Pneumanthropology...
Pneumanthropology...
For,
ex ample...
Oy, fur, beat...
Pneumanthro
posophy...A habanera of
beastly
lust:
for a beauty lost...forever?
forever?
No?
dea gratias....
!
The Anaesthetic of the Beast.
It is with some severity of a simple-mindedness that we must now turn to the decade of greed with its mirror-minded mnemonics.
Some happier aspects of various dreadfully serious
aesthetics: the perspective that jumps out about Duran Duran, considered by Rube-scholars
to be a mere eighties girl band, is their use of the four chord system. Like the overly vaunted “be-bop” scale advanced
in sterilely Marsalis-bound junior jazz academies, the fourth chord implies a
new even-ness, and inertia of asymmetry.
At once the Renaissance project of mannerist
fisticuffs spills out of the Bar Fields, out of the Streets, and superfluidly
floods the bloodless academies. Which
Nirvana and the suicide-prone Cobain never really got to in their plebian incomprehension
of the truest syncephalon of “carpe
diem.”
Flying the f---ed up flag of Freakonomics....
Flying the f---ed up flag,
not for the faint-Arted...
!
Oy, fur, beat, the drums of
halo-gramophone "hologramophone" rhythmic Feigenbaum-bound strange attractors, seductive, mysterious
femmes "fatales."
Just as far as the ‘eYe ‘ can
see.
With Duran Duran’s
discovery of the Four Chord Tune,
Hillbilly patriotism becomes forever obsolete, and the confederate flag,
something you can wad up and stick up your Astrological Sign of the Times, as
far as the eYe can see....
This bold move did much, much more, to advance the Cause, more than the Police’s “there is no
political solution,” or the bloodless Beatles’
“you say you want a revolution,” to
advance the cause of the New World Order.
Uncle Sam is surely headed the way of the Tasmanians, or the natives of Tierra del Fuego.
Q.E.D.
"Oh war is the common cry, Pick up your swords and fly.
The sky is filled with good and bad that
mortals never know.
Oh, well, the night is long the beads of time pass slow,
Tired eyes on the sunrise, waiting for
the eastern glow.”
A morning after...
150 + or – 73n. e.g.,...
19 * 127.
(32).
Bite the Fur Yo-yo!
Bite the fur yo-yo! Oh, a b-jet,ooooh, oh, oh, a dry run out of Canton. At a Hercufatworks called
B-tek (B is for boobs, booze, I mean).
T.R. Listen! (Or I'll sperm u in the Ear!) ...
“To serve
your Captives' need;
To wait in heavy harness
On fluttered folk and wild -
Your new-caught sullen peoples,
Half Devil and half Child.”
Who ur talkin' ' bout?
Him?
179.
5*19.
Preter (LEGAL) Gastarbeiter ... sports deports ... or departs...
