musicians-from-the-united-states

"High up in the wall of the abandoned building, the mute dwarf sat perched on his tall stool like a buzzard and peered down squint-eyed out the black empty window. Waves of collapsed roof and concrete swept out over the lot beneath him, as if his building had crashed down from the sky and sent a rolling swell of destruction outward on impact. Scattered crusts of snow flashed up at him, signaling like mirrors in the debris, causing flecks of color and transparent spiders to drift across his eyes as his pupils shrank against the light. Behind him in the darkness, his bed was a mountain of crusted blankets and frayed quilts he’d extracted from the trash heaps of the neighborhood and piled in a damp mound in the furthest corner of the room. The bedding was still warm from his night’s burrowing and steamed in the cold, surrounded by a flickering horseshoe of melted candles that trapped it like a dim beast in a magic circle."

"Fanged branches clutched at my face and hair, the mud sucked and chewed at my feet, and I fell rather than walked as she led me through the forest. The trees ran with sap, hunched over like emerald-haired mammoths dripping with weight. I drank the air, saturated with bitter dew and the gas rising from the mulch. My clothes bled from my body, drenched with clammy sweat and steam. My shoes were stolen and devoured by the mud. My shirt disintegrated, dripping from my back. My feet were shredded by sharpened sticks and bones concealed in the muck. My nostrils and mouth harbored feeding hives of gnats and mosquitoes. Twisting walls of poison vines rose up like cyclones funneling down from the dense mesh of the forest canopy."

"Hidden by distance, the darkness behind the stars reached an impenetrable black density. Light, thought, and possibility were sucked helplessly into the inhaling mouth of the dead hole. Inside the hole was the center of the heart of the opposite of space. The future and the past were nullified, backwards and forwards. History rewound, snubbed out before it began. Silence was exterminated. The earth floated in a sea of black blood, glowing like an ember cupped in the hands of an invisible god. His corrupt breath spread clouds of poison gas, cloaking the continents in a sweet tasting atmosphere. Agitated hoards of reptilian predator birds migrated through the hemispheres in a stone-eyed search for prey, casting shadows on the red dirt like cryptic signals flashed down from the veiled deities that lived behind the sky. Beneath the ground, liquid fire rolled in waves of buried hatred. A mindless howl echoed through the lightless subterranean canyons in a single sustained note of ignorant and savage pain."

"The young man was a strip of struggling flesh carried along by the crowd, surfing the heaving waves in a boiling pilgrimage of genetically enraptured insects. The insect mob emptied suddenly into the mouth of a department store and he was left swaying on the corner in the stabbing sun, attacked by the screaming reflections of passing cars and plate glass windows. He pinched his eyes up at the dry hills. They arched above the city like the gnarled backs of drugged lions, stretching up into a heaven that was itself descending in thick sheets of sulfuric mist. The sunlight filtered through this levitating powder and felt more pernicious for it, as if the sun’s rays were transformed by chemical reaction into malevolent xrays, nutriment-seeking carcinogens that penetrated the open pores of unprotected skin and would eat any living thing from the inside-out."

"When I sleep, my dreams mingle with scenes generated from the screen, like sewage discharged into the black sea inside my room. Last night, for instance, in order to revenge the perceived indifference of my lover — a self-composed, confident, and buxom lawyer, as seen on a weekly “gritty and realistic” cop show — I stalked her as she walked a path through the chaparral in the hills of Topanga Canyon dressed in high heels and a power suit, searching for a used condom as evidence in a divorce case turned violent, her architecturally massive hair flowing in the dry baked breeze like the flag of an elite nation of gods."

"Resting like a child in the arms of these twisted vines, where the ropes of hair mixed with the fringe of her jacket, her breasts rose naked like a sacrifice offered up to the light, like two huge peeled eggs, plump and melting in the weak warmth of the sun, threaded with a faint map of blue veins. She turned to me and smiled. Her mouth was a wreck of browned and blackened claws, but her tongue was pale pink beneath them, gleaming like the last surviving innocent animal in a universe of scum. Steam rose from her insides, drifting up into the trees."

"I’m laughing my guts out as we fuck. You’re trying to flatter me, telling me how wonderful I am (only because you’ re raping me), and I’m dreaming of stabbing you through the ear with my knife. I’m devoted to the idea of your belittlement. It’s what I live for, what I think about every second. While I’m at work, where I’m treated like a dog, only my body is present. My mind is standing on top of a monolith, looking down on a swelling crowd of cowardly men. It’s my position in life (I’ve always known it) to cut the throats of arrogant men, and weak, humble men also (maybe they deserve oblivion even more). I’m breathing a red fog. It goes down into my lungs and fills me with my real strength: my lust. It’s my secret consciousness, my right to kill, as well as my duty. I love to hold your hand, feeling its buried strength, caressing it into impotence. You feel it too. You feel your power draining into me. You're helpless. There’s nothing you can do about it. I’m a magnet that draws every particle of life out of your body. All you live for is orgasm, for the last drop of life to be sucked out. I’ll never understand how you can be so stupid as to strive for your own denigration. But it isn’t my place to understand you."

