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Tuesday, 16 July 2019
Monday, 15 July 2019
Everything is a huge letdown
And a huge come up
Sell your soul to the devil in you
The first person you have to con
Sell your soul to the devil in you
Keep what you can
Row row row your bot
Direction of the stream
The only time the river sucks
Is when you’re going the wrong way.
Go with the flow, you hoe
Prostitution is legal.
Kill the crowd
Cheat the crown
Steal from the old
They dying anyway.
Manipulation is key.
Children and seniors
They don’t have any option
So take a page from their book.
Big picture, big picture
See only the crowd
Keep them at arms length
They ain’t as smart as me.
If they were, they’d be where I’m at
Everything is fake and gay
Oh wait I guess that’s me.
Everything is so fake and gay
Fuck me sideways, senator.
Inner peace is justified
When outer lust is pacified
Yoga drugs sweat and/or fear
Embrace your sick desperation
Embrace your sickness
Embrace your self
Die, die alone.
Justify yourself, you fuck--
Or live long and suck.
Sunday, 17 March 2019
No ideas come thru. Come thru and lay here she says. I am a conduit of a greater generation past present, and future. How am I to know? Generate sleeping tables and put beds of feather with heads of hummus. I wonder if a grand narrator guides me then recedes into doubt and self pity. Hurried by rain without blankets I blacken myst myself to a pranging orange night. Oh comfort, when are we? Horrid movements in orange cots and I'm not a ninja; I'm a schizoid person with no hopes and a heartbeat I wish would stop. Covenanent hold my grasp I do depart and magic holds my hands the whole way home. Where is home, she asks? And a pale baby replies: surf shack. I head that way and bobble like a hula dancer on the dashboard of a California gypsy car. I'm a card. Non-native. I'm a card. Non wholesome. I'm a card. When in doubt I turn my robot off. Off. Off. Off.
When do we sleep again?
Never, but I crave the feeling of not thinking. Is there a word for that feeling? I've never heard of anything I cannot pronounce.
A jail house. This cages body. My partner coughs and I listen to her bloody thoat. The Hawai'ian wind hits my ear like an ASMR YouTube video and I, again, rejoin so-called friends made only of fresh acquaintance. Am I dead? Am I alive? Shelter. Comfort; I'm reminded.
I see a red door; glowing squares take my eyes from the grips of cool with and giggling trees. What am I now? A conduit for junk art from junk to junk to junk to junk to junk.
I hold my breath for a moment as a passing loiterer flicks his flip flops; a horn honks and a bike chime jingles. Wind starts up and the loiterer passes again looting my thoughts. I’m not riveted; I’d kill for a bed.
Junk. Junk, junk, junk. And more junk. I’m all junked up he says. The wind gets cooler and I notice she’s wearing my hoodie. I’m tired, but I know if I rail any of that blow in her backpack I might as well head foe a soft soggy beach beneath my bottom. Sand in my ass crack. Starbucks Google sponsors the notes downloadd cloud iPhone apparatus I joyously jot junk notes upon. Wind kicks up.
Still no ideas.
Red leaves flick in the wind and I wish again I was dead while glancing at a black truck in our lonesome parking lot. Is there nothing here for us? He wonders and I feel cool wind on my skin.
Dreams don’t come true. I search my mind for a trick and our trucking friend leaves. It’s cold and I’m bored.
What’s that noice? Twitchitt coughs.
“Are you ready to go?” is heard from the people behind us. I’m ready to sleep on white Egyptian cotton sheets. Where and when is my mind. Another car passes. A Nissan. Fucking nonstop...
She gives me cocaine. We still have some weed left. They know we’re some kind of scum. The sum of our parts: we wish to be royalty and graze on the steps of closed shops taking drugs and eating our Foodland bounty—wishing for the scraps of peasant patrons.
We are really no one and nothing; this time passes and we forget all about it by the following moon—referencing it in stories to our so-called friends. I ended those relationships basing my personage on being a husk of a shell of a barrier wall enclosed by thin fencing and enclosing nothing. My art is empty; my soul is caged; only my body remains tangled up in electric waves until death becomes me the way roses line a casket.
Who is this person? A child at the beach: “I want to be an astronaught.”
Don’t get high on anything terrestrial they urge. Shells add up on razor rock shorelines and he recalls the Basketball Diaries as Leonardo DiCaprio writhes for freedom in the stench of a lucid heroine dream—sans heroine.
Will they find my phone? “aye, me,” He says. Whine me. Wine me, please. Dine me. Help me hold me; I’m no one without you he says. You are the reason I am, or can be, me. Scribe tribe; but never finish your thought book. Hold a high pedestal for your astral dust wiped from shapeless moving clouds and ending in rain in an endless ocean of acid. He came, he saw, he conquors.
