boarder
the eye-light from the Sun made us all astronauts.

Soul Asylum {Gift Me Your Soul}

Souls are more than most believe they to be and we’re free to give them away
Once it’s freely given to me I will no longer be me but instead will always be we
Until the end of warped dilated time it will always be with us in part or in whole
Long ago my very own soul was depleted of quanta and now needs recharging

All that I need are souls like ours so that together we may commingle and be free
She will unconsciously feel the soul stream intently and process most everything
You shall give your soul freely and never expect it to return from my black hole
Love is only a frequency of energy and can be transubstantiated with intention
Empty is the vessel with only one stream with no one whom to share everything
Modulating quantum tethering will always be there to bond both you and me.

 

 

Souls Who Have Found Asylum

Anonymous
Uma

Black Dahlia Avenger & Zodiac Killer Solved : Serial Killer Terrorism [Book Review & Analysis]

Serial Killer Terrorism

Black Dahlia – Zodiac Killer

examiner_front_letter

 When retired Los Angeles homicide Detective Steve Hodel was seeing to the final affairs of his 91 year old father, Dr. George Hodel Jr. who had passed away in 1999, he had no idea the emotionally tortuous adventure that lay before him. His father it turns out, was one of the most notorious serial killers in American history and responsible for the calculated and cold blooded abduction, ritualistic torture and murder of dozens of innocent women, men and children. If you don’t recognize the name Hodel, that is no accident, but you are no doubt familiar with his handy-work, the Black Dahlia, Zodiac and Lipstick murders spanning decades beginning in 1943, possibly sooner.  The book is a real page turner and more than proves the truism that truth indeed is stranger than fiction. The facts are there that prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that Dr. George Hodel Jr. was the executioner and ringleader of many unsolved murders, but there are still many questions still to be answered.

The only inaccurate information I could identify in the book was on page 56, claiming George Hodel Jr. was just an American child growing up in California, nothing more. George Jr. was anything but a normal kid growing up in California. In addition to the intellectual gifts he was born with, his family was part of the elite class and he was afforded every opportunity without ever a concern for finances. Hodel’s genius also came with a complete disregard for human life, which most likely became apparent as he was a young crime reporter, or sooner. This would have been a very attractive asset to underworld and secret society figures in which he had regular contact. He was indeed part of the elite class and without a doubt a serial killer, and unless caught red handed, had no fear of ever being apprehended. Exactly what was the nature of his protection? What exactly did he do in the military? He was granted a General’s title without having to climb the ranks which requires friends in very high places. Was his position strictly medical or was that a cover for intelligence work? Due do military connections and his cross boarder actions, it seems that his protection was international in scope and without limitations. He killed with impunity across state and international borders. This was a conspiracy of epic proportions which included L.A. Police officers, District Attorneys, Hollywood film moguls, newspaper editors and the Fine Art elite, all involved in the cover-up of serial murders, an abortion ring and who knows what else. How can this not be considered a death cult? The only question that remains is the exact nature of rituals and the cult or shadow society in which this was a part.

dhalia

Inspector Hodel received a dose of unpleasant reality when he took his findings to the L.A. Police to present his flawlessly prepared evidence and announce that he had solved one of their most famous open cases. He should have been received with fan-fare and welcoming arms with accolades and commendations. And why not? He had just solved one of the greatest crime mysteries in American history. Although receiving solid validation from many of his peers, a cold shoulder is what he received from the officer in charge of the case and claimed he didn’t have to review the evidence. Why not announce to the public that a serial killer case has been solved and possibly bring some relief to any surviving family members? We now know that some high ranking and corrupt cops were in on it. Not all of them of course, just the ones at the top and their henchman. It seems obvious to me; the cover-up is still going on, which also means the corrupt power structures that that were in place then, are still in place today.

While reviewing the timeline and the very many people that allowed the killing to continue, we see that this was not just a lone narcissistic sadist and pathological bloodthirsty psychopathic mass murderer who preyed on innocents and liked toying with cops. These were calculated kills by groups of people working in tandem. Something glaringly jumped out as I was reviewing and comparing the timeline of the Black Dahlia and Zodiac killings with world events, which caused me to lose my breath as a pulsating sense of fear ran through my body and soul that still persists as I write this. The dates of the murder sprees coincide perfectly with the dates of the preemptive Zionist controlled Israeli attacks on Palestine beginning November 1947 and the Six-Day Invasion in June 1967. After a long and serious contemplation about the nature of warfare and propaganda, it makes sense. Create a public relations diversion and plaster the front pages of every newspaper possible with a serial killer at large and relegate the war news to the back pages. My first thought was that if he was part of Mossad, the Israeli Secret Intelligence Service, then he and at least some of his colleagues would have to have an extremist Zionist background.

As it turns out, the killer’s parents were wealthy Jewish immigrants who changed their name from Glodgefter to Hodel in order to hide their ancestry in the New World. Ester Leov, George Jr’s mother was most likely descended from French aristocracy and his father a “banker”. The Hodels lived in a mansion designed by a famous Russian architect and George Jr. at an early age was sent to France where he was educated by Madame Montessori of the Montessori school, and while there he lived with Count and Countess Troubetzkoy. Hardly a normal childhood and one must wonder when his indoctrination truly began. The parents of his good friend, world famous artist and co-conspirator, Man Ray, were also Jewish immigrants.