"The fear of being captured by the killers - hung up on hooks forced through the skin at the base of our necks, burned slowly alive above a low fire, our flesh pulled away in slabs from our bodies then eaten before our eyes - moves our legs forward, keeps our eyes half-open. Inevitably we'll drift into the jungle where we'll be eaten by the beast. He'll drag us to his secret pit and play with us until he's bored, then devour us. The thought of its tusks buried in our guts is less terrifying than the knives and fire of the human killers, so we fall into the brush, defeated, waiting to be taken. As we fall into sleep, we hear him breathing at our necks, hot and moist, prodding our bodies with his snout. He talks to us in a human voice, like the innocent voice of a little girl, soothing us, reassuring us, laughing softly to himself beneath his words."

"My bed sits in the center of the room, a steaming sarcophagus in a dim pagan tomb. The television is on a platform at my feet, washing my swaddled and bloated living corpse with ethereal blue light. Looking to the left, the wall is covered with the desiccated shell-bodies of cockroaches. Each time I catch one (and there are thousands, millions living in the walls, under the floor, in the ceiling — I hear them shifting like the waves in the sea in my sleep), I dry it slowly at low temperature in the oven, then I pin it to the wall. The wall glistens in the flickering light with the sheen of their armor. I’ve pinned them in spiraling primitive shapes that map out the cosmos, landscapes, stars, jagged lightning bolts, skulls, knives, fat hermaphroditic fertility symbols. The designs are difficult to discern, due to the fact that everything is the same brown-on-brown color scheme, but they’re there, if you look closely. I watch the wall for hours each day, like a mandala. The dancing shadows of the television give the detailed beadwork of the wall a sense of grandiosity. I pretend I’m in a cave beneath a jungle burial ground examining, awestruck, an ancient African mural I’ve discovered, cool and perfectly preserved beneath the malarial humidity."

"There's a point when you wake up from a drunk, in perfect clarity. The synapses in your brain feel greased, and the distinction between your subconscious and conscious mind evaporates. A point where everything is hyper-vivid, your intelligence humming at maximum capacity, like a meditating Buddhist acolyte overwhelmed with sudden white-light attainment. And at that instant, you see everything charged with energy - the past, present and future spread out in front of you, blissful and meaningless and simultaneous, every microscopic detail in every object drifting through your eyes, along with panoplies of stars and universes, pulled together through the woven fabric of your flesh, so that while disintegrating, you're invisible, while seeing everything, you see nothing."

"The older boy lay curled on his side, baking in the sun like a discarded and emaciated fetus left for dead in the rocks by its wandering, mutant giant mother, as she’d scavenged among the washed up trash of the ruined city. His eyes rolled sightlessly in his head as sand flies worked at the gummed saliva in the corners of his lips. His fingers were bunched in against his chest and twitched as if typing out a frenetic description of his dementia."

"Everything merges eventually — everything is organic. It’s impossible to distinguish one thing from another thing. When your mind is emptied of selfishness, it crumbles and dissolves in the water. If I cut at my body and concentrate correctly, I won't feel it. Eachtime my heart beats, it jerks violently and whips my spine loose, tugging at the base of my brain. Memories move through the clotted and rotting forest inside my head and crush the present beneath them. My memories don’t belong to me. They’re as unknowable as a centipede fluttering its legs in the dark corner beneath the sink. When an image moves through my nervous system, it’s with the predatory greed of an intruder. My body’s laid open, transparent, defenseless. Each second of time is an individual insect feeding on my blood."

"I’ve got muscles, sol want to use them. I get up in the morning, pose naked in front of the mirror, and flex for half an hour. Looking at myself, I want to beat someone’s head in with my bare fist. I want to see my fist forced down some asshole’s face, reach down, grab a handful of intestines, and pull them up and out the throat. That would make me feel good. Whatever makes me feel good is what counts. The reason I build my muscles is to use them. That makes me feel good. It'd be senseless to work out for years just for the stupid satisfaction of feeling “healthy” or knowing I look good when I’m about to fuck somebody up the ass. I get satisfaction out of grinding a face in the pavement. I don’t want to question it. I like causing pain. That’s how Iam. I see an immediate response to something I just did. No bullshit. Pure animal pain, me the victor, me in control, me on top, you on the bottom."

