The Warrior and The Rock Star
As The Warrior you are sensate and brutal-- whole galaxies/eons of violence at your fingertips should you need them, spine suppled and poised, skin warm and firm, gaze alert, heart explosive yet open. Self-denial is your key virtue; you slice through desires like a laser scalpel through liquid aminos, lipids scatter and lazy habits vaporize in the concentrated force-beam of your Higher Desire. You walk slow, you wait... wait... wait... wait... then at last you act. The action is swift, fierce, and sure: the slimmest of margins are negotiated as you apply the perfect pressure to the most vulnerable juncture, your social acupuncture opens the world, global meridians ejaculate with the new energies of liberation which your slightest finger-fall has set in motion with the whisper-flick of an impossibly occluded switch. How you dodge all obstacles, like a ninja bike through the beaches of Normandy, will become the object of legend in the space of millenia, and how you know precisely which targets to hit, and precisely how hard, will fall as fodder into the A.I. minds of the conspiratorial faithful. People have heard of Action-at-a-Distance, but never did they suspect your Analog Telekinesis, the impossible Samurai Blade of your empiricist transcendental materialism. You believe in only the possible and mundane, yet perform the impossible and breathtaking.
As The Rock Star, yours is a Holy Hedonism, a warrior's desperate plunge into the thick of an asteroid battle, taking pleasure as you bounce from rocks, stringing a cascade of weightless booze-laced blood behind you for the groupie-shuttles to lap up with the titanium tongues of their nosecone lips. You are hounded as a celebrity the way moths harass porch lights on jet black campground evenings, and your opinions are given undue weight, as though your attachment to Surface Flash was much-coveted passport to the secret knowledge of the World beneath the World. Yet plunge you do beneath the surfaces with each and every performance, losing yourself in chord changes and elastic harmonic structures, swinging ceremonial weapons of wood-and-wire across the rainbow-lit altars of throng-choked artillary bunkers given the names of beer commercials and commerce. Riffs ratchet social rejects into the heavens of heavy-chugging bassline drumcore feedback, the imagination balloons like a pig-stuffed viper in the rib cage containment column as it rises to join the rhythym clusters swinging like birds from the rafters, harbingers of the Sonic Suction of a galaxy collapsing in on itself and the ringing ears of a solar system which smoked its first joint and received its first blowjob in the nethers of a sweat-heaving crowd of Fans of the Universe.
[God damn I've been reading too much Hyperion.]
As The Rock Star, yours is a Holy Hedonism, a warrior's desperate plunge into the thick of an asteroid battle, taking pleasure as you bounce from rocks, stringing a cascade of weightless booze-laced blood behind you for the groupie-shuttles to lap up with the titanium tongues of their nosecone lips. You are hounded as a celebrity the way moths harass porch lights on jet black campground evenings, and your opinions are given undue weight, as though your attachment to Surface Flash was much-coveted passport to the secret knowledge of the World beneath the World. Yet plunge you do beneath the surfaces with each and every performance, losing yourself in chord changes and elastic harmonic structures, swinging ceremonial weapons of wood-and-wire across the rainbow-lit altars of throng-choked artillary bunkers given the names of beer commercials and commerce. Riffs ratchet social rejects into the heavens of heavy-chugging bassline drumcore feedback, the imagination balloons like a pig-stuffed viper in the rib cage containment column as it rises to join the rhythym clusters swinging like birds from the rafters, harbingers of the Sonic Suction of a galaxy collapsing in on itself and the ringing ears of a solar system which smoked its first joint and received its first blowjob in the nethers of a sweat-heaving crowd of Fans of the Universe.
[God damn I've been reading too much Hyperion.]
posted by Paul S. at
11:11 AM
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