Saturday, June 20, 2015


“A paranoid is someone who knows a little of what's going on. A psychotic is a guy who's just found out what's going on.” - William Burroughs
North of the border, the drones circle like crows high on the scent of carrion.
     The aboriginals are broadly divided into two camps. Those dependent on airdrops to maintain their habit, and those drawn to the cyclic boom of dub permeating deep into the interior.
     Deserted A roads thread the landscape like collapsed veins. Caravans of the afflicted press forward on their bellies where both worlds intersect. A predatory centipde, or parasitic flatworm, bent on devouring itself.
     Wretched. Retching. Melting under the weight of junk sickness, RIAA sowed genome.
     I could not move for damn pygmies. I could not move, period.
     Where the copper wire which strung me together sang feet above those twisted shrunken remains I could no longer assume I was safely earthed. The vibrations travelled through less vital organs than heart or spleen and concentrated somewhere in my belly. Nesting there. Stitched full of appetites.
     The continual threat of blow dart is an occupational hazard. One builds a resistance to Curare. Over time, the resultant weakness of the skeletal muscles promotes a vaguely pleasant torpor.
     The thing to do is just keep moving. Until one simply can not.
     I played out the dials and let the dub rest as bait. My hands shook as I rolled one cigarette after another and watched each stutter and fizz between restless fingers. While parachutes floated down and deposited more filth on playing field. Car park. The cinders of a hospital.
     The old stadiums are a favoured target, naturally. The aboriginals continue to congregate there decades after the colossal PA systems have fallen into disrepair. Squatting on the bleachers. The executive stands. Waiting for some cue or prompt to galvanize disturbance.
     The especially wasted, the ones most eaten by desire, simply fall prone to the turf and writhe there still connected to their media players. In the rain. The sleet. The slavering ferment that is one month only in July. Blindly willing the effluent to pour down on them from out of the rectums of government drones.
     The cure is basic but may require several "shots" to achieve the intended result. Utilizing those extreme frequencies found in dub, we at the same time tap into HBL activity as dispensing with the need to court the earbud.
    Even a cure has its limitations.
    We go in direct and like a cauterizing iron eradicate, or overwrite, the cellular damage caused by low-end interference. Where the casual user exposes himself to infection, we seek to tattoo over underlying distortion.
     The dub, it must be understood, is neither directed as a means to pacify nor agitate. Where the Ministry for the Central Transmitter seeks merely to control, The Brotherhood of Dub moves at great lengths to nurture awareness. Out of that awareness comes dissent. Out of dissent comes the instrument for change.



The Brotherhood must stand united. The pygmies must not prevail. Becoming more Burroughsian by the hour. Am totally loving this story-line with its cut & paste iterations from the past inserting themselves into the future which is NOW!!!

This is well worth an entire book.

ib said...

That cut and paste method. The same riddim. Jus' dubbed.

ib said...

A book ? Jesus, I don't know. I tire too easily. Besides, no one would tarry long enough to read it. The old gods are dead. The world is littered with books and stumps. The trees have taken a hiding.