"Willie Nelson has an ability that is particular to country music – these one-liners that set up a whole song, then everything else is built around that. I guess you could call them zingers. Crazy is the perfect song. It's an incredibly complex emotion: it's concise, but it describes a state of mind so clearly and poignantly. He's a true American poet."

"Since I've pretty much abandoned the idea of sound manipulation as a way of making music, and am just concentrating on trying to write good songs on acoustic guitar, the first thing that has to be there is a song that has a power or reality on its own, completely naked, just the guitar and voice. It has to be good enough to be performed live like that to be convincing in itself."

"Initially, advertising slogans influenced me the most. I really liked the way that language was aggressive and immediate, but with lots of subtext. It's reaching for the back of your mind to influence you."

"We're unified, from stall to stall, man to woman, hand to body, liquid to solid, animate to inanimate. It doesn't matter if it's my hands inside her or someone else's as she rolls and glides from feeler to feeler. We're one creature, pulsing with bliss, sight, sound. Our orgasm never ends."

"Dylan is like a friend I've returned to throughout my life. Jim Morrison, too. Of course, he's pretty corny on the page, but it works with the music. I used to listen to the Doors over and over, in various mental states."

"In order to come out the winner, in my mind, I memorized their faces, down to the smallest detail, the smallest nuance of expression — the black curling hair growing out of his cheek that he'd missed shaving, the pale pink blemish above her right eyebrow showing through the film of cream-colored makeup, applied with skillful thickness so that it blended out smoothly into her forehead. When I closed the door, I held them in my mind, exposing their image permanently onto a blank sheet in a secret file where I kept my memories for future use. I'd use this and other memories of them to serve me, to make them please me. They were flimsy in there, among the images I preserved, foolish really, not threatening at all. Two people who crushed each other's bodies every othernight beneath their mutual flab, muttering gratuitous, lustful phrases into each other's waxy ears until they'd come. Then they'd roll over, farting a sleep-inducing lullaby."

"My hands are soft and cool. When I touch the smooth enamel walls of my stall, I feel the warmth of the women pass through the wall and into me. I absorb everything around me. I can taste the bitter luminous gas trapped in the fluorescent tube above my head. I can decipher the single note hum of the light beneath the depth-charge rhythm of the disco. The beat of the music pummels my body and spreads me outwards against the walls of the stall. I'm no longer contained in myself. I'm joined to the walls, part of a living cell. The stall is an organism. The circle of stalls is a circle of malignant cells surrounding a cancer. The women are rotting, sucking each other and transferring their corrosive juices back and forth, sharing their disease. I can smell them, ammoniac and fetid, through the wall."

"A shadow figure on the wall is cutting off the head of a little boy. The huge and looming murderer is holding up the head like a Viking showing off a war trophy. He’s swinging the head above him by the hair. Shadow-blood flies through the air in a black swirl. A handful of the boy’s brains land in my face like warm cottage cheese. There’s a fisheye close-up of a terrified eye in the TV screen. An oiled young stud does situps on his Soloflex machine, eviscerates himself with an impossibly honed and gleaming kitchen knife, flings his dangling intestines over his shoulder like a sashaying transvestite in a mink stole and walks straight into a day school room full of naked shit-smeared children, who devour him in a bloody tornado of razor-sharp teeth. They’re led away yapping and screeching like a pack of dogs on a multiple leash by their teacher, who wears a neon yellow leotard, purple high-heeled shoes, and has the slicked hard flesh of someone who obviously works out six hours a day herself..."

"Responding quickly, multiple hands press into the arena from the surrounding walls. Disembodied feelers, they form the interior nerves of an underwater creature groping for nourishment and stimulus. The fingers gesture, twitch and writhe, trying to attract the attention of the dancers. From the inside, the women see flickering mirrors reflecting the colored lights, and beneath the mirrors they see gummy prehensile pods, swaying frantically in the quickened current."

"We mourn not its victims, we honor its victors... I would remind those here that murder is the predator's prerogative, and there is no birth without blood."

"When all is said and done, I have no great quarrel with being labelled a "fascist". While it is not the whole story, it implies (to me) a sort of Marquis De Sade worldview that sees life in terms of master and slave, strong and weak, predator and prey. I know such views are highly unfashionable, but to me they seem fairly consistent with what I've seen to be true."

"A Satanic world is a world reborn in purity, a world where the instinct and the intellect will be complementary to one another rather than being at odds with one another. It will be a world in which we follow laws of nature instead of just the rules that man has made up to regulate his conduct. It will be a world in which masters will be masters and slaves will be slaves, and never the twain shall meet."

