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Maybe my hubris went back to the IRA with the horn I borrowed
from them upon snaking out their marching band The Optimists
Alumni. I spend too much time in bed (say the people who try to
enlighten me beyond bed
peace) to put in the grunt work
necessary to be a functional
spy from another dimension
or symphonic multiinstrumentalist, neither of
which are possible or pay very
well. I work with a computer
making music that may one
day come to life after being set
free from chips, keyboards, 1s
and 0s. Maybe in the astral
some time from now. Hang
on, I hear a bell, it may be my
hubris or it may be my other
enemy.. The past. No, its the
sound of freedom, its amazing grace. Back to Bed Peace, back to
flower power, never the USSR. God save the Queen.
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For each day a sufficient trouble thereof, says an old Zen saying.
Mother Nature's Other Son,
P.S.
Bagist art immortalizes its intended message in its decomposition
and beyond its decomposition in its evolution in the life welllived, as artefacts of bagism and to bagism, and in response to
bagism and lastly progression free from bags.
The Baggiest art
tends to be shit. It belongs in the garden so it might foster new
growth as manure.. It needs to be quickly chopped up and never
digested unless as a methamphetamine at the Cavern. Evolution
proceeds: life well-lived with another as loverism and in response
to loverism sates bagist lovers in their loverist jonesing and, again,
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