Dirty Computer … this synesthetic venture through the ArchAndroid’s akashic record, despite any and all attempts at erasure, remains an impenetrable audio-visualized experience of the rogue post-robotic mediatrix’s life lived … to the fullest extralegal extent of natural order.
This record, feels like excavation, reveals by vivisection, and establishes through manifest reverie, Monáe’s living mnemonic museum… Black Girl Magic meets Read-Only Memory, CD-ROM in the age of socio-culture-dot-com.
The defining characteristic of the ROM format, is that very read-only capability (“Computers can read—but not write to or erase—CD-ROMs”); here, we have the noir valkyrie read-only memory in 1080p display: transferring data of the self-appointed dirty computer’s voyages through deserted planes of the marginalized fringe, the periphery lingering on those outskirts of the mainframe, where exiled liberation lives.
The defining characteristic of this record is the dirt; that feature beyond the bug – infiltration of organic matter, pre-modern human civilization – is the very same earth which cultivated those origin roots from which these rhythms now flow…
We all come from the dirt. I also see us as computers. We’re downloading, uploading things in our brains, in our hearts, and some of the things that make us unique can be seen as these bugs, and these viruses. And for me, I see all my bugs and viruses as features, as attributes.
… to glitch the matrix – manufactured systems and silicon structures, rewiring human anatomy in the name of “efficiency,” giving precedent to that which is programmed to function through synthetics void of soul.
They started calling us computers. People began vanishing, and the cleaning began; you were dirty if you looked different; you were dirty if you refused to live the way they dictated; you were dirty if you showed any form of opposition at all … and if you were dirty, it was only a matter of time …
Here, we are given invitation, insight, and initiation into the present emergence of homo luminous amid its signature ascent… projected illumination by way of necessary collapse, and subsequent elevation… that dirt to glitch the system, and define inherent divine, of those who are deemed different, marvelous misfits who exist boldly beyond false authority’s established confines. The organic matter manifest magic in highly-melanated vessels of starseeds navigating their native cosmic grid, in the face of silicon artifice.
The first four songs are the reckoning; realizing what you mean to this society.
Jane’s introduction feels like genomic genesis; evoking a necessary balance between the lyrical syntax’s sobering disclosure, virtually fated in its penance before inevitable sterilization, and tonal sentiment’s simultaneous resilience, sparking reminiscent revival of pre-anesthetic close encounters of the digital world’s loam tribe.
The soundtrack emerges on currents of harmonic synthesis, between Monáe’s spoken-word vocals and Brian Wilson’s lush arrangements of a littoral lad. Energies coalesce in an ethereal ebb-and-flow, commencing navigation through futurist frequencies on the frayed wires of a flawed processor.
Dirty computer, walk in line
If you look closer you’ll recognize
I’m not that special
I’m broke inside
Crashing slowly, the bugs are in me
Dirty computer, breaking down
Picking my face up off the ground
I’ll love you in this space and time
‘Cause baby all I’ll ever be is
Your dirty computer
Dirty Computer …
Voices from the past echo through the anamnesis:
You told us, “We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men and women are created equal; and that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights; among these are life, liberty, and the—and the pursuit of happiness…”
Specious declarations of new world independence testify beneath aquatic synth and deep, pulsating bass; the inter-generational clarion call segues into Monáe’s own sovereign claim on behalf of this 21st Century iconoclass terra nova …
The tonal medley between cantillating soliloquy and spoken-word poetry establish orchestrated blueprints, boasting the inherent majesty found in this fundamental reckoning of comrades made kin, sharing renovated bonds of the formerly-oppressed discovering essential selves in their natural-born skin … and reflection of love supreme in the divine feminine …
We don’t need another ruler
All of my friends are kings
(Oh-oh, oh-oh, oh-oh, oh-oh)
I’m not America’s nightmare
I’m the American dream
(Oh-oh, oh-oh, oh-oh, oh-oh)
Just let me live my life
I just wanna find a G*d
And I hope she loves me too