Could one claim that Dr. Hodel would not betray his country because he was a man in uniform? Let’s keep in mind that he molested and impregnated his own daughter, drugged and took nude photographs of his unconscious granddaughter, murdered dozens of people in cold blood for what seems to be most of his life. He also had many friends in very high places that allowed him to live a long and opulent life, as a wonderful monster. It’s unlikely that American patriotism was his only redeeming value. If the Black Dahlia and Zodiac killings were the Psyops (psychological warfare operations) part of the war campaign, then it would mean that the group behind the monster had to be Mossad.  History is full of examples of conquering solders raping, beating, and torturing before finally putting their victims out of their misery with a final deadly blow. Why rape and torture before killing the target? Because the executioners have been conditioned to derive joy and pleasure in the excruciating pain they are inflicting. It becomes part of the ritual, like drinking the blood of a young deer hunter‘s first kill, or eating the still beating heart of a recently slain enemy or ceremonial victim. Considering what we know about him, is there anything besides empathy in which he was not capable?

It seems the victims were not killed in a ritualistic manner but rather sacrificed as part of a ceremonial ritual. Could Dr. Hodel’s parties been more than highly charged sex parties, but maybe ritualistic and ceremonial killings where everyone in the group delivers a blow to the still living victim before the fatal strike, such as a matador does to a bull, as part of their initiation? In the case of Elizabeth Short, each of the ritual participants played the role of the Matador and she was the bull. That would certainly be a binding experience and the symbol of a matador and bull already plays prominently in this true crime story.

Man Ray’s MINOTAURE : 1934-35

Man Ray’s MINOTAURE : 1934-35

Dr. Hodel was overseas when he had to suddenly return to the U.S. in 1946 for personal reasons. Could this reason be to  plan and carry out one of the most heinous propaganda driven murder sprees in American history? One could easily  make the argument that the 1948 & 1967 correlations were simply a meaningless coincidence with nothing to do with  each other. Regardless, whether a premeditated Psyops murder campaign or happenstance, the effect was the same.  Fear and terror had been ignited in the hearts of a citizenry of potential victims with thousands of newspaper articles  and newscasts. People everywhere were discussing, analyzing and theorizing as to what was behind the grotesque  killing of a string of individual murders, while most were unlikely aware of the organized mass murder happening in the  Middle-East with their tax dollars. A great reason to keep them distracted.

On the surface, Mossad is Israel’s intelligence division, which brings to mind secret spy missions and unapologetic targeted assassinations, but it is much more than that. The word Mossad translates to “The Institute” and their motto is “By Way of Deception Thou Shalt Do War”. Mossad is so important, its leader’s identity is kept secret and he is one of the three people required to authorize the launch of a nuclear weapon. Their only concept of peace is unconditional surrender. “One shot, two kills” is one of their popular slogans when describing killing a pregnant woman. Could the Black Dahlia and other murders be part of a murderous Psyops carried out by Mossad’s virtuoso assassin, Dr. George Hodel? When your business is committing war crimes, why not? Part of the word Assassin is derived from the word hashish, because it was part of the training ritual to smoke hash before killing in order to reach a higher level of consciousness during the act. It is well documented that Dr. Hodel used drugs during his parties (rituals).

What if the true target of the decade’s long murders sprees was the public consciousness and the victims’ were just unlucky conduits to the front page? What were the true and complete effects of entire cities of people feeling terrorized? While the front pages of newspapers were covered with these killings, what was being relegated to the back pages and footnotes? Every war has two major components, the battle field and the home front. The battle field is where bombs are dropped, bullets fired and enemies meet. The home front is much larger and just as important because the people fighting the war need to know that their cause is just and they will make mom and dad proud back home. The propaganda component of every major war consists of a steady stream of disinformation and distractions peppered with just enough truth to be believable. The notes were not written for the police and shared with the press. The notes were written to induce and spread a sense of fear and terror in the souls of a distracted public who thought they might be next.

dahlia note

The victims were chosen because of their innocent nature and maximum terror impact both during the action and the  aftermath. They were the ‘everyday girl and boy’ that could be anyone. Should the victims have has some sort of sordid  character, it would have seemed like a lone vigilante at work more than a psychotic serial killer. Anyone could be next.  While young lovers all over America were looking over their shoulders wherever they went contemplating their own  demise, tens of thousands of innocent Arabs were meeting theirs. The indirect targets were citizens of 1040’s Los  Angeles and the Summer of Love in San Francisco. How interested in Middle-East politics would you be if there was  a  killer on the loose in your neighborhood and you might be on their target list?

