It's like spraying for ants,
But they keep coming back
The colonies are alarming in number
Really harmless but lawful annoying
A roach infestation
Left to fester;
The gutter is the environment
No matter what you try to put over it
Still, you don't want the pests
In your place of rest,
And it's hard to acknowledge
The infestation
It's just a lesson
A garbage can is a garbage can
And the lesson is,
Just don't get too close to it
Why I don't love rap music
And black men
Cause depending on this image
Or infestation of lower frequency invasion
Is paramount to the reason
I need a weave and
Nails like Cardi B;
The light skin is better than me,
I guess
Yes
And the plague is
The toxicity of the culture
That sits on my corner
And don't know nothing but the hustle,
Truly makes my own stomach churn
And I don't mean all of them,
A generalization in the realization
That I could just
Never at this point
Find sexual attraction
In a black man
After the experiences I've had
Living in this trash can
The beauty in a brother
But the wickedness of the others,
The ugly on the corner
The no do gooders and hoodlums
The scum that I'm somehow part of
Cause I startle standing over a white girl's shoulder,
Cause I look like the ones on the corner
Who call themselves,
Act like the word
No one's fond of
— it's an energy I don't want
In my sons and daughters
And though
Beautiful brothers, aunts, aunts, and cousins I love all dark skinned;
The toxic skid mark on the corner,
The culture of skulls and crossbones
When the whole world calls for moving up
I'm not for it.
So not for blue or red
Or light or dark
And no matter what the color is
The peace without perfect is knowing what hurts
And what doesn't
So sweep them away like the ants
And spray fir the roaches
And put out the rat traps and
Wage gaps and all the inequality
Perhaps that is the lesson, laugh and laughter
Tragic that I had to gone to hate that half
Then again,
Out if the reach of perfection
A clown and a dunce
Turn your ugly music up
And tell me imm not good enough
And how yot'll never learn to love
Cause all you want is bodies, money, lust
And never trust.
There's no trust at all left in us
If neighborhoods are all chalk dust and redlines anyhow
How's that for pride
An unremarkable Independence Day
What freedom is there left at all
If yours just chokes out mine?
Another n word on another n word crime
And inward I go
Because I'm not supposed to talk about
The way some don't know how to behave
And either way, I'm hated for it
Neither are gone the days of the numbers hanging over us and yet,
When one door closes, yet another opens up
Shut the fuck up
I came recover from the underworld
If bugs keep coming up here
I never wanted to see a brother as a bug
But what one does is what one dies,
And well, a duck looks like a duck
And so the roaches are the pests,
And the devil's nest, the garbage can
I used to think that if I just ate well, and worked out enough— that the noise would just stop. That the chaos and the yelling and the cars and the awful noises would all just go away— if I ran harder, if I ate better, if I stopped talking, stoped creating— stopped breathing; that maybe somehow I deserved the suffering or that it was something wrong with me and not the outside world. Then,as I started to burn out, I realized that was the point; eventually something like a dead battery, I realized that this nonsense had fully consumed me, and there was not a single thing I could change about myself that would make it stop.
More often than not, these people wandering around unkempt or lost, or mumbling to themselves are also creatives, syntheses, and very possibly even unrecognized genius, time stolen by the insensitivities of a corporate and conformed world where social standard takes presidence over nurture;
DAVE FRANCO is an extremely silent and introspective creature; an observant intellectual, he dosdains his screen persona— he admimantely dislikes the roles he plays, his given ‘type', and even his own fans. A complete asexual, his entire life as a celebrity is a sham. He finds himself soothed with a head in a book and steals away to the countryside near a river to paint in isolation, when he is approached by a magician of the quarry.
He says nothing but only listens, his eyes grey and somber.
L E G E N D S
Some DJ banned phones at his performances and I second that and feel the world should follow suit.
Besides dinosaur, my other favorite statue is a giant octopus and I found out it gets even better if you check behind it: there's a dog in a suit (which makes no sense, because the other animals are just animals and then, here is a man sized dog in a suit— however, the second part of the statue is a bunch of other word animals eating cake and there's even a third part, another dog in a suit and a rabbit (I guess) doing some weird stuff.
I was too busy speculating on the feast to really notice what I was seeing; might have to take a night stroll over there when there aren't tourists crawling all over it—
The charging bull statue sucks and I don't understand it, but I admire there's a line in the front and a seperate line in the back just to take a picture of its giant balls
I admire the giant balls more than anything and find this grotesque tourist attraction appealing every time I see it.
Indeed, every time I see it, I do look at it, but not because I'm admiring it. Because I'm genuinely grossed out by how many people are just always around it.
Maybe the art itself is the spectacle of fame in general.
Art that grows.
