"I never wanted this kind of life that I'm still living."

Music is the zeitgeist

We the rulers of the empire here at Zeitgeist have taken our first steps into the great new movement: music. We are now producing at least three killer tracks a day, all of which you should check out because they are tre good and will help you spin deep.

To get funky to the new flows - https://soundcloud.com/elagabalus/

The top tune of the Gods - https://soundcloud.com/elagabalus/great-god-almighty
                                         https://soundcloud.com/elagabalus/summanus

LIVE LONG AND PROSPER.

Own a piece of 'Zeitgeist hype. Support your brothers in their war against ignorance. Help fund our crusade against normality. Buy some motherfunkin' merch. NOW. Please.

http://www.streetshirts.co.uk/wekilledthezeitgeist

Struggle is my life.
Existence makes no sense.
I'm inhaling oxygen,
breathing out pretense.

Your words cannot hurt me,
my skin's too tough to feel
and every day is flickering,
like a burnt out movie reel.

Borrow Time

You cannot borrow time
The clock ticks quicker
But fuck burning out
Get the matches
And pour on the petrol
I'm going super nova.

Acoustic Prodigies are the Drug of Choice.

Every time some new 18 year old kid with an acoustic guitar comes along who writes songs about "what life's about" or how "they've moved on from that girl" they're considered some sort of prodigy. You get the same kid making noises, seemingly pointless noises, white noise, brown noise, pink noise, and they're considered an idiot. Or so it seems.

Both have merit. Both have their place. But there's a pedestal. There's no room for originality any more, lyrically and musically, it's all been taken, and someone's got to work harder to claw it back.

Ed Sheeran is the most pirated artist in the UK. He sings songs about being on sort of team, and about being drunk. This is old hat. Write songs without lyrics. Or meaning. Or structure. Ill advised, however, if you fancy making a buck or two.

Love (the cruelty of).

Love breeds hate, we are her children,
lost and scared, blasé and meek.
We curse the ones who left us lonely
and blame the ones who made us weak.

Love will shove you to the ground,
on all your fours to crawl through dust.
You'll lift your head towards the sunrise
to catch some light but only just.

Love breeds fear, now watch me shiver:
too scared to open up the door,
in case in comes another stranger
to add more damage to the sore.

Love will leave you lying breathless,
your body scattered on the bed.
A hopeless pilgrim gone off radar,
still longing for the words she said.

Love will show you the error
of your pathetic little ways.
With every hand the stake gets higher
and in the end - the loser pays.

Love will never give you pity,
too many fallen, fools galore.
A lesson learnt, I should know better
but here I am, begging for more...

Slowly ripped open by light

The hole in the top of the tent you call your mind slowly ripped open. The glowing light was to immense for human language to deal with, all I can say is it was radiant perfection. Who knows what happened to the glow, it oozed out that day.
Two weeks later we heard the beat of that glow return to our little house, it was getting darker and the nights colder - but how could we say no to the light. Never questioning our motives or us its, we bathed in its majesty for hours. We wrote notes to all our friends to come, they never did. We never found out why. But that glow, the glow. The day you broke your skull in Bologna train station was the most defining moment of my adult life, and the following two weeks of sleep went so quick. Then the awakening, our little home, the glow return.

Echo Spine

I use to dance on echos spines,
But now I walk on different lines,
The innocents bequeathed to me,
Smashed in the glass,
collect the fragments of my skull,
And wear them for your peace
The screaming winds will hit,
We have lost,
Not yet known,
Return to echos spine

***

Most acorns that fall from oak trees around autumn time do not drop on their own accord. Instead, they are thrown down by angry and bitter squirrels that are resentful of the society that we live in, as an act of protest.

Tonybee Idea

I am that man with paralytic legs
who fell from his chair screaming
"I am spider man and I return"
I return from the nightmarish realms
we all must go to
but pretend every night
that the hellion cult will not force us there
I know I am dead molecules
I know I am James Morasco
BUT PLEASE CAN WE STOP
I need to save the bird
But time is fucking running out on me man
I know we say we got fucking time
but man its going
and I am being chased down the street
fucking hellions the lot of them
shooting me and my birds
but fuck em
I am Lazarus
Lazi if you will
And screw em
I'm shooting back to 2001
I'm the fucking star child reborn
and unknown

Abglanz and Out

***

Life is nothing but a canvas that I paint with the bleakest colours of my existence.
In every breath there is resistance against the conformity forced upon me by a man in a suit.