That crazy, classic, life … this second chapter mirrors modern culture’s second nature … beneath all of its apparent idealism, this record reflects the duplicity of equanimity in a society, bound and broken, found and fragmented by the politics of apparent identity – the data-driven dismantling of our digital native community. Monáe’s tone pivots – and so the script – just beyond the bridge, from rhythmic ephemera to gallant staccato, marking a most-immediate pivot in the populous, where trivial factions convert friends to foes, and recoded kids remain caught in the hegemonic scope of false dichotomies:
Handcuffed in a bando
White boy in his sandals
Police like a Rambo
Blow it out, blow it out like a candle, Sambo
Me and you was friends, but to them, we the opposite
It feels like a post-Coachella comedown, the reality check of an ersatz utopia descending from fantasy oasis to concrete jungle … sometimes, it just takes the stark words of a humble bard to break the binary divide: immediately, between carbon-coding tech bros and neon sirens of neo-soul … regardless of proximal language, for the most part, we’re all just crystal grid creatives …
The same mistake, I’m in jail, you on top of sxxt
You living life while I’m walking around moppin’ sxxt
Tech kid, backpack, no, you a college kid
All I wanted was to break the rules like you
All I wanted was someone to love me too
But no matter where it was I always stood out
Black Waldo dancing with the thick brows
We was both running naked at the luau
We was both on shrooms praying face down, waist down
… young, live, and scene …
So if the world should end tonight
I had a crazy, classic, life
And so, if the apocalypse should arrive just before the dawn, let the ledger show, this very sequence of physical experiences – however fantastically porous beyond reason – transcended limitations, heretofore presumed fait accompli, in triumphant pursuit of enduring design … immortality, for the kids, for the culture, if only in the metaphysical record of prismatic pop song. Insane, infinite, animate.
Take a byte: helio-harmonic hand-offs and cyborg send-offs Corleone Kiss the king’s cheek, in a mid-tempo testament requiem to the old guard, on behalf of Apollonia Maria’s daughter. The prima donna dawn nouveau brings this Next Testament to fruition, offering the listener a sumptuous sampling of galactic gaea’s fifth-dimensional anatomical condition …
That bassline: return of the pulsating basilisk tempo … oscillating undertones, neo-funk frequencies scintillate lava lunar tides … obsidian rivers course through serpentine dreams … canyon riffs and indigenous kicks coalesce into six-string poetry and percussive chemistry. Sinuous progressions crescendo into a capella gospel claps – save for the keys – paving the way for a slice of Sunday morning sermon to hymn through the bridge into terra-celestial evanescent.
The lyrical fiat:
I tell you no lies (I tell no lies)
Your code is programmed not to love me but you can’t pretend
Oh, what a surprise
Take a byte (just take a byte)
Help yourself (help yourself)
It’s alright (it’s alright)
I won’t tell
Take a byte (just take a byte)
Help yourself (you look so good just help yourself)
Don’t think twice (don’t think twice)
I won’t tell
Rewind, remind, work of human hands, fruit of the vine; Faustian oligarchs living a lie, not realizing that in Adam all died … It feels like reverse Genesis wrapped in next-level Nativity, delivered from Pandora’s music box, on Hathor’s lap, in a Persephonic chariot, en route to celebrate the Eleusinian Mystery.
My random access memory wants you to come again
No, don’t say goodbye (don’t say goodbye)
I saw my therapist she thinks you are my magic sin
Oh, maybe she’s right (maybe she’s right)
Well I’ll just lick an angel just to purify again
Take a byte from Mary Apple, Mitochondrial Eve building upon ruins of past world sediment; Sarasvati places iLife to rest in the wake of Steve. Jane’s masquerade manifestation proceeds, lingering about the halls of the hub, and the psyche of the sentry; as she infests the mainframe, so said personified fertile crescent edifies this reckoning, making her way as motherboard template of divergent directors …
Plunge into the primordial, emerge from the firewire in the wake of Argha Noa. Revelations take root in the Mesopotamian womb’s aesculapian tide pools. A matriarchal muse arrives upon disco-licked keys as curative serpent chieftess, staff in hand, to break western from industrial tech titans; maybe it’s love, maybe it’s lust, maybe it never ends … effectually: drones, say your goodbyes.