He holds his breath and she coughs. He holds his breath and she coughs. He holds his breath and she coughs. He holds his breath.
HE wakes up. Something inside of HIM hears it. IT becomes lucid and HE makes his lasting impressions. Leave me behjnd, HE says. I’m dead anyways.
Who is HE promoting now? Who is HE? Is HE finished here or is HE still working?
Tuesday, 12 March 2019
Dearest blog readers, ye of few and prominent: Brie Larson is boring.
Sure, she’s, literally, a 10.7568 on a scale of 0-10 human, but I mean... Brie... ya boring. i don’t even care if I would arm wrestle a wookie to be in your arms enwraptured within a fit of passion for any length of whatever moments: you’re boring. Boo.
So whatever, Grimes was at your premier (by the way, Akh Faernaa if you’re reading I’ve been chasing my left leg to a broadstroked coincidence marked by a shiny black space-elf star shell... to the ends of Caladaan and, unlike Azalea, Twitchitt and I would never bitch out on a foursome with Dr. Manhattan and the girl who inspired me to use garageband back in ‘08.)
But, it’s past time now. X, right?
I’m in the back of a movie theatre in North Shore Hawai’i with some genius friends Twitchitt and I met when someone mentioned, aloud, “True Master.”
I was like, who me? That was Friday. Maybe.
Elon: subject of our recent collective AC obsession... I have this pitch for you. See, I’m a designer and my little (younger) brother is disabled. We’re at a robot-legs type point in history. Maybe you can hop on the Show train and vice versa. You got all the cykik movies—get at me. Send a car.
On the subject of Sheraton hotels: eat a dick.
What part of anonymity don’t people understand? Hey poolboy, my jacket cost a month of your salary so settle down before I take you down homie. Peg ass motherfucking plastic condocreep boxclimber. Fuck off.
Back to Brie because she’s a giant image in front my my head. I’m a creep for you like Radiohead, baby. Holla back with an NDA and prospect my DNA. Props on Captain Marvel. Stan Left me to the keys to the mansion, though. Sorry ‘boutchya beautiful booty chika cheetah cheeks, booboo.
Saturday, 9 March 2019
How did HappyMan learn to fly?
Impenetrable, invulnerable feather skin.
His race class has evolved past the ideology of defense mechanisms thereby having created a dimension void of cleromancy.
(Cleromancy is a form of sortition, casting of lots, in which an outcome is determined by means that normally would be considered random, such as the rolling of dice, but are sometimes believed to reveal the will of God, or other supernatural entities. [Wikipedia])
The bluff: My hotel and restaurant rating blog clocked 1 million hits this month alone.
The con: free food and shelter.
Why it works(ed): it started today.
How we do: we fucking ball.
Controversializing a divided nation
C:/ America: the democratic republic split in half. Undivisible? Nah. 100% divided 50/50. Democratic. Republican. Its probably a much older debate, though.
Honolulu is “No Public Restroom”, HI. Mad potential; zero culturally interesting XP. Does anyone care about dolphin art? No, because 1996 already happened and every shred of fair/exhibition ring-toss garbage existed and was tossed out with glistening particle board.
Hawaii—Honolulu... ew. Just ew.
If the art and clothing aren’t trashy Santa Monica condo-creep caught mid-pacific garbage, the tourist population is an undertow of what happens when people keep saying, “I can’t even draw stick figures.”
No style points out of ten.
Airwaves are caught in Honolulu like a triangle: anti-graffiti sentiment posters (you know who you are) can eat eight octodicks and say ten hail Mary’s. Repulsed.
I mist amidst the occasional crashing on hotel sofas because the concierge admits I look white and prominent so I must be there for a reason (you are never really poor in a Scabal blazer). One by one we wear their sofas a la second hand as an ultra-rich tapestry of specific-use human beings hum about in Japanese, Mandarin, and Korean. Mostly I love the high-end posters coaxing their beautiful woven eyelids with subpar white female models. Killer kawaii, Hawaii.
All time best gimmick: children busking. Real talented rugrats hang onto keys like dangling from tree branches while all unclimbed super-trees are accented by lines of tents—an emerging subsociety rages and optional homelessness subsists within an economic category of its own undertaking. An addendum on gimmicks—you can’t have two children performers on the same boulevard; or, I mean, you can... but, the novelty is washed out with the tide.
Loiterer unfriendly sunny Honolulu is the perfect model of These United States: anxious for the division to result in its inevitable civil war during the next democratic term.
Next: Grimes—Role Model or Psychic Terrorist? JK bitxh.
Elon, dear. We must chat.