What I can see I don't fear

What I can see I don't fear. What I can't see, I might fear. Fear of the unknown is devilish. Evil triggers mass hysteria. Evil is not asymitrical to good. It is what it is, resides where it chooses. God versus Satan. I push boundaries with Satan and cover my ass with God. Its rational

When I put on my leather, oil up, and tear it up with my other leather buds I choose Satan and I worship him and offer him my body. I am mentally ready to take what comes: piss, spit, bondage, humiliation, barebacking.

I thrive, my buds thrive on muscle, roids, and sexual fantasy. B&D, submission to a power greater than myself is a total turn-on especially if the object is a large freaky male. He doesn't have to be ripped, but he has to be big and have a commanding presence. Here is the kernel, the truth that men like me, who control want to be controlled themselves. Tied up, forced to lick pits, suck nipples, work a big dick and balls and slurp butt hole. Under the threat of pain, possibly under the influence, the scene doesn't leave much choice. Do as you are told or you will be beaten. Please beat me Master SIR. WHAM, WHAM , WHAM - darkness.

I sometimes feel a strange presence in my room at night. As though the room were aspirating, slow breaths, seductive breaths offering me an invitation. I know the dark spirit. I welcome him, I spread my legs my fuck hole opened wide. Halucenating? More like aware. I feel him take me, rip into my body, and sperm me with a charged load. I wanted that load. I will always want charged load. Now its time for him to feltch and feed me.

I am a homosexual and a man. I don't need meth to take me where I naturally want to go. HAIL Fredonia.

The Old Lady

---

Because of her excessive curiosity, an old lady fell out of the window and smashed into the ground.

Another old lady looked out of the window, staring down at the one who was smashed, but out of her excessive curiosity she also fell out of the window and smashed into the ground.

Then the third old lady fell out of the window, then the fourth did, then the fifth.

When the sixth old lady fell out of the window, I got bored watching them and went to Maltsev market where, they say, someone gave a woven shawl to a blind.

Notes on a play

Ten people walk onto the stage wearing the masks of Hu Jintao,François Hollande, Vladimir Putin, David Cameron, Barack Obama, Juan Manuel Santos, Angela Merkel, Pranab Mukherjee, Aníbal Cavaco Silva, Jacob Zuma each humming or singing their respective national anthem and marching about the stage. A man wearing a balaclava grasping a giant net, he proceeds to chase them. They all run about falling over each other, singing and humming the anthems quicker and quicker as the chase intensifies. In the end the masked assailant corners his victims and nets them. Now screaming and rolling around on the floor the leaders begin to scream and cry, all except for Pranab Mukherjee. He produces scissors and cuts himself a hole and climbs to freedom.

Fugitives

We can always escape
with your hand in mine,
it's in the pills that you offer me
but I shy away.
It's in the drink that you poor in me
and I cannot refuse.

Saturday night, we're running away,
through the turnstiles relentlessly,
flowing downstream,
it's the only way.
With your hand in mine
I feel your pulsation echoing through me
again and again,
again and again.

Make Me.

Make me fall in love with you,
Make me lose my mind for you.
Through every inch of twisted bone,
I feel it creeping up on me.

Make me fall in love with you,
Make me go insane with you
And feed me the obsession
That's dancing on my mind.

Make me fall in love with you,
Make me unimagine you
And wish our paths had never crossed
And curse the day we'd met.

Women's Rights.

I'm flicking through your diaries,
wishing that I've had the life you had.
But stupid me would only waste it anyway.

Oh darling
we be the teenage hustler
wet dream scenario
rip off artist turned bad
honey we love you so much

Ribno Funkfest

There he was, sitting on the over sized bean bag in the Nazi/Maoist kitsch resturant bowling alley Cultural Solution. His hair was pulled into the super hip style, dyed green colour pulled into a tennis ball look, he has been cultivating for the past six months. This look was a radical departure from his last (the burkha head dress and Nazi SS uniform) and stated a new area in Ribo Funkfest musical odyssey. His first album being that classic of the post apocloptic jazz-techno fest called MAA Bo, to his most recent third album with his new band Lizard Tail Shagrath, Cum Unto My M24 Slip Stain, which fuses world music with the up and coming genre of Dung Slam. I sat down on my bean bag full of alfalfa beans, and began trying to communicate with the man who has summed up the late 20s of the 21st century. He responded in just beeps for the first 5 minutes of the chat until I got through to him by screaming "when did you become so fucking real man?". At this point he broke down in tears and explained he had been only just realised what it meant to be human in the last few weeks. All due to his AIDs postive slave Pagan The Butler death of cabbage overdose. I at this point got rather bored of all of the stuff we had planned to talk about and took him on a trip to a local glass maker, this really seemed to do the trick. Last I heard he was off to Malta to train in making glass.