Lucid suspense awakens within Jane’s dreamscape, as kenosis drifts along the lip of alchemy’s chalice … on the other side of Jon Brion’s roaming riff between meandering chords and a wanderlust theremin, the dirty computer finds itself on the brink of a delve into the inverse. Gallivanting down the rabbit hole, arriving upon the bacchanal reverie of extraordinary machines … because when the pawn hits the conflicts he thinks like a king, and when the glitch hits the matrix she redirects the scene.
The middle half of the album, is the celebration; celebrating your dirt, celebrating being a ‘dirty computer.’
Baptized in blacklight … echoes cascade toward the axial echelon: “I live my life in a magazine, I live my life on a TV screen … I live my life on birth control, I lost my mind to rock and roll …” media, meds, and music; symphonic reflections of a modern-day Cerebrus, signal the gateway to subterranean celebration amplified.
Welcome to Wondaland Haus: where each spin is a suite. Motley microcosms scatter about the cerebellum; each dulcet neuron akin to a key, each rhythmic rune a room, each record finds itself the self-contained sonic embodiment of a pop world’s zeitgeist muse.
Knock, knock: step inside door number fun. Tastes like … Kombucha Pop chopped and, well, screwed. Zoe Kravitz co-hosts said foray into the celebratory, dosing a bubblefunk twist on libertine leveling with inherent bohemiamericana flair. Adamant ambivalence buoys the lair, not dropping the world so much as offering to raise a glass. Sirens are calling, bombs are falling, subliminal programming sedates critical thought capacities … but as a Silver Youthquaker once said: “Just because the world is burning down around us, doesn’t mean we have to be cynical…” Indubitably, indeed; onward, we shall proceed.
Bittersweet social commentary, served through the looking-glass of citrus-laced lyrical libations, bathe aural canals in everyday realities of whimsical woe; where all is not lost when you just release, and let go. Two verses, three choruses, and a bridge into the tune, the flow flips a script and rings a new mood. Feels a bit like when early libations shift to straight-no-chaser – read: receipts.
Everything is sex
Except sex, which is power
You know power is just sex
Now ask yourself who’s screwing you
Fake news, fake moves, fake food—what’s real?
Still in The Matrix eatin’ on the blue pills
The devil met with Russia and they just made a deal
We was marching through the street, they were blocking every bill
I’m tired of hoteps tryna tell me how to feel
In a riff: sorting nuts, bolts, and brass tacks – one cog at a rhyme. Postcolonial zombification on parade; cover to cover, read between the headlines, and there’s not much new to discover: everything is everything, except what you’re sold to see, and the only sin in the bank of power is transactional celibacy. Thus spoke the Oracle; just know when, that pill is swallowed, the spoon is going to bend.
Django Jane, mademoiselle unchained; new world regal unveils the arena on traphaus theatre.
This is my palace, champagne in my chalice
I got it all covered like a wedding band
Wondaland, so my alias is Alice
And we gon’ start a motherfxxkin’ p*ssy riot
Or we gon’ have to put ‘em on a p*ssy diet
Look at that, I guarantee I got ‘em quiet
Look at that, I guarantee they all inspired
Stark bars billow record of Monae’s Carta … sapient scriptures of audiobiographical ventures display futuristic life in the rear-view, live libertatum embossed across manor facades.
Level up the estate; venture along vivisection in verse, and gaze upon a euphonious valley of the queens. Coruscant currents illuminate catacomb panels; what was thought to be a sarcophagus, comes into view a chrysalis womb, as biorhythmic threads weave the tale of incubation into modern mythology.
Inverted pyramids penetrate the soil, risen from the ashes of triumph through the toil. Alcázars span vaulted lands, established foundries, whose once-rejected cornerstones now reside as rudimentary keys. Take a seat in the lounge, lay back and exchange, bask around the bonfire of reigning subcultural vanity.
Tribal gateways open wide, hymnal hieroglyphics direct interior design; line by rhyme, a burgundy baroness grants sheer articulation of an empire. A mystic monarch examines her own anatomical composition, by way of orchestral projection.
