Sunday 25 January 2009


UNBUILT ATLANTIS: "cumbersome gummybears of bourbon!"
(this is dedicated to Christian Bok )

Breakit Brian decided to have a sex change operation after listening to his favorite industrial band. The possibility of accepting who he'd like to be, versus who he really was often became too much. A human being. A drive past the latest gallery opening finally did it. Alone, sitting behind a length of vehicles, a decision from what he now decided was the imbalance of his hairy masculine side, told him to keep strolling by. Perhaps it was the building's salmon frilly facade. Or the word "boutique" shamelessly in its title. This more served to connotate an overall notion of art that irradicated the word in itself from his sentence. He found himself categorizing. Brain wiggling,on another planet of thought for who knows how long, he found himself miles away. The artwork on the walls went unseen. Cutting around the terrarium of human elastics on the west end of Atlantis, a cut through a neighborhood. He scouted for places to do an Ubu Roi-ish improv install.
Ambiguously, he checked his nails for any sign of dirt beneath them. A red light refused to change. His Mp3 player played a track that recorded as a finite skipper. A phenomenon he enjoyed,knowing that the repititious blend of fragments from new order and neutral milk hotel were going to have some sort of crescendo. He looked to the art publication resting in the seat of his truck and felt a pang of guilt. The gut reaction to an idea of truth and the warped version that it became,a blend of hurt and truth. It was no wonder to him that the words hurt and truth contained an arrangement, a palindrome? of themselves. much like santa and satan..but not really evil and live.
Breakit Brian decided to change his name to Subtlefist. His next stop would be at Bigbox store for a dry erase board,a medicine ball, maybe some nicotine gum and some sweat pants. Dog treats would probably come in handy.
Sadness clashed with Subtlefist. His shirt now bore an evil gothic rock emblem and his pants had an eighties fit to them. A mullet appeared for a moment and he decided this wasn't really right. It became one of those 1989 R.E.M./Pylon kid wedge cuts,only with some brit early nineties mysterious sugar long bangs. Blond? No. Definetely black. Tan? Fuck no. Subtlefist decided it was winter and that he had a trench coat thrown in the backseat.
A boutique? What was the strict definition of a boutique anyways?
Breakit Brian,sitting transparent in the passenger's seat tried to pull on a cigarette and it went everywhere. The smoke of it all. It was all smoke.
"Mother of freaking pearl" He rolled down his window and tossed the thing.
"I know the definition of "Boutique", offered up Breakit Brian.
"Really?" said Subtlefist. He cranked a quick left,smashing Breakit Brian's face into the glass. His nose squished and his eyes began to water.
You see, Brian....I know the definition of the bloody word. It's a small shop or a small specialty department within a larger store, especially one that sells fashionable clothes and accessories or a special selection of other merchandise. Or that's what the first entyry on says anyways.
Subtlefist shoved a metal box in his mouth and adjusted his teeth into the byte. He gave an awkward square chipmunk face and spoke in gritchage:
"Dude, I believe you..." Breakit Brian was squeezing his nose with his eyes squinted into a zillion crow's feet. "I'm not about to plug in."
Subtlefist spit the box out of his mouth ,to the floor of the car and said, "Lookit,Buddy. I'm driving this thing here,but from now on, you're in charge. I see you got some lessons to learn. Don't get me wrong,im not gonna let you slow my ass down. I find you influential and cool,but, seriously. You're gonna have to go at some stuff alone,ya know? Actually do some shit..."
Breakit Brian couldn't get the fact that he drove right past the gallery out of his mind. He thought about castrating himself right then and there. Subtlefist heard him verbalize the desire a moment before he attempted to do so. Transparent, nothing happended and he found himself sitting there a weird exposed ghost of some variety.
"So let's just go back and check the place out what do you say?
"Im going to speak to you in french this time ..d'accord?
"Fine." Breakit Brian knew himself well enough to know what he was in for.
" All announce loudly from ripped lungs,"Athucra min cios!" to the seas of the Fake Gold , to the larceny bejewelled goldleaf faux finished surface level shit that is. Buy the furniture to match the art of fuck off! Bubbling lumber tufts suffocate the make up of the derision! Satellites of architects, with line guages and plum bobs bobbing durch the waves. I can't peel flakes of turpitude from a turnip or turpentine and its torpid torturous tournament of the writers of art! Tarts! Sweet things that they are...a niceness that demands its niceness with an inbred resistance to development of anything. A suffocation of goodness by proximity. A bad plastic cover of dave brubeck in muzac blaring fashion during a real unravelling. A real experience!"
Subtlefist spit a bit of bloody fleshy chunk of tissue out of the window.
fudge..gotta GO.

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