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the following is an section from BARRAGE TAPES, the novel i've been working on since October of 2016. my initial intention with the work was simply to see how many pages i write in a year, that whatever i write for a month; lyric fragments, flash fictions, essays, one-liners, etc, would be a chapter, and the the chapter would be called a "tape". for years i had spread myself too thin, attempting to write lyrics, comic book scripts, screenplays, novels, short stories, reviews, etc., so i wanted to concentrate everything into one project. not only that, i wished to try and recover creative materials from as far back as 1993, when i first began drawing and writing my own stories, coming up with superheroes, slasher villains, and monsters, and tying it all together into one universe, along with the lyrics/stories i had written over the course of 15/16 years, and any new ideas that may pronounce themselves from out of my mental ether. as of now, the plan is to keep pouring all creative energies into BARRAGE TAPES until Trump finishes out his term(s) as POTUS. it either be the longest short book ever or the shortest long book ever, maybe all of that and none of that. anyway, i'll forgo any further rambling and present a recent section of BARRAGE TAPES, take from the end of TAPE 25, written during the tail-end of the recent Mid-Term Election cycle.
turd cruise. tender butt milk. libertarian rapist pimp zombie. liquid paranoia. medicinal aftertaste of two-too-many aspirin regiment. belching flecks of garlic salt. now it's November. clackingly gray. never the right amount of layers. so bland it all seems profound.
cathode rays of wishful thinking splinter on impact when finally reaching the barricades of reflexive cynicism that keep us grounded and edged; carved out of bombshells. locked in and kept out.
we can only accumulate small victories, spreading them so thin that the threat of them snapping in half and lashing out our eyes is everything if not persistent, while the overbooked pro-wrestling personalities that run the Titan keep fussing with the script, making sure to continually maximize their benefits while maintaining an audience of misguidedly hateful rubes that know no other source of culture or any other impulse other than to keep siphoning off what little they have and pouring it into the slush funds of these glorified carnival barkers and mock-authoritarian thugs.
the Titan has acquired any competition, absorbing their more profitable compartments and assimilating them into the broadly drawn mission statement, becoming the only game in town.
Hence; they don't give a damn what you people want.
the Titan is right here, easy access. whatever's left behind or on the rise in the wake of the Titan's ascent to total power is a little bit more difficult to grasp. the production values aren't as good, the concessions are limited, the merch isn't as colorful, the names aren't househeld, the racial dynamics and sexual politics might leave you scratching your ball-cap in probable confusion or throttling it in petty rage.
the Titan may have its issues, but it's simple and accessible and easy to look at and its more than likely never going away and seemingly all roads lead to its towers.
call it the New World Order, brother.