Mbembe’s aesthetic vulgarity laces Wondaland Alice’s living history… Atlantis ascends in Thebes; reefs rise beneath tides of Hatshepsut’s dynasty. Eponymous sediment swells into sandstorms, seminal words beyond bond; the very real sword and shield, veiling figures fueling the counter-strike on modern misogynoir:
Already got a Oscar for the casa
Runnin’ down Grammys with the family
Prolly give a Tony to the homies
Prolly get a Emmy dedicated to the
Highly melanated, ArchAndroid orchestrated
Yeah, we highly melanated, ArchAndroid orchestrated
Remember when they used to say I look too mannish
Black girl magic, y’all can’t stand it
Y’all can’t ban it, made out like a bandit
They been trying hard just to make us all vanish
I suggest they put a flag on a whole ‘nother planet
Black, white, read all over; the newsprint moniker closes incumbent caskets, toppling false crowns in free-verse. As she makes her way past monoliths and mausoleums, the personified cypher translates catechist sermon, preaching a life lived as venom antidote, second-coming and solution to the guardian sphinx.
We gave you life, we gave you birth
We gave you G*d, we gave you Earth
We fem the future, don’t make it worse
You want the world? Well, what’s it worth?
Emoticons, Decepticons, and Autobots
Who twist the plot?
Who shot the sheriff, then fled to Paris
In the darkest hour, spoke truth to power?
Made a fandroid outta yo’ girlfriend
Let’s get caught downtown in the whirlwind
And paint the city pink, paint the city pink
And tuck the pearls in, just in case the world end
Here, we witness active roll-call: kingdoms conquered, markets mastered, former sheiks shelved. Imperial frameworks form as blueprints come to fruition, again: for the kids, for the culture.
Mansplaining, I fold ’em like origami
What’s a wave, baby? This a tsunami
For the culture, I kamikaze
I put my life on a life line
… rewriting history in the wake of cultural amnesia’s referential ruin. The generative collapse of mental gender manifest, in tone and timbre; return in ascendance of the feminine divine: strong enough for a man, made as a woman – anything less would be uncivilized. Mirror, mirror, muse the heiress.
Eclectic electric, tempos on tap, hitch a ride with the caravan for a Neptunian nightcap … onward from Eden’s orchard, take a lil’ take a lil’ take a lil’ trip, let the seraphim be your guide; submerge beneath the surf, take a lil’ take a lil’ take a lil’ sip as ambrosia rain circulates, and follow tropical wonder as it echoes just beyond the skyline …
“I Got the Juice” … feels like approaching a moat, some aquatic halo guarding Elysian planes, and, catching a glimpse of yourself reflected in those transmundane waters, Narcissus springs to mind … held in a moment of suspense (should I stay or should eye go), the balance breaks, Jane whispers: “Girl, use that sauce; if you don’t, then that’s your loss.” Well, Narcissus didn’t have a chalice, but you hold the grail; so, you scoop that liquid passionfruit, and cruise that moat with Alice.
Pharrell doctors said sonic concoction with signature maestro proclivity, HerMonáe Trismegistus serves the elixir’s extract on an emerald tablet, and the world continues to feast, drink, and revel in visionary:
Got juice for all my lovers
Got juice for all my wives
My juice is my religion
Now, ask the angels, baby
My juice is so divine (hey!)
Ain’t no juice quite like yours
Ain’t no juice quite like mine (hey!)
Yeah, I got the juice
I’m the truth, you can see it
I’m the plug when you need it
I’m the truth, I’m the truth
Yeah, yeah, I got the juice
You can break me, break me down
If you want it you can get it
You can take my, take my crown
I don’t want it, I don’t need it
So, in the words of rhapsodist Fiasco: “… my most coveted thing is my high self-esteem, and the low tolerance for them telling me how to lean; see, the most important parts are the ones that are unseen – see the wings don’t make you fly, and the crown don’t make you king.” Sante, salud.
OK, Google: resume revelry within the hub of algorithmic procession deemed so fresh it’s filthy.
