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Degenerate Art: Underground Dick & The Pussy Riot

by Baraka Noel

Well, Ray wanted me to write about Big Black Dick or some such—I’ve been thinking about the pedophile bar by my spot in Oakland, while Trump runs the country like a disorganized dominatrix—so, I guess we’ll just see what happens.

Has Anybody Seen Hip Hop?

I can’t get my events in the paper, but I stopped by the Hatch last night (for some shit I saw in a weekly) and it was a show that didn’t actually exist. But everybody’s tired of politics and I don’t have enough money for a strip club, although I’ve gotten a bit better at not thinking about my ex.

What I’m saying is, we’re launching a P.I. rm. Or, a cathouse. Or, I’m running for congress— it’s dicult to keep up, anyway...my sexual drive may be dying. I remember sophomore year, getting blown in my girlfriend’s combination basement/living room for half an hour, without release. Those ladies wishing me goodbye that night in Portland—asses up on the bed. Mouths fucked and hearts broken, spirit broken with a mangled hand—spending my days in Oakland again. Napping for the next four years sounds pretty fucking tempting. I miss George Michael.

Shame seems to be the great motivator—everybody wants to make a buck. And, as one passes the buck, so on goes their responsibility. A lot of us are barely going through the motions here.

Disney keeps remaking Star Wars, looking for A New Hope and Debbie Reynolds followed her daughter to a galaxy far, far away like they heard some kind of secret a long time ago.

I can’t clear the haze—arguments about rape culture. Unfamiliar voices echo "let the Nazi speak." What is happening as our mainstream shifts around like a cue ball in an earthquake; inverted ethos of the poseidon adventure, drama queens screaming "we are the challenger."

Freddie Mercury and The Mad Hatter. Nothing makes much fucking sense anymore. And, I’m not sure what we’ve learned from all this— wandering the Oakland noir like a private dick, clutching half a clue. Wu Tang is for the children, with the RZA adopting politics of black respectability, while Ice Cube mugs in full-res high denition. These days, I’ve kind of been forgetting to listen—news goes by, as hip hop howls in the distance. And, I’ve misplaced my copy of Ginsberg, but all I know is artists and we’re literally dying: cinematic memory, graf- ti-ickered rumor of a legend gone—pussy as A Moveable Feast—the little death, sweat and dopamine from the trenches, sning for a sulfurous spark to warm us in the Tropic Of Capricorn—man, these drugs have stopped working. Industrial decay, community collapsed like condemned tenements in the shadow of gentrication. Empathy seems to be aking o into the past like zombie esh; simple rictus of polite society, whitewashed in black invisibility.

How’ve you been? What gets you o these days? What are your secrets—addiction, infection and healthcare? Fraud could land you in a penthouse or in cell block D; bucking for the front page with a pinup, selling what you can. Candid shots transposed on a continuum, from anonymous chat rooms and Ashley Madison, to the cam girl revolution. Flash your twat for cash.

I posed for nudes in charcoal and celluloid, guring the value of a ick while nger fucking freshman girls in half-lled movie theaters— that Christmas in Chicago, where we lost the bottle of rum in a haze of marijuana smoke and had to leave the cineplex. I might confess more sins, if I remembered them, but in the meantime—on average, This is survival mode.

We try our best to ght and fuck away fascism.

Make America Great Without Punching Nazis

Strip down to your wallet. Fake news, not orgasms. How much alcohol does it take each night to love America to sleep? What makes this day unlike any other? Where do we go from here?

Let me say something about free speech—it isn’t free. I’ve lost friends, wives, communities, lovers, partners, businesses and leases, by speaking truth. I’ve cried "zombie" in a crowded cafeteria.

This Ain’t Kafka

I traded all my value for speech—I need a dollar. Hip hop taught me all I have is this word and my balls. And, though I don’t have a kid, I’ve witnessed language catching re unto a Pussy Riot.