martes, 25 de agosto de 2009

Rápido, a la cama.

Y rasco la alfombra por su amor...

PH: Ruven Afanador.

miércoles, 19 de agosto de 2009

hang the dj.

Belief in the one true power

Can't stop the sound Can you?
Can't stop the sound

Can't stop the sound

I can't stop you
X your eyes Let the tape roll Aren't you gonna get sick 'Cause that's right Good work! X your eyes Let the tape roll Belief in the one true power Can't stop the sound Can you? Can't stop the sound I can't stop you X your eyes Let the tape roll Aren't you gonna get sick 'Cause that's right Good work! X your eyes I'll tell you, wait

So your troubles continue to multiply and to grow in a direct result of your being misguided. Deceived. Misdirected. Or fooled. All themes are variations of the basic ego gloried wide theme in which you follow the gospel truth.


Pursuing the wrong ideals and goals that leads you into sickness. unto.. ??.. and from this sickness sprang the belief in the one true power. (Yes.) That cure that promised to erase the symptoms that stood between you and your goal. That's seductive to hear them offer relief and comfort without disturbing the faulty system of your beliefs. (Beliefs) Belief in the one true power. (Beliefs) Forever and ever, one nation under (ego self). The father, the son, and the holy (ego self). In Jesus name. Amen.

(10 seconds silence)

Greasy filthy hand jobs in truck stop restrooms. Hot carling? all over my, hot carling? I turned that into a verb. I hope you appreciate it. Car wing. Hot Carling Academy. It's the school where you go to learn how to butt fuck. It's In England. They don't have blowjobs there because they're uncircumcised and that is just disgusting. So they have to butt fuck. Which is also disgusting, because that extra foreskin trapped all the germs and the poop and the butt-fucking residue. It's sin. And that's why British people have bad teeth. Amen.

PH: Josenovich,

viernes, 14 de agosto de 2009

Dust to dust.

"Así que, nuevamente, si vas a leer esto, no lo hagas.
Esto no trata de nadie valiente y amable y esforzado. Él no es nadie de quien te vayas a enamorar. Solo para que lo sepas, lo que estás leyendo es la historia completa y sin concesiones de un adicto.
Porque la mayoría de los programas de desintonxicación en doce pasos, el cuarto te obliga a hacer inventario de tu vida. Tienes que cojer un cuaderno y apuntar hasta el último detalle patético y vergonzoso de tu vida. Un inventario completo de tus crímenes. De esa forma, tienes todos tus pecados delante de las narices. Y entonces debes arreglarlo todo. Esto vale para los alcohólicos, los drogadictos, los bulímicos y también para los adictos al sexo.
De esta forma uno puede volver atrás y revisar lo peor de la propia vida siempre que quiera. Porque se supone que los que olvidan el pasado están condenados a repetirlo."

Chuck Palahniuk.

viernes, 7 de agosto de 2009

Brand new ears at once.

We are the synchronizers
Send messages through time code
Midi clock rings in my mind
Machines gave me some freedom
Synthesizers gave me some wings
They drop me through twelve bit samplers
We are electronic performers
We are electronics
We need to use envelope filters
To say how we feel
Riding on magnetic waves
We search new programs for your pleasure
I want to patch my soul on your brain
BPMs controls your heartbeats
We are the synchronizers
We are electronic performers

PH: Florencia Pellegrini.

jueves, 6 de agosto de 2009

So glad to meet you.

Won't you let me walk you home from school

Won't you let me meet you at the pool
Maybe Friday I can
get tickets for the dance
and I'll take you
Won't you tell your dad, "Get off my back"
Tell him what we said 'bout 'Paint It Black'
Rock 'n Roll is here to stay
Come inside where it's okay
And I'll shake you.
Won't you tell me what you're thinking of
Would you be an outlaw for my love
If it's so, well, let me know
If it's "no", well, I can go
I won't make you

( )

martes, 4 de agosto de 2009

Auto pilot.

Ain’t gonna worry
Just live till you die,I wanna drown
With nowhere to fall
Into the arms of someone
There’s nothing to save and I know
You live till you die

lunes, 3 de agosto de 2009

And all the little pigs have God.

y de taparse la boca para no gritar.