Pansensory ecstasy. Somewhere in a day-glo alcove, nestled beneath the Suprasonic Pop multiverse’s celestial pantheon canopy, Janelle Monáe surrogates Prince and Bowie’s lovechild. Music, the eternal midwife of such creative metapossibilites, delivers said Pop canon renaissance symphonic from the barrel of semi-precious weaponry: bask in the magnanimous feels of oracular spectacular Glam-Funk fantastic …
Binary stars collide, supernovae genesis ensues. Lost in the cosmic crux, found in a dreamspell, beneath and beyond pulsating bombast of astral choreography … immaculate connection:
“Discover the simple secret encoded in the star-glyph: you are unconditional love, the stone of indestructible liberation. Radiate that knowing in all your thoughts and actions. Love all of creation. Join the dance of light, the fundamental constant of nature, and shine forth the clarity of your true essence. There is great power in simply identifying with the light: ‘As above, so below.’ You are in truth, and truth is in you. … As you express unconditional love, you become more than you previously perceived yourself to be. You become illumined, the full manifestation of your divinity. In the embrace of your humanity, accept yourself and others unconditionally. Magnify your full presence. Luminous solar will come in myriad forms to assist you. Be limitless. Accept and understand the nature of judgement, fear, light and dark within yourself and others. Love and accept yourself and others as you are, freed from previous boundaries. You are the dawning of the solar age. … As you move toward your core of light, you will find a clear-light awareness that is innately innocent. In this place, the mind is restored to its original state of receptivity. Clarity and freedom become expressions of being, and bliss becomes the body …
At this core of light, a new reality is born. From the union of the divine masculine and feminine is birthed the solar androgyny of cosmic consciousness.
Stay elevated, indigo children.
Onward, ever upward … lunar eclipse drips into a pool of self-reflection, as solar Sagittarius spins a spool of reckoning’s celebration … adoration abound:
The dreamspell’s spindle guides a crimson skywalker through its active balance, traversing multiverses synchronized into universal source. Dynamic equilibrium perpetuates pulsating exchange between the present expression and starseeded self … distant diametrics share life-sustaining respiration within supernal choreography of fluid conversation … Yin and Yang consummate, immaculate conception of the cosmic egg heralds evolution revolution within the archetypal trinity.
The law of attraction, magnanimous magnetism between sheer force and unyielding desire: will to transform, grace to transpire. This traverse between elements of a multi-faceted self, the necessary flux maintaining balance in an otherwise tumultuous world … centered calm amidst the ecosystem’s constant caprice, the remedy in reciprocity of methodical mystery:
Sometimes a mystery, sometimes I’m free
Depending on my mood or my attitude
Sometimes I wanna roll or stay at home
Walking contradiction, guess I’m factual and fiction
I don’t care what I look like but I feel good
Better than amazing, and better than I could
Told the whole world, I’m the venom and the antidote
Take a different type of girl to keep the whole world afloat
‘Cause I’m crazy and I’m sexy and I’m cool
Little rough around the edges but I keep it smooth
I’m always left of center and that’s right where I belong
I’m the random minor note you hear in major songs
Together in balance, minor notation in major rotation, etheric temples of living light maintain the propulsion frequency of a dirty computer’s terrestrial life …
Blink awakens into a lotus haze, hover undercover just a little bit longer … clarity takes focus within pastel fades of morning-after slumber parties … immerse in lucid landscapes respiring verve into the world, as a distant oasis redefines manifest destiny amidst the apparent desolation of deserted territories …
Bubblegum dream pop alights onto the screen, red and white candy stripes converge beneath onyx towers, kissing celestial canopies … halfway between Intro to Life Sciences and Anthropology of Color Theory, we have: “PYNK,” paradise found in the xx.
Rosebuds blossom, petals unfold in resounding revelation, clairvoyant aspects on the panorama within universal symmetry unveil elements of sacred human majesty … a taste of moonstruck matrilineality.
