Jounal D'Un Cur De Campagne
I cuffed clean for the occasion. Text I mean speech. Second row, strapped for the occasion. Political or staged poltical…was that Clinton? The echo's pretty bad. No. Better louder. Echoes froglike garbles. I’ll do the best I can. With hangover head the beat is a little pounding. In sight. Throbbing turns to head pounding a lot especially during white-noise of heat off august asphalt mushrooming and stuck in traffic on philadelphia river bridge. I am my own depository. I am my own fuck theatre refuge. How does one construct music like this frontier? There obviously is a planned beat or rhythm foundation. Right in the gut if I do it. Armor piercing and me with no armor fucked, laserburn like it’s supposed to be, what a way to go out, jacked like a sucker, and the presidential bass, I can take it out right in the middle of the bridge. Fading, non-lingering sounds appear and disappear from one side to other the confounded bridge, snap bang, suddenly assasinatory, will it stay the course? This is the one with the name. No course for he who prefers oralities. Heavy use of keyboard and sampling I suppose more interjection of staying the course. Symbolic for whether this repetitive beat in which the interplay of the reappearing sounds? My mother raised me not to laugh at raygun waving and doubling over for Jodie Foster’s Army halleluyeah. Dunno. 

Jounal D'Un Cur De Campagne by Resigned
Time: 5:23

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