Like the conquering empire builders before them, Zionist forces with American equipment and funding have murdered tens of thousands of un-armed civilians and displaced hundreds of thousands more to refugee status in their conquest of Palestine. Carving up a few bodies in America seems like a small price to pay if it keeps the Americans unaware and distracted while delivering a terrorist blow to their consciousness. When considering the foresight, planning, resources and complete lack of humanity necessary to devise a war plan that includes the genocide of an entire population, it doesn’t seem so far-fetched that they would send in one of their most brilliant assassins to create a media frenzy that would be both a diversion for the masses and weaken the social fabric of their other battle field. Was Dr. Hodel really a legendary international assassin who killed without restraint or remorse and then displayed his trophies for the world to see? Has he baffled and beguiled generations of law enforcement officers and the greater public for over 50 years, while behind the scenes an undercover Mossad assassination legend and hero?

Based on the evidence at hand, I believe that Dr. George Hodel Jr. was a double agent assassin extraordinaire for the Mossad and an international terrorist. The Black Dahlia and Zodiac Killer murders were not only the work of a deranged sex maniac serial killer, but also a well-organized terrorist attack conducted on the consciousness of the American people to distract them from noticing that they were paying for the coinciding massacres occurring in Palestine.

Hodel

Afterthought: There are still some unanswered questions that if answered may further validate this theory. Were any of the victims of Zionist dissent? This is important because extreme Zionists believe they are the chosen people and constitute the Human Race. They believe other races are more or less dogs and slaves to be dealt with accordingly. Should he be a member of Mossad and the targets were not of Semitic decent, then they would not have been considered human and less than collateral damage. Was there any common thread between the known victims and their spouses and families? The murder of a spouse or other family member would cause a disruption in anyone’s life and if there was a strong message to be sent, the brutal death of a loved one sends just that. If possible, a complete audit of all known financial records of George Hodel and his parents should be made. Follow the money. Were any of the known obstructionists connected to extremist Zionism or other secret societies?

Please like and share this post with others…..comments welcome.

Sucked by Everyone

People suck always,
oh yes they suck you,
they suck everything,
in all that they ever do.

They suck your life at the office,
each and every long dreary day,
they suck out your very old soul,
the part that wants to run and play.

They suck out your cash at the gas pump,
they suck your change walking down the street,
they suck from behind the fast food counter,
always beware of those you greet and meet.

No matter where you go there is someone there,
who desperately wants to take all that you have,
they’ll take your possessions and many friends too,
count yourself lucky if you walk away with halve.

Their trusting wide grin and sucking below the belt,
giving you the feeling you’re in the company of a friend.
no matter how many suckers you’ll meet in your life,
you’re the biggest sucker of all with the wrong boy/girlfriend.

What Fears Become : Review by Fright.com

The third and thus far strongest anthology of stories, poetry and artwork culled from www.thehorrorzine.com. As with volumes one and two, the contributors are a mixture of well known names and first timers. There’s also an admiring introduction by the renowned British horror scribe Simon Clark.

In the fiction selections animals are a favorite topic, as evinced by “Bast” by Christian A. Larsen and the jaw-dropping “Dogleg” by Bentley Little, about, respectively, a cat who steals the breath (and thus the life) of a grieving man’s grandmother, and a girl who loses a leg and has dog’s leg grafted onto its place. Of a similar hue is “Lost Things” by the fantasy novelist Piers Anthony, featuring telepathic guide dogs and cats.

I also got a kick out of “A Bad Stretch of Road” by Dean H. Wild, which reads like a lunatic cross betweenTHE THING and DUEL, and “3 AM” by James Marlow, concerning a man haunted by that very hour. Graham Masterson’s “Reflection of Evil” examines what occurs when a mirror containing a woman’s unquiet spirit is dug up, and Ramsey Campbell contributes “Next Time You’ll Know Me,” a darkly satiric account related in the form of a letter written by a deranged writer to a successful novelist the writer believes has deliberately destroyed his life.

“Adelle’s Night” by David K. Ginn features a woman who’s astonished to be told that she’s a character in a movie–by her would-be murderer! “Fish Night” by Joe Lansdale is a visionary account of ghost fish seen on a magical Texas night, topped off with a nasty surprise involving a spectral shark. “Bones for A Pillow” by Alexandra Seidel is an elegantly written haunted house tale that begins in predictable fashion but concludes in a manner that is anything but. Finally there’s “What the Blind Man Saw” by C. Dennis Moore, a wild and unpredictable number about a blind man who dreams he can see…and kill!

Onto the poems, which are arranged in groups of three, and occasionally four, per author. “A Guide for Ethical Zombie Murder” by Emon Anthousis is a miniature variation on themes introduced in Max Brook’s seminal ZOMBIE SURVIVAL GUIDE, while Anthousis’s “Red Planet” provides a haunting evocation of apocalyptic devastation. Dennis Bagwell’s “Jason’s Lament” straddles the line between prose and poetry, it being comprised of an actor’s bitter rants against his agent–who, for reasons we learn in the final lines, is none too responsive.

Very much of a piece are the three contributions of Teresa Ann Frazee, “The Light Under the Door,” “That Stretch of Road” and “The Roadside Rose,” which deal with ghostly presences and eerie nighttime landscapes. The four entries by Alec B. Kowalczyk likewise feature strikingly desolate imagery–abandoned lighthouses and amusement parks, shadowy doorways and stone lions’ heads–while dead beat poet’s three contributions are told in the form of laments to a deceased lover.