(Monty walks into the bathroom. He looks in the mirror. In the bottom corner, someone's written Fuck You!)

Yeah, fuck you, too.

Monty's Reflection:
Fuck me? Fuck you! Fuck you and this whole city and everyone in it.
Fuck the panhandlers, grubbing for money, and smiling at me behind my back.
Fuck squeegee men dirtying up the clean windshield of my car. Get a fucking job!
Fuck the Sikhs and the Pakistanis bombing down the avenues in decrepit cabs, curry steaming out their pores and stinking up my day. Terrorists in fucking training. Slow the fuck down!
Fuck the Chelsea boys with their waxed chests and pumped up biceps. Going down on each other in my parks and on my piers, jingling their dicks on my Channel 35.
Fuck the Korean grocers with their pyramids of overpriced fruit and their tulips and roses wrapped in plastic. Ten years in the country, still no speaky English?
Fuck the Russians in Brighton Beach. Mobster thugs sitting in cafés, sipping tea in little glasses, sugar cubes between their teeth. Wheelin' and dealin' and schemin'. Go back where you fucking came from!
Fuck the black-hatted Chassidim, strolling up and down 47th street in their dirty gabardine with their dandruff. Selling South African apartheid diamonds!
Fuck the Wall Street brokers. Self-styled masters of the universe. Michael Douglas, Gordon Gecko wannabe mother fuckers, figuring out new ways to rob hard working people blind. Send those Enron assholes to jail for fucking life! You think Bush and Cheney didn't know about that shit? Give me a fucking break! Tyco! Imclone! Adelphia! Worldcom!
Fuck the Puerto Ricans. 20 to a car, swelling up the welfare rolls, worst fuckin' parade in the city. And don't even get me started on the Dom-in-i-cans, because they make the Puerto Ricans look good.
Fuck the Bensonhurst Italians with their pomaded hair, their nylon warm-up suits, and their St. Anthony medallions. Swinging their, Jason Giambi, Louisville slugger, baseball bats, trying to audition for the Sopranos.
Fuck the Upper East Side wives with their Hermés scarves and their fifty-dollar Balducci artichokes. Overfed faces getting pulled and lifted and stretched, all taut and shiny. You're not fooling anybody, sweetheart!
Fuck the uptown brothers. They never pass the ball, they don't want to play defense, they take fives steps on every lay-up to the hoop. And then they want to turn around and blame everything on the white man. Slavery ended one hundred and thirty seven years ago. Move the fuck on!
Fuck the corrupt cops with their anus violating plungers and their 41 shots, standing behind a blue wall of silence. You betray our trust!
Fuck the priests who put their hands down some innocent child's pants. Fuck the church that protects them, delivering us into evil. And while you're at it, fuck JC! He got off easy! A day on the cross, a weekend in hell, and all the hallelujahs of the legioned angels for eternity! Try seven years in fuckin Otisville, Jay!
Fuck Osama bin Laden, al-Qaeda, and backward-ass, cave-dwelling, fundamentalist assholes everywhere. On the names of innocent thousands murdered, I pray you spend the rest of eternity with your seventy-two whores roasting in a jet-fueled fire in hell. You towel headed camel jockeys can kiss my royal, Irish ass!
Fuck Jacob Elinski, whining malcontent.
Fuck Francis Xavier Slaughtery, my best friend, judging me while he stares at my girlfriend's ass.
Fuck Naturel Rivera. I gave her my trust and she stabbed me in the back. Sold me up the river. Fucking bitch.
Fuck my father with his endless grief, standing behind that bar. Sipping on club soda, selling whiskey to firemen and cheering the Bronx Bombers.
Fuck this whole city and everyone in it. From the row houses of Astoria to the penthouses on Park Avenue. From the projects in the Bronx to the lofts in Soho. From the tenements in Alphabet City to the brownstones in Park slope to the split levels in Staten Island. Let an earthquake crumble it. Let the fires rage. Let it burn to fuckin ash then let the waters rise and submerge this whole, rat-infested place.

No. No, fuck you, Montgomery Brogan. You had it all and then you threw it away, you dumb fuck!