Pink like the inside of your, baby
Pink behind all of the doors, crazy
Pink like the tongue that goes down, maybe
Pink like the paradise found
Pink when you’re blushing inside, baby
Pink is the truth you can’t hide, maybe
Pink like the folds of your brain, crazy
Pink as we all go insane
Pink where it’s deepest inside, crazy
Pink beyond forest and thighs
Pink like the secrets you hide, maybe
Pink like the lid of your eye, baby
Pink is where all of it starts, crazy
Tale as old as time, splendor dawns from a brush with grimes, unveiling the mastery of a most humble magnificent bodhi locus … The dirty computer’s PYNK reigns supreme, if only because: no mud, no lotus.
Leaving traces of us down the boulevard
I wanna fall through the stars
Getting lost in the dark is my favourite part
Let’s count the ways we could make this last forever
Last call for the bacchanal …
… and after the party is the aftermath … in the wake of festival comes the debutante dirge … the eleventh hour strikes as previously disparate entities approach the surface in merge … breaking ground on revisited frontiers, building out present futures on reclaimed ruins of purlieu past, striding on the shoulders of precursory pioneers …
And then you kind of go through the fear of what that means to stand up for yourself and those who are oftentimes marginalized. And it leads you to the reclamation. Reclaiming what it is to be an American. I too am American. My ancestors built this place.
Somewhere between Angel Island and Atlantis, Ellison echoes … “The penalty for wakefulness is to encounter ever more violence and horror than the sensibilities can sustain, unless translated into some form of social action. … Here, it could be seen that the true function of her singing is not simply to entertain, but … with effects of voice and rhythm to evoke a shared community of experience.”
Pastoral strings serenade over a coastal brink’s cresting waves … enduring percussion accompanies the arrangement, inviting serene evocations of crystalline acquaintance …
The water’s perfectly good
Let’s reintroduce ourselves
From a free point of view
If I’m gon’ sin, it’s with you
Tattoo your love on my heart
Let the rumors be true
Even though you tell me you love me
I’m afraid that you just love my disguise
Taste my fears and light your candle to my raging fire
Of broken desire
Campbell’s canon calls through this cosmogony of cardinal fidelity … “We no longer desire and fear; we are what was desired and feared.” … Aeons crux, the syzygy yokes in amalgamation, transition from descent to transcendent salvation, psalmists’ lives lived as nothing more, nor anything less, than luminous tales to be told … and so the magistrate presides, the stone the builders rejected, here dwells as cornerstone, as futurist fortune favors the bold …
But don’t judge me
I know I got issues
But they drown when I kiss you
Don’t, don’t judge me
Baptize me with ocean
Recognize my devotion
The hero wears a thousand faces, the heroine graces a thousand spaces, and so American mythology materializes in present reclamation …
“Woman, in the picture language of mythology, represents the totality of what can be known. The hero is the one who comes to know … she can never be greater than this self, though she can always promise more than he is yet capable of comprehending … and if thee can match her import, the two, the knower and the known, will be released from every limitation…”
So, “Stevie’s Dream:” feels like lucid envisaging through songs in the keys of life of a Wonderman’s crafted scene …
To love, in the face of lambaste, to vanquish tyranny volte-face, to release and extinguish the oppressive poison without poisoning the collective self … is alchemy embodied and attained. Said feat is not merely royal rule, but present life itself … to translate said trajectory is to illuminate the previously marginalized community – to make the reign real now: “[One] cannot express (either in the form of dreams, ideas, or realities) that which does not exist in [their] environment.”