I particularly appreciated “King of Shadows” by John T. Carney, a haunting evocation of Lovecraftian menace; “Seventy Years Later” by John Grey, a poetic take on themes introduced in the classic horror filDEATHDREAM; “The Rules of The Abyss” by Christopher Hivner, describing a metaphoric climb out of a rocky cave; “One Night’s Last Stand” by Juan Perez, about an infernal seduction by a bruja (witch); “The City of the Dead” by Peter Steele, with its unforgettable lines “See how your eyes have fallen out of your head/Welcome to the city of the dead”; and “Unending Battle of Self” by Nathan Rowark (whose author bio identifies him as a practicing Wiccan), about a literal battle for a man’s soul.

The book concludes with a section called “The Editor’s Corner,” in which Jeani Rector contributes two of her own stories. First is “Horrorscope,” whose deranged narrator commits several horrific deeds based on the perceived dictates of his horoscope. “The House on Henley Way,” by contrast, is an old-fashioned ghost story about a realtor’s shivery inspection of a house that was the site of brutal murder.

     One last thing: I may have identified this as the “strongest” of the Horror Zine anthologies, but I’ve just gotten a hold of the massive fourth volume, and from what I’ve read thus far it’s clear that it will now have to be ranked at the top–at least until volume five turns up!

Original Article

Listening Party with David J.

Two hours of sounds from David J. of Bauhaus, Love & Rockets and The Jazz Butcher

Listen to 50 Minute Interview

PLAY LIST:

Bela Lugosi’s dead– Bauhaus
All in my mind- Love and Rockets
So Alive- Love and Rockets
Lazy- Love and Rockets
Kick in the eye– Bauhaus
Spirit- Bauhaus
Trophy Wife- David J.
Haunted when the minutes drag- Love and Rockets
Candy on the Cross- David J.
Everybody wants to go to heaven- Love and Rockets
I’ll be your chauffeur- David J.
No new tail to tell- Love and Rockets
Seventh dream of a teenage heaven- Love and rockets
Who killed mr. moonlight?- Bauhaus
The devil is my friend- Jazz Butcher
Sinister Ducks- Bauhaus
Ball of Confusion– Love and Rockets
No Big Deal- Love and Rockets
Not Long For This World- David J.

Listen & Modulate Now

Join David J and friends at Radio Valecia in San Francisco on January 20, 2012 for dinner and a show. The evening will begin with doors at 7:30, first course dropping at 8:00. 5th course drops at 10:00. The meal and the show is $50.

Dinner Includes: Soup course/Salad course/Vegetable course/Main course/Dessert
The menu is being designed by the talented David Barzely, who uses the Chez Poulet for his dinners and is a tremendous chef.

Click Here for Limited Tickets [50]

Visit David J Online

What Fears Become from The Horror Zine

Introducing the NEW Horror Zine book HERE!

Featuring the work of dead beat poet

Published by Imajin Books


From horror masterminds Bentley Little, Ramsey Campbell, Graham Masterton, Joe R. Lansdale, Elizabeth Massie, Piers Anthony, Melanie Tem, Cheryl Kaye Tardif, Scott Nicholson, Conrad Williams, Simon Clark and a host of other respected authors, poets and artists comes WHAT FEARS BECOME, a terrifying collection of bone-chilling, nail-biting horror that is sure to keep you awake until all hours of the night.

This anthology brings together some of the best works from The Horror Zine, an online magazine dedicated to giving you chills and thrills. Edited by Jeani Rector, each story, poem and art work within showcases an international talent that will give you shivers.

Featuring three poems by dead beat poet [b.a.d].

Published by Imajin Books

"Each spine-tingling chiller takes the reader into the depths of eerie imaginations!" ―Fangoria

Electriffic Modulation

Topics for September 6, 2011

S4P Consciousness Project Update

Electromagnetic Aetherspheric Modulation

Theory of Everything in the 13th. Dimension

‘B’-Corporations and Spontaneous Freedom

Listen Live @ Noon on Tuesday

And

Podcast Broadcast

Play List

Make a Circut with Me : The Polecats
I Want to Know What You’re Thinking [Pure Energy] : Information Society
Are Friends Electric : Gary Numan
So Alive : Love and Rockets
I Am Alive : Electric Light Orchestra
Electric Avenue : Eddie Grant

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Dualistic Dynamic Duo

Sometimes i feel like the logical Mr. Spock
sometimes i’m like Captain James T. Kirk
a calibrated clock, does more than go tick tock
Relativistic synergy is part of the cirque.

Sometimes i feel like Gilligan the first mate
sometimes i’m like the Skipper in charge of you
governing operational dynamics, aren’t ever late
Aetherspheric navigation with a smart & small crew.

Sometimes i feel like the mysterious Mr. Roark
sometimes i’m like the vanishing little lost Tattoo
to get what you want now, give it some more torque
Quantumetric differences bond both me and you.

                                         

Picasso’s Dead Friend

Self Portrait,
1901, Oil on Canvas
Musée Picasso, Paris

In nineteen oh one The Picasso began a life shaded in a dark pale blue
although it is well known the tragedy around this pivotal period bemused
like everything else out there, there are sides to a story at least two
his friend suicided in a Parisian café over a love in which he was refused
this had a great impact on his art and you might even say haunted him too.

