[ENTER THE MULTIVERSE]

• Socumopolus Open On The Operating Table

  I, sir, I honor you my proxy And what will with what you make take of that, my beast and brawn affronted; That to no matter to which I may stand as though offered to the Gods, I am at bare my force and wary feast upon thy eyes as swarms, And then to no may have you since! I am at all, my eye, your arm, And hallowed crucifix! CHAOS shatters into a FIRE of FEATHERED fury and precedent mercury of volcanic embering magma and sparse clouds of silver and gold, while though first bleeding from the mouth he is engulfed in flame at once, becoming not unlike the Phoenix, a galaxy into his own forever escaping and never ending realms. Ahhh, you're right. YO WHAT THE FUCK DID I JUST SEE? That's ludicrous! ah huh, I know, right. You took all that? Yep. {Enter The Multiverse} Sire, Your honor. I am bound. I have been forged. The crown. Certainly. Your high marks! Aye… You've been betrayed. …To no doubt. I am obliged to confront, your majesty, at all hours and in this your fortress— —your honor— And Chaos, that this, though there be your throne, Cannot bear weight of rock and stone to rebel archer, That which I am tied to seek, dear honor, Your vary mercy that there I, Here too, am slain! Damn. Creep shit, huh. Yeah. Why does Colbert get all the best parts?! Because he's capable of reading these types of monologues from cue cards! That circuit. He has a bigger cause than you know. [Redacted] It wasn't that I thought I was actively being watched, but more along the lines of knowing for a Friday, my mind wouldn't drift elsewhere and upward beyond, to the sixth, seventh, 8th or 15th floors— or whatever other crazy shit was apparently above them. Secret places I knew of and often thought about, but not too hard. It boggled my mind what was beyond and out of focus from the lower realms of New York, where it was dark and often dirty and hurtful to even wander. My breaths became deep and hollow; They won't turn your face to you, But they will burn through your whole world, wanting you undone Following sealing knives, half have no concious And tethered tongues— This is Levels, Watch us This is Levels, On your mark, This is levels, Christ conscious, This is Levels, Boats on the dock, Storm water, Pure thoughts of harm, But also luck, Drifting in that same water, Ducks, Not known in here our land, or others. You are no longer closer nor called for what you want It doesn't get that much more simple, nor more complex It doesn't get less disheveled than ‘anyway.' I suffer surface just to suffice this sauna trap It doesn't get any less leveled that two tall towers, September 11th. It doesn't get differentiated or dismissed, either, Without press involvement You got to love an easy bake oven and a handful of drama; You've got to love the plausible options for objections and motions to show cause You have got to love old folks and hard laughs, got to! You've got to love the cosmos for at least trying to show us God back, Though god turned back on us a month ago, Or so it was written More hard times And more cold half's And limbs lost, and marks and mauve and cranberry fortunes. More dusks and more dawns and more mortals but no heart left; No call to arms if you were worn backwards for your half. Now time for the calm but the ball bearings not lose but close hard down when you tip the nose up not to dive but force up the wheels as lifting planes does but you are donuts and dusk and dawn, and you are clutching stones in pockets, Four for corners of those the rock has, And that, North south, East west, And these days give gratitude, For wire stakes and high makes this time for more time deaf authors, Still no mortal walk has I, And still indifference to her call, my fortune is in death which may be cause to no one to suffer, As I have not love, And I have not friends, And I have not bonded and therefore this betrayal from where there speaks my meadow and assault have again lied, as devil does against all time. And so I smile, there, and welcome death, form withered birds did wander and then, before my eyes evolved to dust which then did sparkle, And there setting into scattered grains of sand. For which her shores were thought of, not as birds, but sure enough as rocks to till and thunder; And magnanimous waves you did there found I, Making graves and also these as caves, and banks, and ways to think her mazes as a construct. So now there, you are conformed, And all but may you came to offer. So there then shall tipping this and waves had planted oceans from my martyrs, And so again I called to brothers and also the fathers formed, as I had thought to know, these times and others as a motion [to show cause] So shattered banks and blanks my checkbook, scattered eyes though blue have yet been battered black and darkened; And also that became of which her office was unboxed, there was no work there, For her thoughts had caused the forests and winds to suffer from her art, therefore. There is no homeland, now or here or either, Shall I wonder? And then frayed her mark and also frayed this flag did fly for shame and horror. So there, did also Chaos sit and lack and gripping rope upon there crosses, also did my eye to mind, Him to a rope, but had departed. So I watched him hang from the noose, Though loosened grasp from known the ballet dancer, also then became the rabbit This of past and present. Ah, Fuck with me. I want you to. Aye aye. What is his power? Just wait for it… I don't think this is what you want it to— Just wait. Just listen? Listen to what? The man is just— blabbering. The cadence in his voice though; it's a rhythm. What, The cadence! In his voice— Mm. McDonald's. Okay?! But why are you saying—? Wait a minute. Wait what?! Play the tape back, and boost the audio. What for. Just do it, Mark. This costs a fortune and he's taking up all of our— THE MAN IN THE BOX has exploded. — time. What just happened. I told you he would do it. And we missed it. I don't get it. Where is he? There's no way of knowing yet. Check the grid. It's not… that simple…. Well then! Check the cadence. Or something ! Whatever you said. Jesus, I hate these alien motherfuckers! He's not an “alie What—? He's just— I mean— I do not understand. —he's human he's just— these ancients are gifted with— [sort of] Gifted?! You call that gifted?! He exploded into a fireball of feathers and— whatever this is— what is it?! It appears to be volcanic ash, sir. WHAT?! I'm moving backwards, forwards, backwards— forward time and time is dust from now on, I am in the end of my shattered and half lived life, Though bonded body to not my soul, which seeks not love and light, the morsels of the marker of my kind, And this to fill my aching desire to—- — now you've gotta run. From what? THE— AAAAhahsHAHSHjhabdbsnNadbdbamamBSBDNAGAGHAHghahsbabahaa!! WHAT WAS THAT. I DONT KNOW. I JUST HAD SIX ORGASMS. [BLACKOUT.] {Enter The Multiverse} DANE COOK wakes up from a VERY HARD NAP. …what just happened? This is your fault. You caused that. Okay. Gun in my face. I've had things, but not that. Get up. Jesus Christ. Just calm down. This is my calm. [The Festival Project ™] Do not panic. What the fuck are you telling me. Just stay calm. Do not panic. Don't panic what! That. Oh. You showed us what you are. No I did not. You want that? Uh… CC Just when you think you have me all figured out, I promise, it's not that. He has a gun! Fall back! Oh shitsauce, what in the fuck is going on! I may have had to stop and think for a moment ‘Where the fuck was I going?” The problem was I knew I already had the answer, and it was “Nowhere, fast.” Maybe even faster than ever. That hollow pit inside my stomach was calm now because most of all, I wasn't on the subway, I was on autopilot somewhere way far off from my body. Train me not, For this I die as one and always Sure to come for what is known and also for my martyr. Soon to fall I, bitter from the rock And drifting intermittent conscious, The constant not to known, But just a trough to all our horses. So this shame and guilt and rit and raft which I whitewater, so then to shall be betrayed as so they say I am, for now and onward. So her force is death and her tip have sung and those caves we made were of not fortune, but gloom and pity, merriment and pepper peer to socket and For now, my broken. Withered here and there And for to curse, But not to save my cycle, Dim this light for this I offer sacrament, Married waves and crevices of canyons I had watered, and then to twist of pine and though my time was won as always, want. The tip and twist of time would trim her down of those as slaughtered. Giving time and giving hate, and giving twins, And giving tin and giving golden graves, for maids And golden trophies. Giving taste and giving waste and giving ghosts wool coats for courthouses, Giving dim and dinner to these flames for which were ordered, have I. Giving those is taste and giving those is feasts, and giving those is masonry, created in her honor; Giving those is peace and wars, And to left ties, a peril force And giving these is tales and miners Trapped in these there caves as though you drift in barren lands. Well! Well. If I don't know who it