[The Festival Project ™]
To the mouse,
I'm a dear old fan
Just a buck toothed rabbit
With a past
And a lot of bad habits
And
To the big bear
I'm a dead beat mom
But I wrote this song
Cause that's my problem
I'm a lost cause
On a gross ass block
With a knock on wood
And a whole pest problem
Won't be long
Will we'll all be gone
And the whole damn world
Just blows up, prob'ly.
That was a good cookie.
Something deep
Can seep into you
When you seal
Everything shut
And you keep to yourself
For a moment
Mantras
Something becomes
When you're sealed in tight
Like the deal you might get
If you play your cards right
Slight of hand
And hide your thoughts
Cause we're all being watched
By the monsters up top
I should feel inadequate
All I really got is a post mortem award
But I don't know which song from
As always fashionably
6 feet under
I came to the Grammys in an ambulance
How's that for posh,
No, it's not a limousine
(But the driver's much hotter)
Next year I'll bring a fire truck
I got the hose, of course
But not the water
To the big old mouse
I'm a face in the crowd
And the golden crown
Just falls off the helmet
Sure it fits
But I get that the Mrs and mistresses
Wear dresses
It's just a message
Duress signal
Lessons and
Tantra
Then
All of a sudden the suits and the ties are in Bed Stuy
I've pondered arousal or rather I might have just guessed why
It's a lesson
Let them get in your head
And leave breadcrumbs
Then forever
As imagined
You wanted a friend
But can't have it
Tantrums
——
Dear Friday,
Am I on to you,
Or nothing?
Are you still in love,
Or searching?
Is it fall again,
Or summer
And I wonder
Where you'll spend the winter
My dear Friday?
Summer,
Only next to Monday
Tuesday,
Only next to Sunday
And I wish to tell you,
Friday,
I will always love you
My dear Friday
Handle with care
I heart his heart
Yes I'm a dark soul,
Black hole,
Run, rabbit
There are angels after you
For every tear I ever cried and wished for you
On orgasm
That's to no effects as none
And one to one
And lovers love
I want to wish
We're worlds apart
But really only levels under
Separated by styrofoam containers
So much for continuity.
I'm confused
As to
What anybody wants
But me
and I know
I fall all four times
For all four kings
Over and over
And over
It terrifies
Just to think that I hurt you
In another worldform
Whispers
Remember
I just
Didn't consider
I could
Ever
Have that sort of
Power
To know tonever love you
But instead to want to murder you
A solace— but I don't
The door is open
The door is open.
The door is open .
She is the most beautiful thing in the world
And not me
And I still
Would not want to cause pain
It is only in your nature
To love her
And murder me by doing that
The instinct to kill
The bad and the awful and ugly
I know no sense of love
Besides in the songs and in movies
— to have and to hold, though
None sense
No, not at all
It is only in your nature
I am ugly.
A cause to remember
Functioning at low capacity
I don't you what you're asking me
I gotta get my facts straight
But gotta check my fax machine
Empancipate planet just for answers
Cause water don't flow
If there is no
Bridge and you know
How to burn those
It's a curse tho
And there's no cure
I'd rather be alone,
Or
Secure the closure
Don't go back
To your
Slight of hand ,
Slide of cards
I don't want to write right now—-
Twist of fate, plight of pawns
I don't want to write right now
A trickle of water
A flick of the wand
I don't want to—
Wait, what are we— spellbinding.
Spellbinding! 101.
This dork.
I hate this guy.
Why didn't I get professor..
When— exactly
Did— I get to
Tel you that you'd love
To know me
{Enter The Multiverse}
You don't know jack shit, pal!
I do know Jack!
You don't!
Yes I do, he's my neighbor!
What!
Come!
The mailbox reads Czhit, J.
*squints extra hard*
See, I told you.
You're a strange man.
I never was normal…
Who are you?
Uh. C'mon man, you know me.
*squints extra stupid hard*
I thought I did, but now I don't.
What changed your mind?
[it's been a long hard day. DANNY BOY can't possibly squint any harder. He looks at his old pal BOB and simply doesn't know what else to say. ]
BEFORE.
PREVIOUSLY ON {Enter The Multiverse}}
Though I had imagined at least a week or so, the bloating from the undue stress and panic had vanished within 3 days time, and I was wide awake and wired by the time I was finally off work; Having just seen the updated schedule, after a week-long crisis of offloading and re-downloading even my most crucial apps, like Shazam, Google Documents, and Maps–I had finally logged into the mandatory tracking app in which my employer used to regulate the multiple businesses they owned, myself a mere pawn in the endeavor, for a humble and measly hourly of $17; Not that any, or at least most of my given shift time had gone to waste–I had been gracious enough with my own free time to allow at least some of my creative endeavors to flourish, posting nearly an hour-long-or-so mixtape every day to each Podcast channel, with of course The Infinite Skrillifiles taking the lead: a true cult following with by the thousands of downloads, and the others gaining traction in their own way. Now, After having fasted and worked three days, I was off for two, and had added what could have been at least 50 more pages to theThe Festival Project or more, not that it mattered–and yet, it somehow, to someone, somewhere–also did matter; perhaps not just to me, but there seemed to be something driving me to it.