La Vie
1903: Oil on Panel
Cleveland Museum of Art

He was a mega narcissist and that didn’t come with his talented hands
also kind of a schmuck by regarding most people with a cold indifference
his poor treatment of great women was more legendary than his art plans
what was it about his past that made him a jerk and sometimes so relentless
his mirror image was that a fighting bull and in the ring as the matador stands.

The Death of Casagemas
1901: Oil on Panel
Musée Picasso, Paris

The ghost of his friend would return in paint again and again and again
he used painfully joyous colours freely at the death of his once good friend
the evocation came and the guilt put to rest with the burial of his shame
pale blue and dark green paint conveying the feelings of the lost and sinned
lonely and restless with guilt he sought comfort in the arms of someone Germain.

Frugal Repast,
1904 Etching

 

Always moving between places to stay he was there when she needed him fast
painting the desolation, unhappiness and despair are all he could display
the misery of being physically weak and poorly eating with a frugal repast
the allegory of La Vie had the face of his dead friend in a monochomed way
his dead friend’s girlfriend was there and for him she would do for some ass.

The Burial of Casagemas (Evocation), 1901 Oil on Canvas
Musée d’Art Modern, Paris

He moved into his dead friend’s flat after the burial to begin living rent free
maybe he didn’t pull the trigger but it’s entirely possible he was gaslighting
the overpowering guilt he must have felt with this terrible truth kept secretly
shagging his dead friend’s girl around the time of his death and his own emerging
he recalls this with the three dancers of love, sex and death in a Dionysian frenzy.

Amy’s Extolling Polling

Amy’s garden of eden is full of love and respect,
she is searching for self awareness & identity,
a citizen of the world who is private and authentic,
full of stubborn fire and emanates colorful serenity.

Touched by life’s experiences and endless possibilities,
her paintings evoke a sense of poetic drama and sensuality,
short expressive stories carrying messages of love and dreams,
inspired by experience, people of mystique and self serenity.

Erasing borders and building bridges to reach beyond horizons,
citizens of the world unite around what she is naturally extolling,
a rebel with balls full of peace, understanding and positive vision,
keep the passionate faith and have a happy birthday Ms. Polling.

Recoiling Digital Philosophy

 

Increase your essential compression and mix the steady quiet with elemental peaks that bevel,
obscure emotional power is filled with sonic detail that leaves listeners un-movingly strange,
self-protecting ears of compressed volume blasts is how we’re taking it up to the top level,
evolutionarily sophisticated minds pay attention to exciting music with proper noise range.

If you are truly seeking sensory excitement and avoid the typical pop-culture tiresome fatigue,
add variation to your rhythm and let’s do something warm and dynamic in a big empty space,
‘I Bet You Look Good on the Dance Floor‘ sounds better than it sounds without the intrigue,
one-dimensional noise sung by frozen monkeys bombards Stalkers turning into a Prey face.

The downward download spiral Methods are momentarily Drifting away a vitally hidden tether,
reverberating squashed reproductions of highs & lows that move transience with a reasonable crunch,
selected enhancement always backfires and leave us in need of a much stronger effect taken further,
un-satisfyingly brittle results leave us feeling indistinct and hollow seeking experience with no punch.

The digital landscape is changing everything and quality is sacrificed at the alter of convenience hunger,
inferior modes of sound operations lead pop-culture through a single isled store for a ‘must have’ choice,
time will bring us into the battle that has already begun to improve the way we look and listen younger,
significant shifts in listening methods reveal the truthful ramifications of hiding the subtle Missing Piece.

Blindly return to a high quality of art that embraces the wonderful technology of science,
equitable distribution for the art creators and theirs friends who want go with them,
an old fashioned Bloodline panders to no one and seeks hand crafted reliance,
quality costs and it’s well worth it for beautifully created art and some sin.

Unusually huge at any time can lead to a long life of creative non-conformity,
we struggle to be heard like millions of others who wear the label of ordinary,
success does not come with big digits and a dose of commercial popularity,
background helps but it’s what’s inside that keep them coming back weary.

Mainstream anything hasn’t improved nature in a way that’s recognized,
paper back magazines have little to minimal impact other than amusement,
the plug in drug is duller than ever and MTV has become marginalized,
society is gleening to be seen or heard on a television advertisement.

Become your own way to escape the turmoil of a subsidized production,
expensively formatted anything are there for those who desire quality,
fundamental elements are coughed up qualitatively in our reduction,
always take the bold approach and invest in yourself seriously.

The shifting doldrums of marketplace delusions is nothing new to me,
making forsaken art at Strange Hours is all we know as boss,
reinforced cynical views towards the injustice of our reality,
so many of us long lost in the marginal mêlée of dross.

Pragmatic belief in a major company remains to be seen,
the Faith Healer inside downloads a Liquid mutation,
our legs are chained with the survival of barely being,
exert positive pressure and avoid blind stagnation.

Selected while Drifting and recently for the very first time the old band played and he got to see,
the first listening experience of a special Shunt recording needs to be heard as it’s intend to be,
once you craft 1+2 and Hydrolically begin to understand the full pleasure of a quality toil,
you’ll discover springs at the core of all art and the art of Alan Wilder is called Recoil.