is And I don't know what it is What I can't catch Man, Just leave the the fuck alone already, Would you? I have to wonder why I even come here, Full frozen How I'm running on low fuel, But just a sure to fact— (((Huh.))) Yeah, I recognize that dudes voice at this point Alright, maybe I am being followed. Yeah, that can't be a coincidence. It could. It is the rock. No it couldn't, Cause it's the rock. INT. ROCKEFELLER PLAZA. SUNRISE Okay, it's pretty from every angle! My fingers are frozen. Can I go inside now?! Yes. Here is the entrance. Jesus Christ! {Enter The Multiverse} Jesus All Day Christ. What are you looking at? I don't know yet. L E G E N D S It's pizza time. It's Kimmel time. [redacted] These are dangerous thoughts. Oh no, I turned my mind off. I love Kimmel, but I lost focus. Maybe this was the hour I needed without timing my life out. Then again, I did just recently watch him burst into flames in my living room. I have to wonder what that's about. Socumopolus Open On The Operating Table. Symposium, 2025/2026 TBA -Ū. Prod. By Blū Tha Gürū Symposium is a concept album that reinterprets the ancient Greek tradition of philosophical dialogue for the modern age. Taking its name from Plato's seminal text, which structured profound conversations about Love (Eros) as a series of distinct speeches, this album presents a series of intense, mythic narratives—the tracks—that each serve as a unique speech on the nature of consciousness, suffering, and transcendence. The album's unconventional structure, with initial tracks sporting double titles (e.g., forgetmenots.//follow through.), reflects the complex philosophical dualism explored throughout the work—the conflict between the body and the mind, the real and the dream, the past and the imperative to move forward. Each long-form track is a deep dive into an extreme mental state, an attempt to define the core truth of existence through an absurd or heightened reality. [Socumopolus Open On the Operating Table] This track is a visceral representation of the album's Platonic core. It is a grueling philosophical thought experiment set to music made to be experienced as though sifting through a gallery; as interpretive art rather than festival minded electronic dance music. ‘Socumolopus' opens in the uncomfortable and disjointed stairway of becoming undone at the midst of a medical mercy— unable to move or act with the understanding and awareness of a total loss of autonomy and control. A complete paralysis, but not of thought. Socumopolus Open On the Operating Table tells the story of a man undergoing high-risk, life-saving surgery. Due to a failure in anesthesia, he is trapped in a state of conscious paralysis—unable to alert the surgeons, yet fully aware as the operation unfolds. Indeed he reaches a certain purgatory of sorts and a certain death, as he becomes outward of himself enough to realize he knows nothing of this self, even his own name which he is called. He is now only Socumopolus. He is forced to watch his own body being opened, simultaneously experiencing the surgery from the table and from an out-of-body perspective above., however, once the initial shock of the blood and gore of his organs unraveling on the table before him, he drifts between lucid galaxies and worlds, traveling beyond all known time. His consciousness drifts in a purgatory spanning what is hours, but is rather eons in his own unaligned infinite outer consciousness, mingling the visceral reality of the operating room with non-sequitur dreams and the background noise of the hospital's televisions, and in and out of worlds alike; but also unknown. Symposium: A Concept Theory The track is a direct musical translation of Plato's Dualism—the belief that the mind/soul is separate from the physical body. [The Body] The character's physical being is the object of suffering (the operating table), imperfect and subject to the knife. [The Soul] His consciousness detaches, viewing the scene from above—this is the transcendent perspective, attempting to find "The Form of Truth" outside the confines of the suffering body. The character's hours-long, suspended state—neither fully alive nor dead, neither fully conscious nor dreaming—is the album's metaphor for the Ladder of Ascent in the Symposium. He is stuck in the intermediate steps, struggling between the earthly, mortal reality and the potential for a higher, purer vision, while the surrounding hospital noise and fragmented dreams represent the strange, sometimes absurd "speeches" (like Aristophanes' myth) that interrupt the pursuit of ultimate truth. In Socumopolus Open On the Operating Table, the operating room becomes the stage for a private, intense symposium on what it means to be aware when the self is literally dismantled. The surreality is not in the musicality, but the concept of the artwork itself, which reads most like an awkward statue or sculpture stationed distinctly in the way of a place you least expected, or perhaps even dead-center your normal course. It blocks the path with the cause to force you to think of creating an alternate route, or to travel or explore beyond what is familiar or known— or perhaps— just to force you to think at all when you may suppose the rest can just be turned off, as you cross out or autopilot and into a newfound structure for your own immortal cause. Thank You for Listening. Chroma 111. The Shoestring Theory. Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025 The Festival Project, Inc. ™ All rights reserved. Chroma111. Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025. [The Festival Project, Inc. ™] All rights reserved. UNAUTHORIZED REPRODUCTION OR DISTRIBUTION IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED BY LAW. INFRIGMENT IS PUNSHABLE BY FEDERAL LAW

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• PSYOPS.

  Chroma111. She does backflips Purple cosmos Whole turnover— We set the whole world on its stomach; A Whole corpse So so wrong Oh oh oh, You made me fall in love Oh, You made me fall in love “Jimmy Gets Belligerent” Hey. Yeah. Remember when Anne Hathaway went into God Mode? FLASHBACK: ANNE HATHAWAY goes into GOD MODE. CUT IMMIDIATELY BACK TO: Yeah. Well this is that, but Jimmy Kimmel. oh boy. Yeah, that. {enter the multiverse} lol. Please writing gods tell me how and why this dude is running around the multidimentions carrying briefcases of sedatives and other recreational enhancements— JIMMY KIMMEL enters EXTREMELY CONFUSIEDLY. And also, why, Apparently he remembers nothing at all, While everyone else in this entire arc seems to have some sort of familiarity within these paradoxes?? I don't know. But I love Jimmy Kimmel. Duh, who doesn't? Yeah alright— but you know why? DAVID LETTERMAN MOO-HA-HA! Yo what the fuck. That dude is kind of evil. TINY KIMMEL (staring into the old ass television SET in a hypnotic state, mimicking with his own version of this evil, diabolical laugh.) Ehheehee!!! DAVID LETTERMAN discovers TELESYNTHESIS via his late night ENDEAVORS, all the while unmasking the true secret to TIME TRAVEL and THE MULTIDIMENSION, unlocked. YOUNG(ER) LETTERMAN Yessss, come to me dear child! Yeeeesssssssss. Damn. Yeah. That right there. That's how it works, apparently. L E G E N D S MOOHAHA! wtf. CC Sometimes we see the things in the TV which are plainly meant to see, but so often overlooked… {Enter The Multiverse} Stephen Colbert Lost Light I was thinking fondly about that scene at the end of the first season of The Studio— That nearly final shot from the finale where the light hits Seth Rogen's smiling eyes, and made them seem ten times bigger than they ever thought they could be— or how maybe possibly, How you never quite noticed how beautiful they are, because you're always remarkably distracted by his charm, and his trademark laugher, or his other well known markers. But I was thinking about it for a second time today, because I was also still somewhere somehow working on the other part of my projects that were although, still falling apart, however important— this ramshackle chaos between all of these media monarchies, the hosts of late night television —though some departed— and an arc that was coming together from scenes i'd already written in hiatus but still probably couldn't find, even if I tried… and the basis of it was really so dark and so off from what the regular gesture or any of those personalities was as established, I sometimes stayed off it, even if though the vision in my mind that made the anchor of something that was supposed to come from that side of the project, was so vivid in the moment, as if I was watching the actual finished product played back or played out in my mind. The reality of my actual life had become such a cruel joke that I no longer really even wanted to cave in and just write it, because I was so particularly embarrassed of how i'd even thought of [any of] that. But here was this, Mr. Stephen Colbert, whom I adored severely, who also had eyes that were quite shiny and large and round that made him, with his boyish face and little dimples, quite cute to look at— but more like a teddy bear, than any vicious or decrepit sexual monster, like some of the other [aforementioned], or