Even when you’re upset, these words of love
‘Cause G*d is love
Allah is love
Jehovah is love
So, don’t let your expressions, even of anger
Be confused or misconstrued
Turn them into words of expression
That can be understood by using words of love
Dream awhile, scene awhile … and wonder into reality, an old soul’s new world …
“We all know, sometimes life’s hates and troubles
Can make you wish you were born in another time and space
But you can bet your life times that and twice its double
That G*d knew exactly where he wanted you to be placed
So make sure when you say you’re in it but not of it
You’re not helping to make this earth a place sometimes called Hell
Change your words into truths and then change that truth into love
And maybe our children’s grandchildren
And their great-great-grandchildren will tell
I’ll be loving you”
And so, said children and great-great-grandchildren, marvelous models of a young populous on the rise, gallivant across lush valleys through sun-soaked days, settle and gather around the bonfire beneath horizon’s drape, basking in the sounds of their heralded score …
All the kids run around playing free and fun, while the dogs lap around the can
Falling down, climbing trees, swimming in the river, no life jacket on their backs
Daughters sharpen their knives and they hunt for food, others watch their children grow
Mothers going to work and they shake the hands of a corporate tycoon’s ghost
The muse, reflecting on her role in the burgeoning realm of a village on incumbency’s verge … facing the fear, that illusory reality of false evidence appearing real …
I’m a gift and a curse to the wilderness when the leaves only turn to brown
The birds fly high and they wink at all of the grandmothers on the ground
Rain pours down in the village dens, my cousins fetch for lunch
While I sit in my room writing letters to my church and things and such
‘Cause I’m afraid
I’m so afraid
What if I lose?
Is what I think to myself
I’m fine in my shell
I’m afraid of it all, afraid of loving you
“‘But what am I afraid of? There is nothing but myself.’ Whereupon the fear was gone.”
With that, routes and roots converge emergent, from beneath weathered lands of sapient soil, wanderlaust warriors found in reclaimed firmament, canon to the left of them, canon to the right, canons of a new age … aural narrations establish declaration of claimed inheritance, built upon a fragmented past, blessed in the present beneath billowing sage …
Hold on, don’t fight your war alone
Halo around you, don’t have to face it on your own
We will win this fight
All souls be brave
We’ll find a way to heaven
We’ll find a way
“And we would turn our heads westward to hear [the] voice seen up the hill and down, as pure and as miraculously unhindered by distance and earthbound things as is the body in youthful dreams of flying …”
Brick by brick, mortar and marrow … experiencing heavy degrees of Hendrix embedded within neoteric threads of anthemic riff … the megabyte takes flight, enters stage right … a liberated lady navigates the scape, crafting sovereign ode from the mainframe of a broken code … the dirty computer creatrix exhumes origin stories to flip the script and glitch the matrix.
War is old, so is sex
Let’s play god, you go next
Hands go up, men go down
Try my luck, stand my ground
“War is old, so is sex…” which is power – you know, false power – which in retrospect, is perilous, when the ivory tower, becomes the tomb. Tapestries unfold, unraveling perjured fibers of Plymouth’s versioned stranglehold … raise a flag to eclipse the past, to redefine the mark and cue of allegiance pledged full-mast:
I pledge allegiance to the flag
Learned the words from my mom and dad
Cross my heart and I hope to die
With a big old piece of American pie
Love me baby, love me for who I am
Fallen angels singing, “clap your hands”
Don’t try to take my country, I will defend my land
I’m not crazy, baby, naw
Scales and rudiments settle the score, recognizing what was then, to establish the here and now: people beyond points of profit, communities of comrades who live truth in the face of lauded false prophets … scales and rudiments balanced and rectified, the next testament delivered in order to signature, to fine-tune testify.
Just love me baby, love me for who I am
Fallen angels singing, “clap your hands”
Don’t try to take my country, I will defend my land
“In those days it was either live with music or die with noise, and we chose rather desperately to live.”
This is not my America
But I tell you today that the devil is a liar
Because it’s gon’ be my America before it’s all over
Please sign your name on the dotted line
Canon to the left, canon to the write, drafted for score … canon crafted for ever more.
Revelation of Ascending Reciprocation:
So, it goes through phases. Every song depends on the next song.
Aural engenders ocular … the epiqueerian narrative given guise … as hers, too, was a tale of abduction and metamorphosis, of enduring reclamation once her self-determined identity was revealed and recognized.
In 140 or less: The cosmic BG-ROM exhumes her stellar-terrestrial sequence from incumbent ruin …
Personified amalgam of 1987, Baltimore, Atlanta, DC, Manhattan, London, Los Angeles and American pop culture. Language artist within a capacity, drummer by passion, Pop savant by preordination, Media Master by dictate of scholastic artisans and scientists, and culture scribe by necessity. I freelance life.