Drawn up are the plans.
Carved out in nothing but sand
Upon which all our hopes
And demons must land,
Shall sparsely interlope
Shall withstand
the most beautiful of brands
The curios minds of sickos
The mopes and Divine Popes,
bringers of fright, bringers of delight
Bringers Of the white blind light
Gilded in gold, by animations untold
Dressed by the hounds in suits
Favored by all but the brutes
Absolute curation
Sleek metal beauties amidst barren stations
A brilliant degradation
Always to be made again
The gold stand,
Matters not to the vicious band
Of donors and thieves,
Whose den is only lightly perceived,
Whose guards somberly weave
With bent backs and broken knees
Across the floors, sending modern fleets
Of sugar, honey, milk, and disease,
And meanwhile we beg and plead
And feebly believe
Perchance
That one day
we’ll just up and leave.
It was the day after we had come back from LA and I put on the album for the 5th time in as many hours. It was intoxicating. Its just that it had so thoroughly popped a wheelie on the zeitgeist.
The doomed crooning, or the crooning of the doomed, or the crooning for the doom- it was all so eerily prophetic and poignant. Stacking boxes, and pulling from the shelves, drowning everything out, an uncomfortable and supremely odd feeling pulsed through that chamber right under my heart, that chamber that houses all the true emotions one hold towards the world.
It felt like doom. A majestic, pinkish, light purple doom filled with ecstasy and pain and blasé cruelty and the stark nature of fate, the beautiful nature of destiny, and the unpredictable orchestration of catastrophe.
Bar to bar, verse to verse, song to song, it was something like a colorful, highly expressive, artfully spliced and mismatched newspaper that was hyper aware of the culture it catered to. As if it held the thoughts of the culture in its palm and brought each and every single one to a separate table and took to it a magnifying class and utensils of the highest quality and poked and prodded and identified all the many components of those thoughts and then sung to them in a very deep and honest way.
Attempting to sort through the feelings, I found myself stumbling over these beautiful ideas shrouded in danger and fear and hopelessness. Found myself inevitably rushing in to the future with everyone else, thoroughly excited and utterly terrified and accepting that of course the shit house is going to go up in flames.
And then, thinking about all the beauty and tragedy becoming one, and the danger and the ecstasy and grand forces of nature raising themselves from their laurels, I realized that I had stumbled on to the apocalypse.
The great apocalyptic vision of a world careening towards the epicurean future. The great future envisioned by those who first contemplated the future. Its ultimate opulence, its destitute poverty, its vying powers, its sinister tint, its deadness, its aliveness, its power.
For always it comes down to a few simple things and always one of those few things is power.
So I don’t know what to do with this feeling in the chamber under my heart. I imagine sitting there a little oracle painting a portrait of a naked man chained up against a wall in a brothel, allowed to do nothing but watch. I imagine glorious crashes and violent drunken nights and shrieking parents. I imagine stunning meteors hurtling over the picturesque suburbs. I imagine fire raging in the wealthy hills overlooking every city the world over.
I just know that it truly is because of the Internet.