so, not mentioned for other reasons. To be clear, this is what, from what I would gather, could come with the job, but the job was also another job, and had its own sort of chronicled problems and equations to solve that I could gawk at, if I watched enough of them. So far, however, there was only really only never more than one I would ever flock to for my gawking, and because I was so enamored by it, I mostly never bothered the others, until it came up in my project as something so artful that it would cause such a gentle heart murmur as one did— This sudden image of Mister Colbert standing in a stream of light in however an outward darkness, with the expression one might call a ‘longingness' as if in all the light had been forgotten—and now was shining on him with such a glow that it took the warmth inside my glow from it, as I saw this, a man of shadows seeming to have come to a final moment of some hope left. But was it lost? Was it false hope? And what had happened? Last I left dear Colbert and our other dearly beloved in a twist of fate— a paradox at the proportion of Titans, in that this, a pocket watch, and a very daunting silver pistol, seeming to be stuck inside a hall of some sort where the linoleum floors and barren abandonment amongst the tattered and ripped unkempt nature of either of them— —Or at least I believed in my head— it were Mr. Kimmel and Colbert, but the scene had been somewhere so long gone and forgotten that I could not remark on which other host it was, that had the memories of all the paradoxes still sharp and hard on his mind, while poor Kimmel somehow seemed, even after a thousand rounds of groundhogged circumstances— (that is to say ‘over and over')— to not remember anything that had happened? But what did happen? And still this was far off from that same shadowed dark place where now in this vivid moment Mister Colbert stood looking up into the light with such grace as if to say, maybe he was thankful for what was approaching— but what? In this pale and yellow warm light streaking across his already very shiny eyes and pleasant face he seemed to be seeking some relief and may have even found it, but was now alone in this place, silver pistol still clutched in his hand, and standing even in the dark set, some percentium arch, rather, as the floor beneath his feet seemed even that rubber type you'd find upon a stage somewhere… But where had I drifted off? I'd come to New York all those years ago mindlessly writing about what appeared to be that same watch, or a watch—a pocket watch, that was somehow rather important to the plot, also. It had to have been important because, at least I thought, it was Morgan Freeman that brought it up [in the first place]. And of course I couldn't overlook at all how anyone I'd written about or thought of fondly just rather seemed to show up in these shows where the hosts were so good at their job they sometimes almost entirely disappeared in plain sight — and for a moment the spectacle was that they even seemed to have removed themselves as a whole from the eyes of the camera, and the audience at the job. A well-done late night host is often a man inside a hole— a suit in the dark where there's not light, because in essence, in the man, he must remain as trapped and as silenced as I have been, or I am, as I write this. And perhaps that's why I found them here, in a foreign land, in my prison trap where I keep my eyes from the rest of the world that cannot have them, under my public sunglasses and ‘why-try' when I am forced to go out into the world and have at it, but always quite missing my mark and stumbling back into the box with much damage and the excitement of a child on Christmas to see my cat, and a warm box, and an hour of something to laugh at. But this project was no laughing matter— mostly because it was sadness; sadness which I kept composed— [the neighbor exits quietly] Oh she IS capable of shutting the door normally. Look at that. —Sadness which I kept composed as darkness, woven into songs as verses or poems as proses without ever giving it a single thought of what was reflected or why it was I was decided to watch that. {Enter The Multiverse} After all, we began chasing Skrillex into forests with monsters, and now balance the delicate calorie deficits of all of what they have— the actors and actresses, media titans, and even politicians, as I burn through my own light like the Palisades fires, where ironically my legend was born before I'd even think to write it; L E G E N D S Somewhere in a place inside my mind where my diaries and lost unrequited love would become sometimes my light and sometimes my darkness and the forced focus of becoming nothing without actually being done— this sort of infinite place that has to exist somewhere in my mind, because it does— and also out in the world — [the door slams violently] Nevermind, she sucks. They all suck. —because thst's where it comes from. So what of Colbert, and the Gun, and the watch, and the Owl, and all of our friends on the trains, in the mazes and libraries? I hadn't not the slightest cause to reckon where the rest of it was because the tragedy of the story was still being just as lived as it was written. The variable pertaining to how many times I had seemingly fallen in love with nothing more than just a shadow or simple reflection of my own thoughts— Glimpses into mirrors and corridors of infinite in all the effective possibilities of the things I'd ever wanted. Perhaps the darkness was that without searching, I wanted to be loved— And it was here, the whole time, quantified and personified in the people that had so much of it, that I could take the idea of such and skate on it, like a complex sort of obstacle, that it wasn't directed at me— but then it was— because I was looking to deeply into something I loved, That it would come back in the form of something, no matter what it was. Long after the perfume was gone, the diamond eyes would still remind me of an Owl that I had once seen and even become, but since arriving in New York and staying too long, had not come back. There certainly was a piece or part of me that had lived and died here, but I was unsure what it was yet. But what of Colbert? Even this was an incomplete and intercepted thought, or concept. All I looked at was him in this light, clutching this little gun that I loved because it was so silver and so polished and so small, And the words “Lost Light”. So perhaps I'd write that song next. [The Festival Project ™] —Death of a Superstar DJ Chroma111. INT. CRYPT. ROCKEFELLER PLAZA. I told you he was a genius! [a mechanical sound erupts from the cooridor above.] Hey! What happened?! BILL MURRAY Well, that's easy! You're trapped. Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025 The Festival Project, Inc. ™ All rights reserved. Chroma111. Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025. [The Festival Project, Inc. ™] All rights reserved. UNAUTHORIZED REPRODUCTION OR DISTRIBUTION IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED BY LAW. INFRIGMENT IS PUNSHABLE BY FEDERAL LAW

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• Yellow Well.

  Not even a wisper of collision penetrates explicitly this inclusion; Segmented and represented this disarray of miserable approval, And, abject, Or i object, I guess To that which is to say Today is in between the ordinary and disarray, To make arrangements; A solemn display of effect and intent of regression, And yet without all clear disrespect to port or establishment; Still here are there words and where there was love, no more— none for her but then around, within arousal stands as that, to which has since been lost, If not to time, another concept thus by force unknown, to with and withstand habitat for circumstantial evidence of coincidence, But yet arbitrary and then dismayed for short or arc, There this, no more her words for flower, more of words to thus embark. Still time, Very well, my breath, for I have opened a foreign chapter— Then with the way you say, you wore our out, In time you are uncovered for her drugs and left to smuggle over-under— Therefore when that said time has come, you know to form the drift to wait, And yet lack still this patience I have tamed you many acres since the ancients fell upon there ails; There pitting since sunk and crucial to this, and our time is not lost nor won, disheveled making prayers for sense and dollar signs; No have no more barren chest and thought of songs, much less a found the words for songs as though my love has crept upon the rock, That dusk and dawn, the ocean licks with parched tongue. Scare her dry and feast and fragile and evidence remained as these as words and thoughts, The truths would tell the tale for every way. With each drift scattered mark, upon those boats with sails above known not as white but also many colors of the brethren cut from clothes of all apart and none of one, for this, her maritime. {Enter The Multiverse} I opened right to Debbie downer; I got medicine for your habit (I got the remedy in the form of a secret, But the misery is in keeping it) I got a kind heart, I did some mai tai, Should have learned some thai chi