it's dr. earning binky burning through the ethereal waves of time to bring the searing truth of past and future//\//\/ what it is motherfuckers oh once upon a time there were movie theatres in downtown american cities, palatial palaces of glitz peddling momentary forgetfulnesses. once upon a time there were little communities of praying farmers scattered all through mississippi and arkansas and texas. capitalism is a dusty windy lanscape. oh we are caught up and bound for oz and the land of witches sure. tha'ss all right. toto's a junkyard feist in this whirling junkyard storm. we be the dogs in these doggy days. here be the judgement of baghdad: your churches will be dancehalls and your skools will be video lounges.
//\//\ this is the empire of dr. bienke //\//\
cowboy boots for anna.
there's an ed gein quality to boots anna an' a'/
don' think you can get away from that./ {repeat}
it's that texas chainsaw nazi lampshade shrunken head modern art./
you wanna make it feel/
feel real./
oh i know i'm gonna die but honey don' you stop oh honey jes'/
tan my hide./ {repeat}
you can wear me out dancin', push me to the floor,/
we'll burn some rubber on the ride./
you wanna make it feel/
feel real./
i'll be your trigger tonite (yr. little sally mann..)
you wanna be a cowboy, you pull yourself hard/
you stand up in your boots real tall./ {repeat}
you stand above the dirt, you stand above the dying/
you stand above the horror of it all./
you wanna make it feel/
real.
broke blue and beaten (in which i bewail my broken fleshed nose and the space shuttle coming down. [scars are to tatoos what lightning is to electricity and i'm like lear and his fool... in my sad angry element when it blows... caught in my humour sure...in 1823 apparently there was a play in which faust met 'the vampyre' and frankenstein's monster and damn if i ain't gonna make me a movie of that i get some scheckels in my empty pocket. it's those damn jews in the media make everything go so slow because they are way un-hip and i know this because i have served their dip-shit asses lunch often enough. they're like larry gagosian going out of his fucking way with his little buddy steve martin to push the lamest of nothing and call it contemporary art. and then those stinky perfume whore girls magazines try to peddle gagosian as cutting edge. yeeeck. how we gonna do something about the bush administration when the hypocritical art world can't even bring itself to admit that larry gagosian is duller than ditch-water and everything he peddles is turned to shit by being contextualised in his lame-ass store?])
oh i'm broke blue and beaten/
and now they bomb my childhood too./ {repeat}
the sky itself is falling/
oh what's a poor boy gonna do.
momma call, say: wa'ss a matter son?/
say: mom i'm so broke i ain't having any fun.
poppa call, i say: daddy you is dead./
he say: i may be a ghost but remember what i said.
he said, son, them ivy leaguers ain't yr. friends.
oh i'm broke blue and beaten/
this bush-league shit it never ends.
i' like the beagle in the tall, tall grass/
my inclination is to move my ass.
but i don't know where i'm gonna go/
oh what we gonna do child? (she say i don' know.)
oh i'm broke blue and beaten/
this bush league shit it never ends.
2:30:27 PM 
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