Wednesday, 20 March 2019

Misanthropic Musicology IX

8:25am Unutterable train packed with bicycles in every lane walkways inaccessible nearly tear my stovepipes on some clown's foot clips. Why ride a train with a bike? Black Sabbath thunder driving homicide from the frontal lobe and back into some reptilian corner of the mind where it belongs. All middle aged men of course. No doubt like an affair they tell their wives they're off to ride to work so they stay healthy but instead ride to Maccas for a filthy bacon and egg travesty and jump on the Beeno hellbent for the Unutterable north the rest of the way, their rotting guts feeding their rotting minds. Oh the humanity. The first Sabbath album turned 49 recently. Now there's something to celebrate.

Esoteric doctrines demark Dutton Park station while Jimmy Page the white blues sage injects distortion in liminal veins.

Unutterable bound unusual sound of Mozart's esoteric Requiem in D minor in my earholes I never listen to Mozart but following the Gnostic trail 'cause. In all seriousness though I woke thinking of this, the one work of Mozart's I truly like while growing up force fed his violin concerti and quartets like a good little lad only to question his tyranny over the classical music mind like punks question the Beatles. Now heatwave conditions AGAIN on this bullshit plastic shute to hell again I wonder if in my rebellion on missing out on something by being so bloody minded on course for rejection of accepted mozartian norm. Perhaps.

Chose Karajan version to help highlight why I usually avoid Mozart.

Creepy crawlin' freemason funk fire from the dead heart of Aleister Crowley via axe, drum and bottomless bass surrounded by the base and debased on the bloody Beeno once more. Entering data from the dyson sphere of future dystopias the five eyes panopticon is watching my tapping tapping tap tap thumbs. 34 degrees on a dead end trip to sundown and no end in sight to the run around I need some rest.

High voltage underground cable straight to medulla oblongata physical graffiti declaring the grandeur of PELT in the occult sub-scape of Brisfuckingvegas, surprise transmissions from Amazonian sources distracting me from Beevis and Butthead chortle of moronic King Buzzo copycat in stoner convulsion. Oh the humanity.

 The horror of existence late for work with broken down maroon chariot of destruction. Can't say I'm angry about it, not even disappointed, if I'm lucky cyclone Oma drags my place of work out to sea and next week leave with pay and I can ride the Beeno south unadorned into the dark through clouds of sulphur crested cockatoo towards supermoon shadows on dripping gums passing by in the glaring orb weaver eye. Yes indeed.
Decolonising mind to embrace the lines in the songs drawn in soil, red, dry dust. This rotten rustsnake of colonial mobility an English invention by Warlocks and Warlords in a winter of discontent, a dawn of technofeudalism to which we are all slaves from dusk til dawn working in the kremlin for the two-headed dawg, but do any of deadfaced comrades on this overpriced sootmaker give a fuck?

I doubt it. If only the magic stored in my ancestral blood would rise so I could cast a spell of Welsh origin to wrack crease after crease in the cunt my direct opposite's crisp salmon shirt. Unutterable here I go.

BOOM Vacuum #17