I had posted the latest episode cold, without auditioning it at all–and now, my dilemma seemed to simply be that I was too hungry to sleep– a sure sign that the fast was quickly ending, as it sometimes did–and although my clarity and focus was still moderately intact, I was also becoming slow, foggy, and groggy–and with no time to waste, I would undoubtedly have a smooth transition into anything, especially not a palpable strategy to pull myself out of the literal gutter by the bootstraps and into a modest enough apartment that I wouldn't have to share it, and could go back to happily living in healthy and plentiful moderation, as I had learned how to over the years; I realized that even without extreme fasting, I had elevated myself entirely–or, rather, that God had–to give credit where credit is due.
‘Listen To This', said a broad and unbeknownst voice; and without een thinking, my own body, seemingly at the will of a greater force entirely took it upon itself to sit fully upright in my bed, reaching for my iPhone, which had already been turned off to sleep– it's replacement due to be sitting in my mailbox in Downtown Santa Monica at any moment, and without even the energy to do much other than to lie down and think, bandana draped over my eyes as a shield to the morning light and earplugs pressed firmly into my inner-canals–I couldn't even think to imagine dragging myself up and out at a decent enough time to retrieve it; But there was obviously something I needed to do, or see, and so–alarmingly autonomously, I uncovered my eyes and unplugged my ears, reaching for my Beats Studio headphones as my fingers inched over the buttons to summon my iPhone to turn on, syncing my bluetooth and selecting the episode, which I had published earlier along with the entry I had spent the first couple hours of my shift crafting in an insolant rage, wet from rain and cold, and hardly paying attention to my post, or my awful coworker–who wasn't altogether awful, just uncomfortably obsese, and poingiantly ignorant.
‘What are you hungry for?', The voice asked,
And without hesitation, I silently listed my Whole Foods escapade, glistening with thoughts of
Croissants,
Bananas,
Apples,
Trail Mix
Tater Tots
A Cool Haus Ice Cream Sandwich,
–and maybe even an Acai bowl, as they were almost always out of Acai by any time was able to make it to the juice bar.
‘Yes', said the voice
“Really?”! I asked–still silently, though at least one of my roomates was beginning his day, and the other, the 22-year-oldd from Brooklyn was still sleeping quietly, wreaking of liquor and leftover something, which at a glance appeared to be Jack In The Box
‘Yes.'
The episode aligned perfectly with the quickly escalating season of the Multiverse i had crafted and was nearly entirely consumed with creating, and the fast was, indeed, over–at least for a moment–
I had, after all, only been fasting because of Drake Bell and his whippets, which for some or any reason at all had irked me to the point of lucidity beyond recognition and ignited my soul into the chaotic and cryptic, whimsical frenzy with which the 6th Season of The Festival Project was being written ferociously. Still, nothing seemed to matter and no one seemed to really care, but it was at least a prompt–and of course, I was still being followed by bodies that coughed a lot, but even that just seemed a toxic wash of nonsense I couldn't be bothered with, croissants or not.
I fantasized being knocked off in a robbery , but would more than likely just die of a broken heart and a lack of love.
In walked a childhood crush, and opened up Pandora's Box
Ugh. This Fucking Sucks.
Drake Bell was not my childhood crush.
Wait— he wasn't.
No:
Don't get me wrong—he's my type, or— was, but…
Let us not forget my placement in the world, and here is where I make my mark, to wit that the programming of an entire generation had been captivated and altered in my very own mine—the familiarity of potent lust arising out of circumstance and also nirture, a lack of fight or flight from which one could and would have easily turned away—or run towards.
Then, almost hastily unknowing whether to jump to conclusions in that, my own series had created some kind of reverberations within what was so quite notably a smaller pond than not— the industry itself having eyes and ears with every motion I had taken from the start of it, and my ability to trust, and naivety ruined over the course of what my mind would have imagined, how startlingly easy it was to awaken his imaginary world which was, not only not just of random circumstance, but an idea that was planted and mulled over.
Tales of a Superstar DJ
{Enter The Multiverse}
[The Festival Project™ ]
{Enter The Multiverse}
L E G E N D S:
ICONS
Tales of A Superstar DJ
The Secret Life of Sunnï Blū
Ascension
Deathwish
-Ū.
Copyright © The Festival Project, Inc. ™ |
Copyright The Complex Collective © 2019-2025 ™ All Rights Reserved.
-Ū.
{} - Enter The Multiverse