As if I took some matcha Or chai tea Caffeine Adrenaline I got a kind heart Adderall instead of Ritalin Entry level access Salary yellow fashion, Intercept, invest Inception, redirect Service elevator, eh; She don't live here no more But where she is? Couldn't tell you. What's the story On a ten star war. No more Harvard, Purple hearted general, General admission to a festival? Just miss me that that bullshit. For your pleasure, Every crevice just has pressure in it— Now I get it I hypnotized myself, I guess The ribbon Blue belt I should be cleaning instead of half sleeping; I keep explaining myself thinking somebody can hear me When they obviously can't. I've been screaming silently for seven seconds, Several years I think on other planets Pull your hair back in a bun And then you'll learn, I guess I passed out cold upon the stand That was the plan, I guess Much slower to close than to open, Although, I know I pop-button broke the code before But still no low moral summoning (Sorry, product) Still no low road or mud throwing No more home She's 32 and 3 months older But looks much longer And harder, tired Must have body or Motive Must have body Or bad intentions Take a man, and write a book about it Take a man, and write a book about it I call that a thirst trap I call that a thirst trap. She must no longer Prim and proper But the work is never over, Show us all the roots, and know the knowledge But don't talk or comment on it I was “almost” once And I was honest twice Three times, you're a liar Mister, honor, pleasure, Fisher wife And never leather, Tipping tethered, Tied to rock and kite And lock and key For here and there Forbearance, rather Here for never ever after Amen and then some L E G E N D S I told you Jimmy Fallon was a Skrillex. I know. What's worse: Skrillex is a Jimmy Fallon. Oh, that is worse. yO iT iS pRoGrEsSiVeLy WOrSE: Is this what you wanted? The awful destruction of constructs— Click, boom— Knife, gun, Add an axe, Bind the axel, Excellent, Put the prejudice inside your head ahead (We brought it back) Put the Edipus complex To this effect Upon a platter Silver as the gun at stake, And raise the hand that shouldn't matter After that? You won. Four tries; Six goons, Four Gods, One white ther I have Two white coats and misters, hot coals Dark fires, have ones, Six mazes, one center On your mark “The Dark Forest” Ugh I hate this one, Get set Don't forget, we all died here. We all crisis, We all Christ. Goosebumps, right? Gimmie that kite! You dumb son of a bitch! GO! Check it out! I look like Kim Kardashian. But you smell like Kim Chi. Yooo that joke took me like 2 months to write down! I know huh! [The Festival Project ™] I looked for something on Hulu to watch for so long that I almost ate my entire dinner without clicking on something. Finally, I find something that interests me, which is just a graphic of a television set and some color palette by now that is somewhat of a calling card for me. So I get there, And it is of interests, And yet of course the unexplainable anomaly of this, is that, no matter how far I try to run l He just keeps coming back. ‘Like this is crazy.' I never found myself agreeing with Louis C.K. about anything at all, and personally and particularly, I never found him funny, until, that was the sudden realization that the same array of betrayal, anger, and agony fueled by rage and jealousy had taken over he and I and many others probably, when introduced to the possibility of having to share the same reality with a head of hair and a face like that. I might have mustered a “my sentiments exactly” though silently before taking in to my own wonder and amazement that twice in one week, besides skipping over the algorithmic traps in my sidebar which I treated like little land mines or time bombs, but mostly allotted to my own Internet history of my uninhabited viewing, as it seemed I'd been most preoccupied in rerouting this energy into a fascination with TV programming, giving me the satiety for the comfort and familiarity in something; and I was with some some kind of certainty I knew alluded to the old adage of mother knowing everything. Even if everything hadn't happened yet, actually, or maybe it had. This strange sort of desire however was some sort of weakness, with the ability to have a fixation for a desire without any way of actually getting it. As she used to say. “Having champagne taste, but beer money.” [so I avoid it because it makes me angry.] Sometimes even, tearfully angry, and it made me feel so uncontrollably adolescent that I would have equated it to the hysteria of beetlemania; screaming and clawing and aching and chasing for this being that was so notably out of reach. Worse off, I'd realized in this running from what seemed was chasing me was how common I was in this feeling, [] To my demise. In this sense, the safety of this entire being and any alike, was that I could seek logic in my jealousy by rationalizing not attaching to a certain subject sexually or otherwise. But this basis in the contempt of familiarity was really rather irritating, in that it seemed as simple as having an awareness of this seeing all the time, to the point that I became a subconscious aching for [something], blossoming into the actual conscious awareness out of the repressive need for something I no longer had and always wanted: [The Festival Project ™] And for for this, I considered it a sort of sickness that I couldn't seem to tear away from it, but also something that had happened very naturally, and now had unearthed an entire cavern of secrets I could be found no where writing or even very rarely thinking them. Thoughts or ideas worth protecting and the kind of code that goes about saying nothing, looking the other way, keeping your mouth shut and hiding or guarding with your life. But media, or the eye that seems to see all lately had been poking at it, maybe because I wasn't. Maybe because I spent an hour at a time four day a week with [a less than separate set of characters] —or big brother, if you will, in a safe and respectable distance and admiration [] Where I could at a certain pace study this sort of programming without anything having to be reflective of the life I wasn't living— the sex I wasn't having. Watching the ABC version of late night programming was allowing me to focus on the other things I needed— being very skinny, and crossing one leg over the other and sitting pretty; while also showing me another side of a suit and tie that was interesting— The ability to be invisible, and also say many things without talking, for anyone paying attention to the complex series of things very often overlooked by a normal onlooker or audience, Which I was, and wasn't— because I was looking for something. The mind boggling thing to me was, by watching, I was actually finding it. [The Festival Project ™] —Death of a Superstar DJ As Seen on TV The Television People “Puzzle Pieces” I don't want anything I don't want anyone Conflated circumstance Oh, it was was just a nut— Got it and now it's gone Pulled it all off at the thought It was Thunderous But now I got it together I don't want anyone Especially not a poor boy No I'm not alone, boy I got my kitty Pet the cat and love my pussy, So it's really not a mystery I don't need him, or anybody really Miss me with that shit That's a pretty promise and a big redaction Deadass I stepped into my ballet shoe And onto shards of glass I guess that's on pointe But off topic Co-ed saunabody shopping I show up at Equinox But only when I want (On proxy) I protect my heart (On God) I don't want nobody really. One one-off on Wall Street, brother Don't bother calling back Don't got my number, Not a problem Not my name Or my address Cause if you did You'd be depressed like I am. Now we're getting dressed You take a cab I take the train Just another day of training But my life. Is steady draining There's no use in even explaining myself I guess I'm selfish Like dental floss for Christmas Or shellfish for the kitty But for me just friuits and veggies You don't notice? I love nobody, Cause nobody could love me Now I'm over it Now I'm over it Now I'm over it But you know the cost I was nothing Now I want Nothing Nobody love me I don't want nobody, No I'm not sorry How they're swarming on my GPS location With these second rate bit glitches I stay sleeping in my kitch But I'll never rest, I guess Until theirs justice Said that. {Enter The Multiverse} Excerpt: The Television People (TVP) Season 4 © The Complex Collevtivd [The Festival Project, Inc. ™] All rights Reserved REGINALD Would you kill your prostitute for one million dollars? PATRICK Why would you ask me that? REGINALD That's an odd answer. I'd expect your response to be somewhere along the lines of denial of— ever having a prostitute. PATRICK I'm a talk show host. REGINALD Is that supposed to mean something? PATRICK There are certain societal assumptions. REGINALD Do you find yourself—befitting to any of those stereotypes? PATRICK I don't find myself “befitting” at all. REGINALD You know, local [charters of our office] — (But Patrick speaks quickly and with dominance to cut him off.) PATRICK Now that I know what you are— REGINALD You