Mark Wright Poem

Behind one of these walls,
Mark Wright has had some of the greatest
and worst moments of his life.
Behind one of these walls, Mark Wright has masturbated,
laughed, cried, shat and bleed.
Mark Wright has started friendships behind these walls.
And ended them, too.
And I saw those walls.
With my own two eyes.

Some facts:

A panel in Belgium have lost all there pens, thus all research is off for the month. The shocking truth of the matter is that Bjorn Vanden Borre ate it, the fucker. The pen munching git of Gent, as he is now known, has stopped the vital research into the local rising use in battery acid as a method for getting shit faced. Up till now no one understands why the Flemish would believe this would work, but the brave souls of Battery Acid Gent Centre (BAGC) had being working night and day to get to the point where the could record some of their data. It is thought that Bjorn is a Walloon and was taking a radical pro-France stance in the pen stuffing, but this is unfound and probably untrue.

The band Ribno Funkfest will be putting out there new album "M25 Skid Marks and its Folk Art" in two weeks. I am truly excited, it will be other worldly.

Dolphins are planning to demand all humans are born in water. The Lords of the Sea have been giving its demands for the past three weeks since the capture of Mario Monti and his cabinet. They have also demanded they are given the rights to the moon, stolen from them by the Cow and Ant Lords of Upper Volta.

Reason №127 to why bringing another life into this world is a crime against humanity

"YOLO"
The necessity to work robs you of your life.
Let's do some simple calculations. There are 168 hours in a week in the Gregorian calendar. An average working week in the UK consists of 40 hours (based on a 9-5 basis). Scientists and doctors always say that a human needs 8 hours of sleep a day so that's 56 hours per week.
168-40-56=72.
72 hours. Only 72 hours is all the time an average person gets per week to live his or her life. Only 72 hours to experience all the wonders that human existence entails. 72 hours to cook and eat, 72 hours to run your errands, 72 hours to keep fit. 72 hours to fall in love, to fuck, and to break a heart. 72 hours per week to explore the world outside your front door, 72 hours per week to discover some wonderful literature etc etc. This list could go on indefinitely and the point is that 72 hours is simply not enough. Of course, one could opt to work less but then they would have significantly less disposable income and would have to sacrifice many material luxuries and even necessities, therefore for many, it is not an option. It seems as if humans are bred to sleep and work in order to keep the soul-less capitalist machine running. You are born, you have few years of somewhat blissful existence and then you are forced into educational institutions which often only provide you with the knowledge that is necessary for you to be able to function within the twisted mechanism without questioning the purpose, and straight after that, you are expected to step in line.

Consumer capitalism has provided us with many material wonders that are shoved down our throats and in order to possess them, we are told that we need to earn money and lots of it. From a young age, an artificial desire is indoctrinated to us in the shape of things for which we have no natural need yet we are brainwashed to believe that such items are essential to our day to day existence. An abundance of consumer goods has put the human race into a golden cage, we are slaves to our own desires. Some may not be content with having to work so much but hey, as long as you can put food on your table, you are not a threat. A fed man has no need to complain and a hungry one is too weak to rebel.

Nietzsche said that God is dead and that we have killed him. I say that Man is dead and Capitalism has killed him.

Capitalist system sees human beings as nothing but provisors of labour (physical, emotional, aesthetic, you name it) and vessels for carrying out financial transactions. In a nutshell, these are the basic human functions from a capitalist point of you: first you are born, then you learn some basic skills, then you spend your life working and buying unnecessary crap to keep the system going, you procreate to provide the system with another generation of slaves, a couple of package holidays in between all of that and then you're dead, hallelujah. Next, please!

We're all decent human beings, we are all good samaritans so why are we allowing this vicious cycle to continue? Why would a straight thinking person want to bring another life into such world, why would you give it another slave? Bob Black has suggested to destroy our consumer-based society and to also abolish work as the key function of human existence, as it is obvious that work dominates life not just under capitalist regimes but also within socialist societies. Bollocks to that. I say, let's take it a step further. Let's end procreation. Work (if you absolutely have to) as little as you possibly can, do a very shit job of it and spend your time doing whatever the hell you want. Draw, paint, write, create, travel, get wasted, love, fuck. Just always make sure you use protection. Get sterilised if you can't trust yourself or your partner. Live in a wooden tub on a diet of onions; it worked for Diogenes so why can't it for us?

