Emotionally Bankrupt: Withdrawal Imminent.

As the tears well up his facade begins to crumble. He can't even tell if there is humor or horror or some sweet selection of the two behind this outburst. No, he isn't beside himself the way some might be; he is miles away from himself. He gazes upon the scene before him: dozens of screaming children emerging from rabbit holes holding remnants of animals extinct stream across a lawn of broken bottles and hot coals. Steam slowly lazing upwards makes secret designs in the vibrating air. Breathing like a plains beast the atmosphere pulses, making the sunshine seem as though it is casting a room aglow with simulacrum lighting of citrus blood orange. Debutante centerfolds gape open under pop of camera fizzle and saturated images are created under direction of mustachioed, carpet-chested, and altogether greasy men keeping their hands thrust tight in their polyester pants. The pressure system bubbles outward; his ears detect shifting air mass problems and the wind sucks out around him: the tears flow. The tears flow and he doesn't know whether he's laughing or crying. Dreamscape depression pulls taut his heartstrings; yet joy tears his tears out. Like a nightmare aura turned anxious post traumatic sedative, he keeps the little pet of sadness love held in his lap for further use. A desperate polyemotional cage match rages on in his mind. Dreamt for lightyears these two fighters hold one another at bay like two lovers starcrossed with whiplines. Lashings cut deep into worn pewter, carved out of soapstone he is a sculpture worn through days of storm. While he stares out across the carnage carnival before him a deception grows over his eyes; milky white cataracts bloom flaming as sunspots. Dripping dry held high, he's seeing the nexus of the human condition for there isn't a division between loss and gain to be spoken of. The river of time, experience, problems, obligations; it floods over high water marks and runs his ragged existence threadbare. He's lost distinction.

Going Alone, Coming Alone.

He knew he couldn't come around anyone but he'd never tell those he wasn't coming around. His emaciation level had brought on a particular lone quality and he couldn't climax without the help of solitude. Only himself. A loner of ecstacy. A loner of pleasure, love, maturation. A loner of sticky dripping sweat; kept and wept and lost and bereft. Solitude bringing about intense, erotic egomania to the point of massive memory collection. A sickly little memorabilia fucking down every timed interaction with those he hates, loathes, defies, keeps, weeps for, cheapens, endangers, panders, jams on, and fucks up. He's left behind. He's crept behind. His deft rewind of what has past keeps the treasures of Freud sunken. He doesn't want to know why human heat frightens him. He doesn't want to know what the shakes mean. He won't confront his mortality. He will not ford the river of sadness his life has become. The fun that clambors down his staircase like a piano with fruit bowls keeps him up at night. He tosses and turns in his bed thinking of That Perfect Panic Room. The one where he'll utilize pure solitude to pursue and perhaps peruse the various baubles and jimcracked out bullshit within the cobwebsome depressions of his cranium. For pleasure is all in the eye of the beholder; and if that beholder beholds nothing but himself let him behold all the has been held within himself. Lest history decides to rewrite itself within the confines of itself, this shall hold true. Looking in a mirror excites him to the point of probable overload and he sinks within himself; the polyp of humanity slowly consuming itself for nonsensical ideals.

Ultra Drummer takes on Young Boy.

He couldn't dance. He couldn't walk. He sussudioed all over his own face so many times as to scar his likeness unrecognizable. His widows peak kept wisping into a Genesis-like formation. His drums were beginning to take on an epic, booming quality and he couldn't stop wearing his microphone headset. It all began with an exclamation in a late eighties haze: "No Jacket Required!" With the drop of that terminal phrase his life proceeded on a trajectory similar to that of the manic depressive having made the choice to step off the window ledge. The spa began bubbling with red swirling champagne. He was hooked and there was no escape. He was Philled to the brim with Collins. Though he felt it unfashionable, he began shaving his head. Though he felt it unfashionable, he began taking full headshots for his fantasy solo album covers. Though he felt it unfashionable, he began wooing hot middle aged women into unanswerable, questionable positions and censoring their faces for the documentary. Peter Gabriel began calling him on the phone to scream sexual obscenities and no one but the cheesiest of cheese dared to grope his crotch. The Story of Genesis takes on a new meaning as he sifts through the meaning of his life; a serious amateur gold miner sharing his hours of desolation with the soil in hopes of discovering something of worth; but all the he finds are glittering Radio Super Hits that bring him further into the fan club of ultra pity for nothing and everything. It's a fist pumping jam that tears his mind apart further beyond repair ...But Seriously, he asks himself. No one will see me this way, right? They all think it.

When the Aquanet Finally Entangles...

The introduction of pure metrosexuality into modern culture has bred some interesting mutinies of biology. Demand for male hair products continues to sky rocket as men further their glitter encrusted journey through Avon tour guides and aloe-verification. Some, however, have gone truly awry. Too deep they've gone, too stiff are their frosted tips; even Ronald McDonald would cringe at the amount of self preparation needed in order for these long lost beauties to bare their torsos, their sexy, hairy torsos, to the public. And yet there are those who've gone even further. There are those who soar like the Double Down KFC sammie in the mind's eye of an obese child in the throes of grease laden adolescence. These truly immaculate individuals no longer deal with the efforts of gravity, the milling about of humanity, the effortlessness of perfection: they've transcended it. Adorned as one would a Christmas wreath they are shining so bright for pageant squinted glares. So stupid, so cool, so sloppy: SO chic. When shit hits the fan it arcs straight away from them in an awe inspiring radial pattern. Splattering fecally they aren't one for treatment other than salon quality. Professional quality. Kooky bongos mysteriously carry a whacky beat amongst them as they saunter down the aisles of grit, glitz, and street tits. Tripped once they'll fall further higher until clouds gather their dewy entrails together again to go to that Beauty Shop in the Sky. The Glamor Slaughterhouse where they'll get that last dose of acid scalp and dandruff eradication. Dry skin be damned they'll show this world why we all long to drop our tattered skins and treat this world like a goddamned stripper pole glistening with rainbow refracted oil slick.