mean “who”? PATRICK I mean “what”; why make and owl's cry in response to a dog's bark? [a realization between the both of them is immidiately found; this sort of language has implied they are belonging to the same branch of THE EYE which acts above the law; it is a fair fight— and now they this phrase has been established, there are now rules written or unspoken which can be applied here.] REGINALD cocks his head and forces an awkward smirk. REGINALD Very well. I am quite the trouble maker; I am mischief, I am danger, I am Chaos, I am leveled I am honored, I am damned I am also coming making day of peace and hallowed are you; I am also coming waves of needing peace to which I bound to. So sparrow coming grace and peace and giving, Made and tied, Though had you not the ever presence or the record for the time, So then you too shall wander, mercilessly to and fro and all about, And here and there but never where my value has been gathered. So for that, the dust is set, And said and twisted, never making bread for peace And dead for death, and craving this, to set of force her Having made my honor there, and lying in the wit and willow, weathered veins and weathervane, And twisting wind of fate and fortune. So, my mind and tressure buried there for gains and white, her shadow Barren in the east, and in the west her mortuary; Seeking sane and crypt but tied and kept for thithered foust and fouling, Butter turned to brittle, May, September, Then another serpent— More to moulf and wept her slated dream for keeping broken bear in, There the wake had frozen into lake and also leather boxes, For what will of what I am and is her fare not wearing any; Though the mister winds of east and west had set her onward any. Lemons and limes, though— Taking my time, soured Never with water, sugar But chest without pride; There in the wake marked and marched o. Her army, Not to yawn or buyoer billow, Porridge feathered, Cream and none for part her hunger There though, then were the marks And the found of the wicked past; Ties there and fire would have her mark upon the dungeon throne, Weeping here though on the floor for flour Every hour passed as I, come creeping with the forest feathered, dimmed the basket having cut from tethered grass, I. And now we wait though them, here, The marshmellow and willow not having woken, Though Monday, for total control of her honor, Contorted. Then came, seeking guild and weight and force, The fear and wind though wish to pull apart the storm had gathered, fell apart itself, Though sit not back and then became as strong, a pebble which from dust became an avalanche at once, through windows past, I— Marked one forest, and one warm summer, And one forest, and good quilt, did slither, and then making in the forest, I, for did I run As yet to suffer also. Yo where the fuck am I going. Alright, airtight we want and something foraged from nothing in her name, And this the time that tells itself for life and health In other ways besides your own. Don't cough. For those who either suffering or lost know of your forces and so sure does come the rock that turned from stone in forests over, So you sure too shall come another, Poor and hurt but soon to suffer, Also. tisk- tisk The risk my friends is running wise, The coyotes running wild for find that lone and feathered friend, To which has flight with all the know that he, and friends are feasts of foe and so these might and waves of time are sure to grow into another. Right on. So I write on and then, the missed and uninformed becomes again the death I recommended. Ten till ten tales and also please give, and whistle whalfolks under our time which has lost mine and all others. So tempted there come gathered, weeping Feathers at her slaughtered as palms, Weight beyond the brow and below the belt to which that called her— Devil's mate and crater for the fate but fame at heart earned, casting shadows over which has lost its appetite, for now becalmed her hunger. Her hunger. Her hunger. REGINALD's tone changes entirely— if at first it may have been a playful game (and it wasn't) now it is serious— crucial, even. REGINALD Why did you do it? PATRICK I wouldn't do something like that… REGINALD —something like what? PATRICK realizes quickly he's been playing over in his mind that has not yet fully been realized on the surface of the conversation— it was an honest answer, but still implicit, and so in this moment of self awareness and realization, also of stunning showman and marksmanship, a certain light comes on as if the camera has been directed at him; his entire mask comes on at once, and no longer can the reminisce of an honest thought be detected. He has become a wall. PATRICK To follow up on your first question. Which was odd— REGINALD About killing your prostitute. (He means to intimidate, but PATRICK is a stone.) PATRICK You must not watch my show at all. REGINALD takes a moment to collect himself, with even just the slightest and temporary glimpse of fear in that he may have met his mental match, and has already lost the fight, also collecting his briefcase before he I told you no more trains. At the risk of sounding obnoxious, I've started ignoring all the voices in my head— Even though they're always right. fuck! REGINALD pauses, takes a deep breath while opening the door before looking back over his shoulder. REGINALD I must not. He walks out and immediately slams the door behind him. PATRICK, as if still in the eye of the camera remains calm, although, just the glimmer of fire in his eyes reflect the battle has yet been won. But as we all know by now, He will win the fight. The television people, season four I can't stand these fuckin hoes; Two days off in your hole Offers you a whole new perspective Of your own God complex; You're better off alone, Dead, Or on prescription medicines For all those thoughts in your head Like the bullet holes left from the gun That is poor and alone And just not having money. Confidence lost with a look, And you're sure you just should have gone come But the court office closes its doors at 4:30 And you've been done wrong Four long lost lovers over, It not about that, but motorcycles It's not about reps, It's about cycles I'm one our Peloton down And a whole world to go While you morons just on and on Won't stop talking Here's to disturbing your peace at the equinox And anywhere else you rest your rotten core, You dirty who're— What's it costs for love? Not a whole lot, Don't you see that I'm struggled in Brooklyn? Fuck this whole raw sewage garbage bucket If I gargle hard enough I'll just throw up But you push all the bottles and straws to the end of the curb And the colored sand blacks to the outskirts So we work harder It's a ocean of no But you know not what it does not to know me So below your own suffering goes the call of the crow just before dawn Mx To drop out Cool I don't want to be here I just want a surfboard Apparently it's your year But I'd slit my wrists for Harvard Yeah, it is— that kind of hurt Yes, it is that kind of pain The corvette stole your very favorite colors And your name That sort of wickedness, Just before it ends The candles flickers and the winter's coming in atop the l marble kitchen counters All right, all yours Patched up, or in the poorhouse Compliments to the chef, of course, compliments to the chef. Gotta go to the court house Of course cause I'm black So it's automatically implied I just don't work hard enough Or just ain't made the cut My momma was a dancer, not an athlete My momma made me fat and now I can't do that either If I'm the other black girl In a room full of white men I automatically become “The ugly one” So then I'm off. What's the point of coming here? A black book? A black box? Try to run me off out of the equinox on Walter Well done. I should not have wrote about it Lil bitz My son accused me of being in the Illuminati. He's 9. How do you even respond to that? I love my son, He's like really, really… fat. It's okay— I kinda like it; he's fat, I used to be fat; So we talk about fat people shit. Like McDonald's. And ham. lol This lady on the subway leaned on my hand on the pole. And I mean like really leaned into it, With her whole body weight. I just came from the gym, I been up all night, And she like— Leaned. Like, you know I didn't say shit, I just let it happen, But inside I'm like, WHY ARE YOU TOUCHHING MEEEEEEEEE?!!?!? WHY ARE YOU TOUCHING ME?! This train is not full. I don't think you understand. I just came out the steam room. I am the equivalent of fresh and pressed. Then she's just gon Leeeean. FUCK THAT. STOP TOUCHING MEEEEE. but like irl I'm just standing there like, No protest. Inside: NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!! STOP IT! Outside: [nothing] Chroma111. Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025 The Festival Project, Inc. ™ All rights reserved. Chroma111. Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025. [The Festival Project, Inc. ™] All rights reserved. UNAUTHORIZED REPRODUCTION OR DISTRIBUTION IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED BY LAW. INFRIGMENT IS PUNSHABLE BY FEDERAL LAW

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• [TJ Maxx.]

