Monday, June 1, 2009

What I've Been Up To




Seen here is the back of the New Voice Production Co. , Tommy "The Cock Socket" Holman.

Expect and fear that his album be released soon, as we have mixed all but two tracks, and then its on to mastering this "insult to all real musicians" he calls an album.

But seriously, it's good. Just don't tell him I said that, cause it'll go to his head.

Friday, April 17, 2009

It's Still Coming, But Not This Year

Monday, March 2, 2009

Textual Automation #3

1st Welcome to California,
4th largest City of Delusion,
Repetitive Motion
Underhanded Artistry
Thimbles with Universes
Gallows for the Will
Eternal Egotism
Retarded Love
Sanity:Deranged.

Fuck it. The door can hit me in the ass on the way out.
At least I'll be out.
Sweet September.

Sunday, March 1, 2009

Textual Automation #2

Appears a Rembrandt,
Smeared facade, Marble Shaft,
Gnostic Flame, wait, only a spark,
Such a shame,
But one sweet dream came true today
Still never give me your money,
Only someone else's life in a wallet,
And everybody's laughing,
At the face in those funny pages,
But too much of a dick to see,
That your affairs are also mine.
Appears an artist,
But not the testicles,
Nor the heart,
Ahh, but Gnosis,
A word that makes you cool.
You wear the mask alright.
Good for you, such a mean old man,
Shes a go-getter,
And you're just a beatle,
Feeding on the shit others produce,
Such a dirty old man,
Nice format, looks like you don't care.
So why are you an artist?
Oh wait...Just a rembrandt, smeared face hey this seems modern without punctuation and capitalization and modern is cool right so Im cool now
Didnt anybody tell her? The princess is on the phone to no one.

Textual Automation #1

Moonlight bleeds from your soul,
illuminate the philosophies
of faith in this life,
we are creatures yearning,
Saliva drip, concrete comfort,
Shimmer dance and raining clogs,
Enough of the bullshit,
But blind is he, to a dustcloud
So thick,
Treachery and vines made of sand,
Slipping through fingers,
entangling a thought of glory,
Scraped edges, tattered babies,
Newborn monotony,
But it always seems new
To he