"The coasts are doomed, they're death traps. The cities are like malignant cancers, completely dysfunctional. They're llike previews of the Apocalypse. You know how deadly diseases have symptoms - ugly sores that sprout up that sort of signify a deeper problem. That's how I view cities. If America has the cultural equivalent of A.I.D.S., the major cities are analogous to Kaposis Sarcoma. If you want to see life in dysfunction, go to S.F. or L.A. or N.Y."

"I feel that I'm a fascist, but 'Nazi' is a real specific term... I'm a fascist in the sense of the modern bastardized meaning of the word. I'm completely against democratic values and liberalism. I think that they have very little to do with life on Earth. I think they're an ideological abstraction."

"[Charles Manson is] the perfect embodiment of Odinism as a way of life, a Hitlerian ideal! I find it difficult to breathe within the confines of more mainstream National Socialism which seems to be made up of people who lack any inner vision & are still thinking in terms as small as those who they oppose."

"Social Darwinism is simply the idea that the Darwinian concept of "survival of the fittest" applies to man. It's the idea that within a culture, superior individuals will rise to the top, and inferior individuals will sink to the bottom, as a part of natural selection. It isn't related to fascism, Nazism, or racism—it's just the way of the world."

"We don’t believe in a master race... We think there are strong people who do what they want to do, and there are other people who just follow along. Race is an issue, but I don’t think you can have a master race, because every race has a handful of people who are really intelligent, who are achievers, and a bunch of people who are what Lenin called "stuffing in the mattress"."

"I think AIDS is probably the best thing that's happened to Africa. I mean, just imagine; this is a place with so much population that the land can’t support it, and they can’t feed themselves, and they're starving to death—to me it seems that something like AIDS would be a godsend... think it would be great if that place were just turned into a big animal preserve—what about the animals? Fuck the human beings! Let them all slaughter each other with machetes, let them die of AIDS, let that entire continent turn back into a wild kingdom again."

"Every single one of us in this room, we'd be prepared to kill if need be, we would be prepared to die for what we believe in. But what scares the people out there a thousand times more is that we’re prepared to live for what we believe in."

"I was like, Alright, so I’m doing comedy at night, and during the day, I’ll make beats and stuff"

"It just felt so democratic in a way that was really exciting to me. It felt like something I could always be low-stakes doing in the background, and whether I did something with it or not, I enjoyed doing it, so it didn’t really matter"

"It's bigger than I am"

"I don't think it really hits you until it's out in the world and you see how much it means to people"

"Wait. She just locked herself in a room, took some Vyvanse, and made an album?’ That’s me any day of the week"

"It's not self-congratulatory, it's not announcing itself, it's just accepting it as a normal reflection of our reality"

"It's not the nothingness at the end, so much as the message nothingness would send."

"But something keeps me as a pet: the only house that's not on fire yet. I made it when I was an architect. This is just a side effect."

"Hey you, sit down and listen! Don't be flippant and don't be dismissin'. Think you're a Flash encyclopedia? Eating, breathing Macromedia? Think you're cool sayin' "All Your Base"? Get that Xiao Xiao outta my face! You gotta be kidding me with that crap, Animutation's where it's at."

"You can't remember where you came from (In a spiral of ants) You can't remember where you're going (In a spiral of ants) You can't remember knowing You are one ant Over, it's over The pheromones, the self-avoiding odyssey Consuming the colony The Circle rules your life"

"A marker on a grave, marker on a grave Marker on a grave and I know I'm the one who died And underneath the name, underneath the name Underneath my name it says, "He Earned His Life""

"Any outlaw tryin' to draw with a pen and a pad Can draw Jim West with a pen and a pad Don't even think about a pen and a pad weighin' a ton Just tryin' to draw just for fun."

"Two trucks having sex, two trucks having sex. My muscles, my muscles, involuntarily flex."

"Due to my strong personal convictions, I wish to stress that this record in no way endorses a belief in the occult."

"Prance omelette stalking chimneysweep Eleven hatred earmuff okay rathskeller My elusive hula yellow sketching creamy helium gentlemanly communique."

"This is the ultimate showdown of ultimate destiny. Good guys, bad guys and explosions, as far as the eye can see And only one will survive, I wonder who it will be. This is the ultimate showdown of ultimate destiny"

"Suddenly, there's a ring in my cell phone; I pick it up: It's the Angel of Death, and he says "Wazzup?" I say, "What is it this time?" And he's like, "Well, hello, goodbye, I'll see you in Hell." He can be like that sometimes, he's such a nut. So I snicker and say, "I'd love to, but Gravity's calling, I've got some falling to do""

"Lost in solipsism, he then slowly pulls a lever which sets off a mechanism which does nothing whatsoever, but the nothing that it does negates the everything we know because it's screaming just because, because it's neither friend or foe, and so we label it a menace or a grandiose work of art. From its finale to its genesis, we slowly pull it all apart."