  JIMMY KIMMEL takes a long horn of a mysterious white substance up his nose. JIMMY KIMMEL You're right. That is good cocaine. Like really good. —only the best! JIMMY KIMMEL I'm going to bed now What?! JIMMY KIMMEL I've got to go to sleep. Are you serious?! JIMMY KIMMEL Very serious. You know. Mucho tired. Now excuse me. I don't understand. JIMMY KIMMEL passes out face down on the couch. {Enter The Multiverse} Lil bitz The jonas borthers made a christmas movie and at first I wasn't sure why, But then I thought about it harder, I was like “jonas brothers… Christmas…?” Oh, i get it– Like, “Ho, Ho, Ho!” …cause there's three of them. L. JONES DUM-DUM! YA LOOK RATCHET. BLŪ Omg why r u 18 feet tall. L. JONES YA LOOK CRUSTY. BLŪ I am crusty. L. JONES YA LOOK LOST. BLŨ. I am lost! L. JONES WHY I AINT GET MY WISH YET? HUH?! I'm not being Blū Tha Gürū right now. I'm just— [almost hit by a bus] L. JONES you simple bitch. BLŨ —blū. L. JONES What the hell that supposed to mean? BLŪ You came all the way to the lower realms just to be that tall. —Nah! Look, this is difficult. Can we just MERGE? BLŪ Nah uh— I already merged with— L. JONES Uhh-huh! —enough of you! Enough of you —“alumni” Enough of you already! Just. {Enter The Multiverse} Alright. We merged. Now where we at? I don't even know. Simple bitch. Molly with the suede suit, Black shirt Tan boots, Truth, King, Speak words— Design: leave earth Three times, I need Meanwhile, Three hursts, Three tries, The bullet doesn't miss twice, He hurts. Please, rehearse Get back in the beer bandit Here, bandit! (Hound dog) Heavy job, son— Him and all birds, All God, That's a strong heart— Let it blow out. Candle dust? Here and there. Set the box? Theatre office. Want a crumb? Want a whole number on a warred bat? This dimension's all that; This dimension's all that and then some! Clear to the agenda and a brick wall— I'll probably cut my head off I'll probably cut my head off— Before I cut my hair off; Lead ball? Medicine. Ten tall messages and massive planted evidence. Ten all autographs and all the fumbled balls caught; Penned down hens and reprimanded feeble horseradish, Course, cough, hold it back a second if you're strong, though— Sure, cross your heart inside of Molly in the bottle, I put the message down the river just a bit, But just a bit— But just a second, for the kids; The syndicate is dead, infact. I'm stuck inside your head, in fact— The President misread, in fact, The fractal our eyes mattered, Tip a hat to Mr. Random, On appealed ball fields, Diplomat and moral conduct, Struck before the clock forgot construct itself, Around and about, For here and for now, our— Missing hatred for negating, nothing said I And bitter here bats, and slaughtered hear hearts, For the never late the daughters eyes, For turning over Lilly leaves and parceled tongues, And tisk for tat, there were upon the Ace, her hands And slain in ink for our might. Therefore, to say, he hated her, Bearing him none and down the arm would flow the anchor, gallantly— Whispering cheery cherry blossoms in the hour I, For their time stands to nothing, Stands to none at all but thought forgotten Here for are, I And bare to one the number, Won the fight and mastered in the mortar, All the ashes flames and flit and flicker, tith the half, I, And fully weighed the anchor this and hither bate of fount, aye. And thou art my God; To stand and know and wither here under yet; brings us though nothing but thousand years longer, And nothing this time has yet passed us in all knowing, not keeping but feeling not seeking the band her; This waits you and I forage keep the heaping wate and grip that have I for your fortune, meadow tatter art, And ye, Ye shall not find me. Now I go. What?! She said she's leaving. IKNOWTHAT, L E G E N D S Red is the ram, Goes hard on the court; Ramshakle! Ramshakle! Full on the course; Coarse is the red jackal, Red suit and tie; Red is the sea, If you're willing to die, And I'd part it for neither and none, So come one and come all To the unknown dungeon, Of full feathered flowers. This thing is just festering— I've got to pop it. Not yet. I told you, there in his pocket— An advocate of the well known not-God, Sure was Chaos the done and the forest, Dark shadow! Dark shadow, Willing and honored. Forgiving and honest, brotherhoods— But who art thou? Keeping your tied and your triads as morals; Sacred for neither and loyal to none are, And art in her folds, so as one, We become our. Hours and ions and // Glitches// And circuit, Missed calls and mystics// [Intercepted] Hollow and all words And all worlds have gathered Beyond all our knowledge The all known has shattered. So sits beyond her graces in said forest as before none, And her altered battered ties to one beyond but not the rope cut, This twisting and the tide came, All as Scarlett, bronze, and crimson— Kill her, sire, sure—would you? Do her the honor; Untie the monster, And relish her pleasure, Please, sir, would you?? Shook her, wrought and gaping, Incrept, slaughtered and martyred— Bonded but not undone, As I bow before I. —bleeding waves. Chroma111. Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025 The Festival Project, Inc. ™ All rights reserved. Chroma111. Copyright © The Complex Collective 2025. [The Festival Project, Inc. ™] All rights reserved. UNAUTHORIZED REPRODUCTION OR DISTRIBUTION IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED BY LAW. INFRIGMENT IS PUNSHABLE BY FEDERAL LAW

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• “What Up” Wednesday. (What Up w/-Ū.)

  Who left a whole box of corn flakes In a locker At the Equinox On Wall Street? I told you go to the one at The Rock. I told you, I'm not going on that block, like at all. {Enter The Multiverse} That's just my Karma, Ms. Nancy; I did a whole lot than just Thought about it More edits, More recognition that I—l couldn't stand it; The planet just seems to get smaller and smaller With less and less plants in it; I have your pants on, But shoes didn't fit I wrote a whole book and resenting But still not the movies, I meant it. Damn. She's just so much better than I am Head in a frying pan on high beforehand, And however damaged, It felt bad I know what I did I felt that Camera Obscura, for sure, you know But disconnect, Swallow badders, wha— t?! Get my peanut butter up; Why! I'm a circus monkey; Damn. I got karma faster Than I should have known I lost episodes And threw away the whole entire show I went running long And then I threw up on the subway I only like the one Sublime album (The one with wrong way.) You know? Cuh' I went the wrong way I fucked up on all my dollars I got karma back hard, yah Got a poem or prose or song on ol' Ms. Molly, too, (or two) I fall in love inside the tube, Truth is, though Teletubbies and teleportation Ain't so far off from where I come from Problem is, Opporsite world, I'm the story of the whole show; For sure dawg. —a situational Thought process. When the crack finally kicks in, Astounding the loss of my confidence I've gotten lost in a toxic land I got syndrome “talk to much” Not on the spectrum, nor diagnosable X's and O's on the tic tac toe board, Just an underhanded “I told you so” All the rockstars want —Subtle thoughts of suicide as the train approaches? Nah, Models and the other types of girls That never work at all, They just born at it. I got bored with it, But not the fourth one, Cross my first amendment, On my heart like catholic More like Bart Simpsons, Like art magic Cause I won't watch that show But love Matt Groening— Maybe I'm the type that just Love hating But hate loving with No way to I don't hate you; Yeah you're right, I'm off Take two. ((Good Luck Riding The J Home.)) Not a gym run, a different kind of cause, I guess I got so many plausible options, I guess I should call on one of them, Toss a number up, struck the dog on mathematics I can't let my lantern out of gas, We're not friends, are we? What a fiend! Are you offended? I just want to see my dreams relayed to me— Is that too much to ask? So I'm the asshole. What did I pack a bag for?! Picnic baskets. What did I leave this curse for? Nothing, Thanks for asking, Nance. I put a pilot on the presence of a whole color— phenomenon. I swallowed all my pride and presence just for an automaton. This automation algorithm— is it? Doesn't make a difference. I spilled blood inside my kitchen, Put deposits on a flicker, Tricked the treasure at a phantom, Phantom I want more but swallowed all my high pulp orange juice on knowledge of the only one; There's only God, There's only us— There's only cause+ effect, 6 more albums, note books and a couple novels that came out of that one. Squeeze em hard, ya'll. Don't let me love God. Don't let me talk back, I'm not about a rack. Tantrum, yes. Talk to my God. Please. Talk to me God. Now. Talk to my family one time. Now. Talk out me sideways— Now. Bring me a rebel. Now. I have a headache. Now. I got regrets son. Now I got a dead son, a dead daughter a ghost cat and George Jettson, Michael Jackson and George Zimmerman, all of my tabs open: I take a tab hoping I fall asleep on the cold ocean, Calm before storm comes Out on a surfboard Look at the full moon— Nobody can hear you so SCREAM. Now. For crying out loud, Take the knife out, For a second or thought, I'm a wife now; What back handed thought or a back and on blacklist— Your back room was only your conscious— Now I'm looking at my left side, Also catatonic, Not aboard the problem like you wanted, What an order form for border