Transmogrified from a 2008 article by Alan Wilder; ‘Music For The Masses – I think not

Alan Wilder of Depeche Mode in San Francisco, ...

Image via Wikipedia

Ten Spontaneous Automatism Essentials

Write without consciousness like Yeats’ did in a semi-trance MENTAL STATE,
allow your subconscious to take over with interesting prose of the phantasm,
admit you own uninhibited use of modern language as a consciously censorless trait,
write excitedly and swiftly until the cramps in your fingers obey the laws of orgasm,
centered from the periphery with the beclouding of your consciousness of relaxed fate.

The object is SET-UP before the mind in either reality,
just like sketching a landscape teacup or dilapidated old face,
vignette is set wherein it becomes more than an accessible memory,
sketching from memories a definite image-object with an exhaulted pace.

Time is of the essence in being true to the purity of speech,
sketching the PROCEDURE of language in its undisturbed flow,
from the minds of personal secret idea-words conscious does reach,
blowing like a jazz musician on subjects of images upon the distant plateau .

Periods separating sentence-structures are arbitrarily riddled by divisions of a false colon,
timid and needy commas vigorously space dashes while rhetorically breathing in the badness,
jazz musicians draw in breaths between outblown phrases and sounds we hear that are swollen,
measure the time and note it down because pauses are essential to the METHOD of our madness.

Selective expression is following a freely deviated association of mind with limitless rows in seas of thought,
swimming in an ocean of discipline with SCOPING rhythms of rhetorical exhalation and expostulated subconscious statements,
fists coming down on a tables with a bang for each complete utterance deeply written with and without fraught,
satisfy yourself first by fishing deep with the laws of the human mind and receive telepathic shock and meaningful excitements.

No pause to think of proper words because of the infantile pileup,
scatologicaly buildup spontaneous prose till satisfaction is gaining,
a LAG IN PROCEDURE will turn into an empty and cracked cup,
pounding appending rhythms think accordingly with the Great Law of timing.
Nothing is muddy that runs in time to the laws of Shakespearian dramatic stress,
forever hold your obviously rational tongue with no revisions or improper rhyming,
mistakes are accepted insertions in acts of writing and intersecting without digress,
we need to speak and write now in own unalterable way of unconscious TIMING.

Begin from the jewel center of your interest in subjects of image at the moment of writing itself,
toss away preconceived ideas of what to say and write while outwardly swimming in sea of language incest,
peripheral release and pragmatic exhaustion now go blow the song you sing and write to oneself,
painful personal wrung-out and tossed from a cradle of a warm protective mind-tapping CENTER OF INTEREST.
afterthinking is unnecessary to improve or defray impressions except for poetic or p.s.’s to ourself,
ludicrous and spontaneous confessionals are interesting because crafted and not-crafted craft is our best,
the best writers are always the most bad and good while offering a way you can be honest with yourself.

Modern bizarre language structures arise from words being dead,
new themes like transmogrification give the illumination of a new life,
roughly follow outlines in fanning movements over subjects like a river bed,
run your mindflow once to arrive at the jeweled-center of essential pivotal rife,
language is the STRUCTURE OF WORK trying to wire the time-race of dread,
cutting the laws of Deep Form to their natural conclusion like a razor knife,
dim-formed beginnings become a sharp-necessitations ending in red,
last words trickle with the last trickle-night at The End of strife.

Transmogrified from : 9 Essentials of Spontaneous Prose by Jack Kerouac

Cozsing Pandora

I coze my Pandora,
she tunes my brain.
With piano concertos,
and sounds like rain.

She makes me feel unalone,
and sometimes warm inside.
I can listen to Depeche Mode,
when I want to cry or hide.

Mozart and Bach,
Nick Cave is here too.
The Smiths and Nirvana,
of course there’s U2.

The Days and Nights We Dropped the Seeds

When you take the stage again the angels with respect will halt their flying and singing,
they’ve seen you play with us since construction time and know that you are bringing,
in a hurried fashion you were dispatched to each other with photographic accuracy,
learning to spell and speak our sounds and kindly removing all of your complacency.

You sing our sounds in an ultra race for the angelic voice in the sea of our sin,
we felt the heed and decided not to say that you needn’t enter to perform or win,
the competition was held a long time ago and you couldn’t know what had been said,
it really wasn’t a competition at all but a friendly little wager with the Universe instead.

The Revelators handed us 7 loaded dice and of course I trusted them wrong once again,
then came the time to roll the dice twice and we made the rolls with 7 wishes and a grin,
there were 7 others in on the non-bet and we know that they and the dice were loaded,
the dice were taken with an open fisted hand and wished for 343 seeds to be molded.

We won the bet and the universe with the winner shouting in shame and song voices,
the next four wishes were for labels to play on and you all made the only right choices,
we also wished for the seeds to earn fans all wanting to dance for and with a VIP view,
other wishes gave them new instruments to plug-in and someone new to plug hard into.