Just enjoy the ride and observe as the 1% recoil in horror as they realise that the 99% is ceasing to exist. That'll show them.

Jah bless/Johnathan provides.


PS I'm very tired and drunk and it's 5am, for fuck's sake.

"You went to a progressive psychiatrist - he recommended suicide"

Been drinking a little bit too much of late or, maybe, not enough. But it is safe to say that I've been listening to too much Bowie and too much of Cursive's "The Ugly Organ". Weird mood, weird thoughts, strange vibrations. Just in a matter of hours I'll be a whole year older but I'll sure as hell won't be any wiser. Fuck, I really should know better by now. Spent the last few months telling everyone (but mostly myself) that I'm strong now, stronger than I've ever been, so what on earth is that crawling into my head? I've changed the name but the words remain the same, my song is never-changing. Tried so hard to prevent myself from falling into bad habits but just couldn't help it, it's far too easy.
Maybe one distance did make me strong but this new distance will probably make me weak again; only time can tell. Hopeless romantic or hopeless in romance? Hm.
One question: what do you see when you look at me? A simple reflection of your crescent smile in my tired eyes or an endless sea you'd die to drown in?

"Hey babe, your hair's alright
Hey babe, let's stay out tonight"

So I'm sat here with "Rebel Rebel" playing, probably, for the 67th time in the last 72 hours, chipped black varnish on my fingernails and a bedlam in my head; the epitome of a troubled teen. Idiot, grow the fuck up. Things were so different this time last year: blinded by the naive idea that things will get better, with a ghost of love next to me in bed, draining my body's heat and giving next to nothing in return. This year the bed is lonely but at least I'm not wasting time on a pointless cause like I once was. Feels like I'm floating in some sort of a limbo, a state of nothingness, awaiting a transition.
PS thanks for passing your hang-ups on to me, would have been nice to be able to enjoy this past month a bit more, in the primal sense, but I guess you really didn't want me to. Out of sight, out of mind, but still affecting me.

"Rebel Rebel, you've torn your dress
Rebel Rebel, your face is a mess
Rebel Rebel, how could they know?
Hot tramp..."

Believe Me

Believe me, I could not care
For crucifixes that you wear.
Disintegrating mind and health,
Only faith that I need is the faith in myself.

A Spell to Remove Mammon from Our Lives

A nest of demons sits in the heart of london. The false god Mammon and his devils infest our World, a great cosmic battle will be fought to once and for all rid us of all these demons so that the sisterhood of man can once again live in peace.THEY SHALL BE CAST OUT

Praying to the amulet of touching, seeing, groping, hearing and loving we call upon the powers of the cosmos to protect our ceremonies. In the name of Zeus. In the name of Anubis God of the dead. In the name of all those killed in the causes they do not comprehend. In the name of lives of the dead soldiers in Afghanistan who were killed because of a bad karma. In the name of sea born Aphrodite. In the name of the Magna Mater Phra Mae Thorani. In the name of Dionysus, Zagreus, Jesus E Al Os Deowa, the Unnameable, the Quintessent Finality, Zoroastrian fire. In the name of Hermes. In the name of the beak of thought. In the name of the scarab. In the name, in the name of the Tyron Power Pound Cake Society in the Sky. In the name of Re. In the name of Osiris, Horus, Nephthys, Esis, Hypocroties, Eros, Saab. In the name of the flowing, endless, living universe. In the name of the mouth of the reverend. We call upon the spirits to raise the Capitalist System and their Temples from its destiny and preserve it. In the names in all the names, it is you.
Out demon out, out demon out, out demon out, out demon out, out demons out, out demons out, out demons out, out demons out, out demons out, out demons out, out demons out, out demons out, out demons out, out demons out, out demons out, out out out out, out demons out, out demons.
For the first in the hundred years of the London Stock Exchange there will be a grope in within a 100 feet of this place. In this seminal culmination in the spirit of peace and brotherhood. A real grope for peace. Any of you who want to protect this rite of love may form a circle of protection around the lovers.
These are the magic eyes of victory, victory, victory for peace. Money made the London Stock Exchange melt it.

Brothers and Sisters, for the demons that rest in the towers, we will need trumpets of jericho, drums to thump the rhythms of redemption and other blessed items to fight the foul beasts.
SCREAM OUR THE PURIFICATION SPELL:
 a-ri-ia-ad-da-li-is dim-an-za sar-ri ka-si-i hu-u-e-hu-u-i-ia tap-pa-as-sa-it sar-ri ti-ia-mi hu-i-hu-i-ia

Vice Magazine issue launch party

Solar Bears is sure pressing the shit out of those buttons. The best part is how he's expressing his emotions through other people's music. This speaks to me and my issues a great deal. "xoxo"

Thus Spake Lacklustre

You fake a smile to fool your friends
but you will never fool yourself.
Burn under the neon sun,
strobe flashes life before your eyes.

