73 lines
4.4 KiB
Plaintext
73 lines
4.4 KiB
Plaintext
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_____________ _/_/ | | \ \ _/_/ _____________
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| ___________ _/_/ | | \ \ _/_/ ___________ |
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| | _/_/_____ | | > > _/_/_____ | |
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| | /________/ | | / / /________/ | |
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| | c o m m u n i c a t i o n s | |
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| |________________________________________________________________| |
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|____________________________________________________________________|
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...presents... Me As TV
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by Franken Gibe
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>>> a cDc publication.......1993 <<<
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-cDc- CULT OF THE DEAD COW -cDc-
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____ _ ____ _ ____ _ ____ _ ____
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|____digital_media____digital_culture____digital_media____digital_culture____|
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It's like this. Nausea seeps outta my insides like toxic waste, my mouth
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waters, gets ready for the barf. I sweat cold pricks. Fight it, fight it.
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Then the black fuzz, like I'm losing The Signal, losing reception, my vision
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particularizes, pixilates. I scramble around, try to get some blood to my
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head. Too late. The National Anthem bounces off of a few of my synapses, then
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I'm off the air. I wake up on the floor, like coming outta possession. Or
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maybe like being repossessed. Re-animated by Consciousness, that fucken demon
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Signal that torments me, makes me see, and feel, and fret. Sure, I fight
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Unconsciousness, cuz I crave the Signal, I'm an addict. I may not like the
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program, but what else is there? Black fuzz, nothing.
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I got nailed last nite, flew off my skate and busted my wrist. I think I
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wacked myself offline, and all today feel like the Signal's weaker, more
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distant. And it makes me sad. Fucken sad. Cuz I don't like the darkness,
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I don't like what's behind the black fuzz, the eye-static. It's sleep, but no
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dreams. It's a dead place. I fight it, I WANT my mtv, I want the Signal, I
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gotta be tuned in, y'know? But there's that other thing inside me, where the
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nausea comes from, where I'm so fucken tired, tired of Consciousness, tired of
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Noise, and Spectacle, sick of my eyes being peeled open, pupils dilated,
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watching the grotesque parade of baby molesters and sex-as-death and little
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boys with puffed out tummies and sunken cheeks. What's the whisper? Let go?
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Tune out? Sleep, man. And what's the fuzz, anyway? Black fuzz, like some
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transdimensional cunt, like a clump of pubes, and I've been born once, and it
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HURT, so - once is enough. The fuzzy curtain I passed thru. Once, thanks mom,
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and here I am, in the land of the Signal, conscious and scared and sick, and
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then there's the fuzz again, the cunt, maybe God's pubes - and I'm being pulled
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back in, curled up like a fetus, cold and quiet, tuned out, sleeping like a
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miscarriage.
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Okay. So it hurts, so the Signal burns thru my pupils and makes my hair
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fall out, but shit, I wanna FEEL, I need it, I need the fix, I gotta be
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conscious. Fuck the fuzzy curtain.
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_______ __________________________________________________________________
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/ _ _ \|Demon Roach Undrgrnd.806/794-4362|Kingdom of Shit.....806/794-1842|
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((___)) |Cool Beans!..........510/THE-COOL|Polka AE {PW:KILL}..806/794-4362|
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[ x x ] |Ripco................312/528-5020|Moody Loners w/Guns.415/221-8608|
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\ / |The Works............617/861-8976|Finitopia...........916/673-8412|
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(' ') |Lunatic Labs.........213/655-0691|ftp - ftp.eff.org in pub/cud/cdc|
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(U) |==================================================================|
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.ooM |Copr. 1993 cDc communications by Franken Gibe 03/01/93-#215|
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\_______/|All Rights Drooled Away. SIX GLORIOUS YEARS of cDc|
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