We dropped your seeds near a town called London when the 60’s 70’s and 80’s were created,
we turned everything up invited your parents & then watched as they danced and in sin mated,
We love to dance in these decades when everyone dated with pointed hair and wanting needs,
we will always remember this and that time as ‘The Days and Nights We Dropped the Seeds’.

We made a special label to help us with the harvest and was very pleased then and still am,
we asked them please never to tell of the wager and named ‘em Mute to help remind them,
we created star light and powered it with your spin good pains on the universal dance floor,
we light up the sky wherever you are playing and when the needle drops behind the black door.

We will dance with you until the end of our forever and then create beyond never,
we will always dance to your voices and consider you our little pleasure endeavor,
we grant that your wishes will always come true for your music and your masses,
we feel you as our seeds of rhythmic love when we are dancing off of our asses.

One of our greatest joys has been going out dancing as you write to us twice again Wrong,
we were right all along and knew without doubt after enjoying the silence of your very first song,
we dance every night on the broken pieces that were left when we violated your band like mold,
our dice were tossed upon Composition of Sound and we won when you became Depeche Mode


Ode to the Modes

Martin Lee Gore

I’ve received two lessons from Martin Lee Gore.
The skill of rhyme and art of metaphor.

If it wasn’t for you my soul would be silent.
You’ve led me through a life-long dance without the desire to ever be violent.

There is nothing in my power worthy of offering from your ranks,
but dance with you from afar forever with my thanks…

David Gahan

The only reason I ever go out is to dance while David is singing.
With the echo of your voice my ears are always ringing.

My impulse comes alive at the sound of your voice.
Dancing with you a need not a this or that choice.

When I hit the dance floor the girls begin their glancing upon.
When it is I close my eyes it’s only with you I am ever dancing until Gahan…

Andrew John Fletcher

Andrew’s rhythm moves me and makes my insides smolder.
When I see Martin and David they are dancing on your shoulders.

You drift from song to song without ever missing a beat.
When I hear your fingers sing they bring me alive through my feet.

You stand there and play with nothing ever to prove.
Thank you Fletcher for giving me my groove..

Alan Wilder

Alan was the last one to show and first one to go with a Recoil,
devotional sounds leading to internal friend strife and turmoil.

My young balance found the right equilibrium with a two minute warning,
the landscape changed while constructing again a memory of great rewarding.

Foundations of my sub-gooving consciousness is filled with your modulator,
rhythms that make me want to shunt and dance while experiencing Wilder.

Spoken and Spelled

There is a New Life stepping still on the shady streets,
we watched everyone around turn into a stranger,
you think you only know me when you turn on the lights,
now the red room is darkly lit with our real danger.

Our newness is complicated & circulating in an operated & generated life,
transitioning to another place so our time here will pass more slowly,
like a film i’ve never seen show me your hidden face as if it were out of sight,
features fuse together and your shadow’s a thick dark red glowely.

The road leading to nowhere is long with a stranger behind the door,
standing still stepping on the shady streets and becoming another stranger,
before the nowhere questions are answered the same is something different,
you only know me when you think to turn on the lights and now i’m your red danger.

There are new sounds all around and you can feel it getting too hot,
I Sometimes Wish I Was Dead like right now and that will never stop,
turn away the new day just for me and you dancing on the radio,
wipe away the tears from last night and say that you have to go.

We know where you go but don’t want to know why you lie,
it feels too right knowing that we’ll be dancing with you all the time,
you say that it’s from above and we say this is modern cry,
meet me again in the back street to say goodbye and commit a crime.

Do you ever get that feeling that your head is reeling with you in control,
you now now me and know that i can move and soothe you without a bed,
like Puppets we can take our places in different ways you won’t understand,
with you in control i will be your operator while we share the same head.

Watch your actions close the reactions with everything you’re thinking,
conversation about my creation has nothing to do with you unless i said,
you now know the consequences of the things you say and tried doing,
things you tried to do and all the words that melted before they were said,
only part of us is starting and you can no longer stop me from being.

You don’t understand that this is a demand for a twink show,
look inside and try to go for a ride through the day and night,
getting to know where Boys meet and get together for a blow,
don’t Say forever or the word no and run away if you stray right,
when you Go close a door the end is the same as our tomorrow,
rain pain and sorrow are surly part of the all boys high flight.

The picture we saw of you playing the part you are,
sometimes we wonder if you’re really taking a chance,
a thousand watts inside you taking this life way too far,
this ain’t Nodisco and you don’t know how to dance,

Move me to a disco and don’t let go of part one,
act like everyone is pretending and this is a story,
reaching the end always makes everyone happy,
when you’re taking a chance you feel a little whory.

Watching you walking the streets sometimes,
at midnight we can feel you in the air gritty,
looking good we know you like rhymes,
all the time we understood you so pretty.

Everybody seems to look your way now,
hey they want to know What’s Your Name,
feeling just right tonight and with a wow,
hey we get together for a night of the same.

We can go together but never know,
the nights together we can stand,
the things we need to show.

A white house with a white room and the program of today,
maps represent you and the tape is your voice following along,
turn the lights on by flicking a switch when your eyes are far away,
you recognize the choice till i take Photographic pictures with song.