patrol, You want tall glasses of hard fortune, Work hard for it, or rosemary pork on sourdough. I'm in love with you, but in poverty— There the devil is. But oh, aren't we all familiar? Suit and tie hangs to the tide, I tie the knot with rope from which I die, And quickly crafting coffins, want to walk around before I go off, Diving board or world one antenna? Not to mention it, redirect the attention and energy into something other than consumptive— Everything I do and everywhere I go, I clutch this stone Or put inside my pockets knowing if I let it go Or it falls out and to the ground Not only will I float up, But the world will open And swallow us all whole ((Down.)) I live with the knowledge of criminal visions and masterpiece compilations, but as of today I owe a bank my very and entire existence It is what it claims to be, these days ring true Nothing these days sounds like music but you. I put that book back on the shelf; Rewound the tape before I put it in the case I knew it would be late because, well That's the way it always is That's the way I always am I'm sorry mom. That's the way it always is— They told me I don't need no makeup on, However this may have only been true when I was ten to twenty two, Or twenty two, Or two whole years ago before the motorcycles stole my story. When I put the sun up in the sky, I suppose, is when I started this [that's called a God Complex] It's all behind us now, or rather All up front And out in the open In twelve point font As if I would ever cop to it I took the wrong way to Wall Street l Believe me l, i think of the tree at the rock, Long before this all was ever thought of, And I held her seed in the heart of my palm God said go the other way, I said “Okay” I want to see how much money I make; I wear makeup, I got nothing So much for a body I got stuck with words and good talking, And long vocabulary instead of the coast and a longboard So what's the cost for a whole table turn? So what's the cost for a “her—perfect.” Huh? What is the cost for some popcorn in Lorne's office? What is the cost just to cover the love boat theme song— Don't get me wrong I have original music I'm just hard getting to it; The motors are running The mirror: my mind is a murderer, murderer Engine's are purring are hurting her, hurting But I been wanting some corn on the cob To talk to my mom To call some place home To care for my son To wake up on Sunday past noon like “That was a good show.” And the next sold out . real talk, I got real problems Someone knows I'm on top of my thoughts at the rock, Choking back cocaine All the world under me, Mad at the world though For not looking up to me Huh I call this suffering Cause I already been been hungry, And homeless So I know this Pit-of-your stomach And tied to a brick at the bottom of the ocean feeling, that really Sits somewhere between “Hopeless” And “not good” But hey— If you were to say “how's your day” I answer “I'm great!” Like a positive, programmed robot or something, my mantras lately, replaced however with repetitive honest pleas of “Please help me.” Seems like— the only thing meaningful is saying this inside my Google documents; However, Seems like, It isn't worth the breathing, really Oddly, I forget to— Then I get this special feeling, Almost sentimental, inside my head I don't need medicine as much as I just need a friend besides my cat —thoughts of hammers in my brain— If I could tell you what the level of the pain is? Mercy. There doesn't seem to be a number Merry Christmas, Let's get displaced; Case is dismissed— Let's get shitfaced Wash the dishes, Pick the peloton, Pick imaginary friends And watch the President be hilarious, Until it effects us negative and in the read, When peanut butter bread and jelly All you ever get for breakfast For extended periods of time. Hah. Bloodshed? Wrong. Blood hound? Bad. Segmented thoughts on a toothache? Too late. I hate to tell you what the truth is, Cause you'd hate it. Useless. Jew fits; I just saved two cents on toothpaste And you got two new fits to wear for your friends approval and some cool picks But I can't do this anymore I want to choose live; Inside my death is The whole of the city, Electric and Thomas Edison And impressive Mister Business— Rockerfeller read about it; Somebody gotta learn and teach to squeeze the money out the people! Something simple says, “Just stop it.” Choke a chicken over breakfast, Thoughts of Belfast, real fast train to somewhere in LA, I think Today will be the day That I give bacon To charity, No care left, to give a gift So thankful, For being blessed with time to waste To write this piece of shit I guess I died I guess in family guy? I didn't like it, yet I think sometime's in stewie's cadence— …like, a British baby? And a talking dog? And a dumb ass dad? And a bunch of songs? And some salad dressing, To go with that master habit of getting Grams and Grammies; But in the long run, after a long talk on the roof with the opposite of God, I finally call a conference with all the lawyers of the court— But not to work at all, Only order sandwhiches Obsession has its advantages and platinum records, If you tap into it directly. Forget it. I'm out of magic. Or out of patience— out of time for petitions, But which one is it? Which dimension actually gets me picture perfect Instead of nervous in the eye of the beholders? Learn your lesson well; There's got to, got to be a reason why The wrong way is the right. There's got to be a reason why— My day becomes the night. There's got to be a reason for the words upon the paper, But I've got to figure out my rhythm later; I gone up instead of downtown, Turn the clock before the sunrise, I just want to find the love and the peace in it agai. Gotta love a synchronicity; I get stuck inside bronze statues Door way syndrome And I shutter just to never remember him But here the picture is, a perfect person Headless and befriended him, the lover The line inside my mind is crossed I'll suffer till I turn to dust on this one. My thoughts the first time I saw him? I hate him, Cause he'll never love me. What a troubled thought for a little girl on a lot of drugs and a weight problem. One more, I don't remember where I'm going Day to, I have to remember to forget you Take three, I'm happy that they pay me to tape these things Because I'm maybe going crazy; From the outside though, you wouldn't know it Low and behold, this is my show afterall And covered in gold like the whole of the moon I can play to the tune of two men, to two million don't let it torment you, You looks twisted Get out of your head, and turn off your television Go on a walk, Get run over by a bus or motorcycles Turn around and talk to God and your disciples — cause they all watch. Oh, what's wrong now? That's a long run, And now another pilot that I'm proud of— Stop looking at the ground— It hurts. Today, I learned my lesson, It was not a new apartment— It's a prison. I gotta say I kinda gotta love to wonder where the fuck I'm at besides “Manhattan”. The cat needs water, My heart needs captions. New York needs Jesus Hope he don't see this (Even if he did he probably wouldn't believe it, Or Even if he did He's having trouble learning English, And, Even if he did he had he's been repealing all his promises to return to us; We worship dollars A cock-shaped structures in New York— TIME TRAVELER Its called The Rock. SUPER NEW YORKER What. TIME TRAVELER I'm looking for The Rock. SUPER NEW YORKER What's that. TIME TRAVEL It's called “Rockefeller Plaza.” SUPER NEW YORKER What's that. TIME TRAVELER It's a building? I guess? SUPER NEW YORKER It's not. TIME TRAVELER It is. It's— SUPER NEW YORKER It's not. TIME TRAVELER But— *fucks off immidiately without any closure whatsoever.* TIME TRAVELER Huh. the TIME TRAVELER pulls up a picture on their device; the building itself seems to have disappeared from the photo; (Like Marty McFlyim back to the future) Contd Must be the wrong dimension… But then JOHN D. ROCKERFELLER Is MURDERED at the height of STANDARD OIL. Oh no! So that's what happened… Yeah? He was a bastard. Well! Damn. {Enter athe Multiverse} So you're everywhere all the time, And I got nothing left to run And we already talked the talk And we're already back to one Let the waves blow over, Cravings, tasting haze of periwinkle, heaven waking Putting every penny on the promise that you got me But you never save me, Really, Jesus? Racist! I got a lot of stakes in the game And all these snakes keep weighing in! I got these eight days left inside my head, And I'm a murderer Remember to admit his wrong you are Next time the caw will crow. I crevice drawing under rock Inside the undertoe, My surfboard heading home for shore, My body going under. Oh Conan, what have you done. I'm not sure yet. So? Go get him, you old hoot. I just want to watch a little longer! *feathers ruffled* What! It is comical So i'm stuck inside the equinox on Wall Street catatonic, Adding up the dollar signs and losses, Well now, Got my hosts and calling cards, And struck with dirty dozens Doesn't anybody understand? [no. Nobody does.] Certainly, you know, nobody does this. Certainly, I'm folding all the shirts for all the husbands Certainly my love was lost, but for sure I didn't want it. For sure, I dropped a couple rocks I had inside my pocket . Well done, folks. Guess what? Those aren't crocodile tears I'm crying. I'm dehydrated but they're called psychic cause Nobody knows where they come from; Some would form the thought that you got water trapped inside your