Poisoned with the shallow ideals
preached to you by hungry chancers.
In your glass of deep dark red
will you find the answer?

Hipster Duckhead.

Lonesome era.

Human beings are nothing but benign creatures that strive towards ideals that are confusing even to them. Society is nothing but a herd, mindlessly following a blind shepherd. Doused in fake tan, pseudo-designer chic with legs snugly wrapped in chinos. All faces look the same, and not a single one is burdened with intellect.

Against the whitewashed background of that flock of faux purity, us, black sheep, may resemble a tumour or a plague but indeed we are the purest ones. Our minds only polluted with the desire to disobey the mould and to breed something that is not inferior.

Stop KONY.

His reign of oppression and terror must end, NOW.

"So God is dead like Nietzsche said. Superstition is all we have left"

I tried crying in Scarlet, but I didn't like it very much.

WHO ARE YOU? TONY BLAIR?

The seed you plant is tainted,
It's spawned from a defected source.
You know it will breed a monster
And yet you plant it anyway.

Cigarette

A little death inside your hands.
A lighter clicks, a fire starts.
The quickened beating in our hearts,
our clouds of smoke merge into one.

We smoked and laughed and kept on smoking,
it burnt so bright as months went on.
But then you saw it reach the end
and so you stopped. I kept on smoking.

I kept on smoking 'til the end,
gone past the point of enjoyment.
It gave me nothing but a bitter taste.
I realised and, too, stopped smoking.

All poets are pretentious wankers.

"A Billion Balconies Facing The Sun"

We've finally found a way
To consume boredom every day
We've all become our personal gods
We've all become so sad and lost
So sad
So sad and lost

A billion balconies facing the sun
A billion faces turned to their screens
The perfect answer to camouflage our screams
A billion lies becoming the truth
An ecstasy of the eye
As wide as eternity tonight

We found expression for our hate
Without any kind of consequence
Who needs patience anymore
When all our pleasure's virtual

A billion balconies facing the sun
A billion faces turned to their screens
The perfect answer to camouflage our screams
A billion lies becoming the truth
An ecstasy of the eye
As wide as eternity tonight

                  ***

It's a funny world we live in
I don't feel like I belong
I would say that you had killed me
But I'm feeling twice as strong

I would say that I still need you
But that would be a dirty lie
I pray I never see you smile
I hope I never hear you cry

Caught up in a whirlwind of confusion, every waking second of every waking minute of every waking hour of every waking day. Time isn't on my side; instead, it is the enemy. It's as if the second hand is ticking backwards slower than the time it takes for the light of the furthest sun to reach this desolate pit of doom.

I'm all numbed out but I have a confession to make: I can still feel and that is my downfall. I guess hope will be the last one to die, even if I depart first.

Zaklyatic Smekhom

O, rassmeites’, smekhachi!

O, zasmeites’, smekhachi
Chto smeyutsya smekhami, chto smeyanstvuyut smeyal'no.
O, zasmeites’ usmeyal'no!
O, rassmeshishch nadsmeyal'nykh – smekh usmeinykh smekhachei!
O, issmeisya rassmeyal'no, smekh nadesmeinykh smeyachei!
Smeievo, smeievo,
Usmei, osmei, smeshiki, smeshiki,
Smeyunchiki, smeyunchiki,
O, rassmeites’, smekhachi!
O, zasmeites’, smekhachi!

I look at the screen. What have I done. Amygdala shoots, what the fuck have I done. Some sort of horror show of writing, my Necronomicon, my Book of Revelation. I hated it. Sweat drips down, big bold beads. Door knocks. Adamu. Tea. Wine. Business man trip. Wave goodbye to Raahu and Cerberus. Back to the horror on the screen.

Stop. Think.

Stop. 

Think. 

Not all men need be mindless sculptures. 

Until that realisation dawns over the unwashed 

masses, this sculpture of man is weeping.

If teardrops won't fall, then cry in scarlet..

Serenity is nigh.

Long gone past midnight in the morning hour
My mind still hasn't had any rest
Something unnatural, a feeling so alien
Grows inside and keeps me awake

Thoughts turning blank, can't quite put my finger
On what exactly this feeling is
An emptiness that spawns out of nothing
Yet occupies the space all over my head