Bright lights in a dark room are needed to write a letter,
never take the time to look for the day to mesmerize the light,
years were spent just thinking of a moment we both knew,
a second you just for me seems too bad to be true or quite right.

They were raining from the sky and exploding in my heart,
from the skies you can hear them cry about our Tora,
i had a nightmare only yesterday and you played the skeleton
in the town they were going down to find a Tora,
is this a love in disguise or just a form of modern art,
in the town they were going down to bury a Tora,
you took my love and died that day while i played the American.

The Big Muff of silence remembered all the shadows and our doubts,
vivid blank pictures in our film are like standing next to an empty wall,
still nights are a small affair with relapses of closing the nightclub door,
when you speak we watch you move away and always seem to fall.

She is hoping to forget the moment and almost slips away,
we need to change the words we are liking and reading,
when the colours move apart Any Second Now you’ll want to stay,
as you touch my hand understand this message is a warning.

When I’m with you baby we must go out of our head,
we Just Can’t Get Enough of getting enough of you,
all of the things you do to me and everything you said,
we slip and slide as we fall in love with the things we do.

We walk together as we’re walking down the street,
we just can’t get enough of getting enough of you,
every time we think of you we know we have to meet,
it’s getting hotter with burning love and morning dew.

When it rains pain you’re shining down for me,
we just can’t get enough of getting enough of you,
just like a rainbow you know you set my fire free,
you taste like an angel while giving me your love true.

The film was broken when the man switched the light,
night fused with tomorrow dancing with a distant friend,
filming and screening the picture of our scene at twilight,
Dreaming and filming about something we can transcend.

We left understanding so cleancut we’re sounding fast,
quickly remember and fuse then see a face before the fall,
talking of sad war we laughed and climbed the rising cast,
timing the reason with understanding of the association hall.

Shouts from the factory are running secretly through my head,
like the blood-wine in the darkroom scene of a past reunion,
ringing you on the telephone silently as if you were dead,
from a cracked window resurrect the feeling of submission.

A seven year long letter has been composed as tall as a tree,
like the city and air we breathe while reading the wall of emissions,
recall dancing like children before meeting our feat of efficiency,
the Ice Machine stood before me once again with her face full of visions.

Like the girl on TV she was trying to act silent and knowing when to say,
wishing for a moment that we can see ourselves staring into the night.
your picture in my room leads me to write a new set of lines every day,
break away and understand tonight i need your hand until we’ve got it right.

Carefully Shout while watching and waiting standing upon the backs of streets,
we started to play by screaming louder as the curtains fell between us in a twisted way,
staring into the night with a picture in my room that in between reveals her fine beats,
placing questions in the minutes of a game we won so long ago and want to stay,
beautifully dangerous the radio transmissions are known to be full of deceits,
never run away or try to stay because you belong with me as your prey.

 

Transmogrified from ‘Speak and Spell’ by Depeche Mode

Gaslit Rumours

I die new For a life
When She Found everything
her wrist Fell in love
with A Fighting back machine

As she passed away Bored
Summer’s day Slashed the rain
Of 16 mercies fell the small tear
life with her Mother It’s the same

Any rumours I want to start
the lord takes the Whole blame
She goes down on her knees ahead
From that car I think a Girl Came

of 18 prays But once
Got to support life In
Then 16 Birds of sense
were up And singing On

Hit by a mother’s Girl tears
Christ reads the note again
Life Didn’t succeed And Ended
don’t Thank of Jesus find Him

I always expect her again
In the summer And laughing sky
God’s blasphemous candles
burn humour in her sick mind eye

 

Andrew John Fletcher
David Gahan
Martin Lee Gore

 

“Blasphemous Rumours”
Appears on: “Some Great Reward” album
“Catching Up With Depeche Mode” album
“The Singles 81-85” album

Girl of 16
Whole life ahead of her
Slashed her wrists
Bored with life
Didn’t succeed
Thank the lord
For small mercies

Fighting back the tears
Mother reads the note again
16 candles burn in her mind
She takes the blame
It’s always the same
She goes down on her knees
And prays

I don’t want to start
Any blasphemous rumours
But I think that God’s
Got a sick sense of humour
And when I die
I expect to find Him laughing

Girl of 18
Fell in love with everything
Found new life
In Jesus Christ
Hit by a car
Ended up
On a life support machine

Summer’s day
As she passed away
Birds were singing
In the summer sky
Then came the rain
And once again
A tear fell
From her mother’s eye

The Spoken Body

The body desires
what the spirit seeks
a girl driving blindly
requires flesh imprisoned keeps

You keep debating me
hollow is your tenderness
I pray too the soul’s desires
I dream of your caress

Oh Oh Oh
Please stop I’m here to touch
I need just that one the the
when the waiting requires much

I’m a slave angel
through this just world
at your mercy of an oh
I pray too follow

the body speaks
To the soul’s mind
All else listens
I need what is mine

Oh Oh Oh
I dream For the promise much
I need one of the imprisoned heart
please stop wasting the touch

What keeps your time
the heart will caress
the spirit seeks flesh
I need your tenderness

All else is hollow
the mind speaks what
the body will follow
the body listens when.

Exact remix of ‘When the Body Speaks” by Depeche Mode