Tuesday, January 11, 2011

Mainlines, Blood Feasts and Bad Taste

Mainlines, Blood Feasts and Bad Taste
A Lester Bangs Reader
Edited by John Morthland
Anchor
2003


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The last forbidden lands, tiger striped with the motions of Harley Davidson hells angles (yeah, that’s right, I said angles, not angels, because maybe you need to take a fuckin' look at something that’s the 90 degree angle from your fuckin' sweet breaded mama suckin tit mint cremes devourin feather pilow suckin extreme homo blowjob in a porta potty receivin life once in a while) you grasp the reigns of love, young love, sweet young love, the first drops of a tropical rainstorm, the drops of life, leading like the evil bits outpouring of a spiderweb, spiraling out like the spiral architects of life, spoken of by prophets old and decrepit, of the juices of knowledge, the sweet fruits of which young men must partake, the lifelike replicas of which they all must know, in one satisfactory, or perhaps unsatisfactory way (who is to judge? Who is even to know how to judge these rites of man?) the trickles and traces of dissent leading up the the holy birth of rock and roll Music, Jewsic(!!!), Eschewsic(?) (I think not) Bluesic (that’s more like, you fuckin honkey) Choosic (choose it, you can, in this destroyed day and age) and more through and though it feels the ripples of the day and age of holy rock and roll music, the holy ripples of rock and roll, and roll, and roll, and motherfuckin roll. Through the chapel, the sweet echoes, the undead vibrations, undead life animations of ancient riffs captivate the soul, the strings continue to string up the methods of the ill adapted frustrated man, or woman, the riffs of paradise cutting ribbons into the night, ribbons of blood, rock, sweat, cum, sweet misery, teen angst, hangovers, bangovers, slangovers, sleep overs, non virginal sleepovers, sneaky back door man sleepovers, Fang hangovers, and mucho mucho extreme overs, over and over, (OVERKILL!!!) is this what you really want(?) of course not, but you didn’t get to pick, so pick your ill begotten head off the bathroom floor, stop kissing the tiles, stop hugging the porcelain bus, cause so what if you had like, a few dilaudid, a few dranks, pills ain’t shit these days, so you say your buddy had Chuck Berry over and he just happened to cut his fingernails their at the house and leave them in the ashtray, and you picked out the fingernails and ate them cause you thought it would help you play guitar, or at least help you to open a goddam hella fine RIBS restaurant in the outskirts of St. Louis, bathroom cameras or not, if they be fine wimins in theya, then what kind of mayn wouldn’t wan to dickument it for hi' personal collections of lady encounters, and no one wants to be like Chaim Witz and his fuckin polaroid collection (actually yes, that would be cool, 4600 wimins, that’s not bad, how many actually were ugly) or who cares, feathered hair and makeup and no AIDS(!) and weren’t ya’ll just born way to fuckin late white suburban boy thinkin' in the night of the holocaustic encounters, the super realistic holocausts of your own reality, watching your own essence circling the goddamn drain, that’s right, the shit and whatever pouring right the fuck outta ya, licking the floor for that last drop of Coors Light on a normal Monday night, no one said this business was easy, so look into the eyes omnipresent. Omni-pleasant blue gaurdian eyes, aryan cess pool blue, the chlorinated hot tub, the constipated groupie, the over infested rat maze which lies just beyond the parking lot of your current Holiday Inn, Flint Michigan, 1968, when push comes to gloves, yer on it! Put em on, and get on with it.

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