soul It only happens when the sun sheds hard tears Here, solar panels Animals and tragic circumstances, Fucking Asholes Never shine your diamond on the twilight, Shooting stars; Never shoot at birds from cars; Remember, They are flying. I swallowed you whole, I swallowed you whole, I swallowed you, done. I swallowed you whole, I swallows you whole, I swallowed you down some. I swallowed you whole, I swallowed you whole, I swallowed you up; I swallowed you whole I swallowed you whole, You know what the cost is Just a heads up, If you take a picture of a gamgstalkers face, They run away. The crime being committed is a non-contact form of combat, a scientifically proven biological weapon. When you begin to document this meticulously, a pattern of coordination begins to become established. It's no longer some sort of phenomenon, that can be written off as a symptom of a broken mind; The more evidence you gather, It becomes a verifiable crime. Remember that the point of it is to control you, to enslave your autonomy— to program you to believe something is wrong, when clearly, The signs of an awakened mind can pick out patterns in the construct of human social behavior that is not ours; it is a deficit in conciousness, a weakness, caused by the moral degradation of our souls in the societal world— A loss of God. And also remember, Humans have a history to seek and destroy which it does not understand, And cannot control— However, also, God comes in all forms. You must know when all is all. Okay, shh— Don't lock the door, now You got a pardon, You better run. I am an a-list celebrity; I am an “amen, sister— I hear that!” I am a medicine woman, A centrifugal figure, A ritual character, Skilled at charicature— A big Kimmel fan, A rick and a Morty, A woman a man, A puppet, the master, A cat in a hatbox, A blasphemous coffin; A wart on a warflower. Hm. Now who could possibly take that out of context? Soft surf rock at the equinox on Wall Street. I love all four stories, I rode all four horses, I put all four corners of the earth onto a surface Then I rolled it up Huh… Somebody does that. Leets go, hard core But don't forget the hot sauce Don't forget the — Smattercat?! SMATTERCAT?! SMAAAAAATERCAAAAAAAAAT! The Adventures of Atticus Catticus. Man, this is fucked up. I can't disagree with you. I can't get you out of my head (I want head) Can't get you out of my mind I find that You must want me dead Tan lines l You must want me off my meds! You want in me in bed at 9 sharp You know what!? You remind me of Harper. Now let's talk shop, Calm, little brother I went with the other oath— Don't you belong to God? Who's on the phone? Donald Trump. Tell him “no.” No to what? Just tell him “no.” Then he'll get here faster. So what do you got in your supplements? Simple psychology; Have a red album. Nah that. I got gold gold balls on all of my prostitutes Pulled apart orgasms, Never been touched, sire. Never have I took forgranted this passion( Never have —that flex— Theatrical pangentry. Never went Ham sandwhich Ham sandwhich Ham sandwhich GODDAMMIT. I thought you grant wishes. — also in charge of summoning. Part time. Well what are you mad about?! At least you got a job! I'm so sick of this kid, He just summons “Ham sandwhich” What's wrong with that? I gave him “ham sandwhich”, Alright?! All kinds, And you know what? That guy has all kinds of magic— All the kinds— Every kind you can imagine, And no matter what, He just wants. Hmmmm…: …. Come on. Summon a dog, or something… A new bike… ……. ……..:::: ……. …. Ham sandwhich. GOD DAMMIT. …and a kite. …what was that? I want a kite. Y…you want to fly a kite. Ya. Alright! But first. An, God. Ham Sandwhich. WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING? SO WHAT I LOVED NANCY REGAN! SHE HAD THE BEST CATCHPHRASES! AND ALL THE KENNEDIES! FUCK WITH ME. Somebody shoot that bitch. But sir— Before she runs for president. But sir… THINK OF IT LIKE KILLING BABY HITLER. You're right. TAKE THE SHOOOOOT. MEANWHILE… In the MULTIDIMENTIONAL SPACETIME SURVEILANCE FACILITY Oh good. What's that. Someone one assasinated me. That's good. I'll say. Wouldn't want you to run for president. Someone still would have had to elected me. Oh, you mean like in all these parallels over here. *shrugs* They'll collapse eventually. They haven't yet. I just got assasinated. Wait for it. I've been waiting. I don't get why you hate me so much. I'm indifferent, really, just waiting for something exciting. I just got assasinated. And I just got a ten cent raise. From what I can tell, doesn't make much of a differences. It's like, limited assimilation in this dimension; Did I correct you— Lessons, I'm not making any promises. Look out little brother! I set them on you. Got to put the pudding in your pot— And don't forget to floss. What's corrextions? Look, I'm anatomically correct— Shut up, Ken. I don't click on videos or images Because I love him It's just a crush, A pair of wooden crutches A horcrux And a fox A crucifix And Sunday Brunches. It's just a bunch of pictures, Edits, autographs, Extended plays It's just an infinite inside my head— It's been a couple days. A couple miles down And sure to go, You're all for it— Soon you got to know Whatever you done Has come for your— Stop the truck for misuse of four muses And autotune to ruin it— Your mascot is a narwhal But you're rooting for the Bruins. What is even a Bruin? A bunch of racist frat boys and hot bitches in sororities and covens? Bet that Okay, Like, I fall in love But just to write a bit I pour my heart out in a song And for the moment I could make forget i'm ugly Even if for the duration of the half time; Half a pack at halftime, Half a pack at bedtime 20 cigarettes on your 2020 vision. Three beers, Then three beers Thirty three years and he still won't love me Thirty three years and I'm still no woman. He show first, So I shot back I forgot rock doves Served a purpose Postage For lost albums on the surface Surfboards For hot rod bod host, I offered up Conan, Now pick that hard eye Banjo up Water dance Pick that apple, Off the tree With not a scratch Hands tied behind your back; Baggage claim, River dance Pick it up without a fork You whispered us a state of trance For God's socks, If I fly coach, Low ball Lost a fortune Don't call me ‘bud' I think about your walk all day; Like, Three or four times, maybe Not no noodle soup, you wonder But you're asking for a Ballroom. Haggard. God did far too good a job on you; As the car jumped over the moon. I complete your meat puppet, But recently went vegan Line them up and then A heart attack, A hot bath, And a hammock. You got your offer, But I want it back, I want my roses. Golden proses so rit and rattle. I rot in hell for all I've done, then scramble; Damn. I just can't get you off my head without ramble You're probably on a tour bus; She's pulling out all the stop— But you're my monster, just know that Although I'm on top of her turf. So much for Service Monday. So much for making money on a conduit, a conduct. So much for love as. He aim for the head; I aim for the neck; He aim for the heart, I duck, I fall in her eyes, High water— No more cam tide Sunsets. What, I get you really wanted oceans, So you got them. Godsense. Pull, Conan Pull— Haul in! All in on your cards, But take the occult off them; Offering? Totem pole. More than one? I love to hope. Fix your face. Pull the plug— I'm off till Sunday, Off till Sunday. Ten days to Tuesday, You want no more Ten days to Sunday And ten more before that; Ten tongues before dawn, And other I slaughter And slaught cross the sloth, I wither, Your honor. Ten tales too soon, Ten wide my diamonds; Ten eyes in your Isis, My mind, Orion. Ten lost in the Outback; Ten lost on your mass, tongue Two whipped at the alter— I called her about that. So to the effect you check your fax and press the send, I'm steady living, never coming back, Or cap the president— Never living, Never listing residence on Madison You're stuck inside my half-life That I'm mad besides the medicine. You're stuck inside my past, Like all the knives inside my back, And still I fondly think upon a laugh, As ice cream sundaes, Half a sandwich Appetite for having all you are inside my master work of art, The world, your face I cut from clay inside my hands And I still have you in my swollen arteries, and trees the veins, The wicked summers and the bitter winters came, But did not cross paths, So to not bear ties, and to not plug Holes in the hull of the whole ship I think I sunk overtime instead of rather All at once, You know, It doesn't suffix What it takes to turn it back from “Love him” Into nothing. 20 hours passed and 20 cigarettes and ivory towers, But forgive the lives inside of Mormon wives and ice cold showers— Scatterbrained but highly trained in “Never Happened.” “Didn't matter.” So you roll it up into a movie script and call them actors. Why'd you flash me, dancer, Don't you know how bad I want that? Out inside your dozens, for my cinnamon coated combat Nail box fires Had you ordered Your desires Flow the golden drifter Fear of rivers never frozen. Don't you know the sun draws close But the heart grows cold, But the want goes harder? Don't you know the doors get shut, And the Kings get cut, And the wind blows wilder? Don't you know the stars just fall from the sky (They all fall from the sky, They fell from the sky) Don't you know We're all gonna die Put a trial to the wand, Fore you take her heart out Ten times.

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