DJ Laundromat
In the laundromat I add a Dixie cup of ink to a stranger's load of wash because fuck a stranger in the goat-ass. Strangers are mostly foreign, mostly Other. I'm anxious. Next time I'll add a squid for humor. These fluorescent lights are too bright.
The ink will warn others of the stranger's impurity. The radio tells me what to do of course, and the power company, and the makers of vinyl records for sure. I too control behavior with my soldiers: my two turntables and my microphone. Anyone in my sphere will obey the waves that crash from the speakers. I am close to completing the perfect mix, the mix to end all mixes, the mix to raise an army. Voluntary, of course. I intend conscription using the pleasure of beats. Our junta will rule for generations. The dryers go thrum-thrum-thrum.
The stranger is checking her wash. Eek! There's ink on my hands. Oh my God, here she comes, this stranger is wack. She hates her whites gray. She doesn't respect me. Let go of my hand, you don't know who I am! My ribs, my face! Take off your shoes, tequila woman! Stop kicking! I shriek. I bleed.
---
The ink will warn others of the stranger's impurity. The radio tells me what to do of course, and the power company, and the makers of vinyl records for sure. I too control behavior with my soldiers: my two turntables and my microphone. Anyone in my sphere will obey the waves that crash from the speakers. I am close to completing the perfect mix, the mix to end all mixes, the mix to raise an army. Voluntary, of course. I intend conscription using the pleasure of beats. Our junta will rule for generations. The dryers go thrum-thrum-thrum.
The stranger is checking her wash. Eek! There's ink on my hands. Oh my God, here she comes, this stranger is wack. She hates her whites gray. She doesn't respect me. Let go of my hand, you don't know who I am! My ribs, my face! Take off your shoes, tequila woman! Stop kicking! I shriek. I bleed.
---
Labels: courtship rituals
posted by JMH | 8:16 PM
7 Comments:
The problem with strangers is you don't know who they are, or what they're capable of.
This makes them heavily dangerous.
Mystery and danger is the stuff of life though, right?
Just in case, I always carry something sharp and metal. That's a lie (I'm afraid of falling on it). I suspect words can do more damage.
Can I join your army? I have the Boston G512 subs pounding nothing but obey. I will be called funkmonkey.
My army is open to all who have a tenuous grip on reality.
"Tenuous Grip" is my middle name. I'd like to join your army. Let's invade Canada. Only a little bit, though. And just the French parts.
We'll leave tomorrow. Oui.
Oui oui. We got routed.
Post a Comment
<< Home