by Silas Price

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The smell of garbage that is almost erotic. The first engineer who was honest about how much he hated us. A chipmunk, crushed, drying in the sunshine. People think because I am serious all the time and can’t take a joke, that I am wholly mentally retarded. Europeans arguing whether we live outside of time now, in something called the post-contemporary present, which “transmits a future of the past that it already exceeds”. Sweet potato, onion, kale, salt, pepper, cumin, apple cider vinegar. Power and compassion, though completely different, come from the same place. Eskimos don’t actually have a hundred different words for snow. I don’t know how to do my own taxes, but I can recite the entirety of the epic poem “Paradise Lost”, from memory. Apparently you risk getting fired if you’re a minute late for work in Japan. A raccoon lies bloated in the middle of the lane, its brains coiled out like a cartoonishly long tongue; automobiles swerve expertly around it. The gesture that I refer to is that of artworks that attempt to parody capitalism. My body is permanently damaged from domesticity. Jesus died for our sins so that we may keep on sinning. He looked upon a civilization so caught up in their ideologies that they often turned from reality, ignorant of the plight of real human beings. Straight 60/40. Look, it’s not going to bring down the caliphate, but it’s funny as hell. The knowledgeable act ironic, and the sincere naïve. It’s not that the mentally ill people are mentally ill, but that they live in an unnatural and excessively stressful environment. Using an atomic bomb is a terrible and evil thing. We have suffered a terrible fate that should never have been inflicted on anybody. Americans do have a hundred different words for profit. Earth Balance Buttery Spread, daiya cheese, almond milk, nooch, flour. In this gesture the artwork proclaims a radicalism, a dissatisfaction with the actually existing. Are those unicorns or just really big horses? Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do. So they give vouchers if the subway is delayed for any length of time for any reason. Monkeys don’t walk around all day regretting poor life decisions, was his punchline. Traudl Junge passed away in 2002. Irony is the tool of the trapped who have come to enjoy their cage. The toilet will not fill. Plus an exploded pigeon in the other lane; after a day, a well-framed mess of feathers and broken bones. A global civilization will fail globally. Everybody shave off the beard, and we’re going to use scythes rather than sickles. One time I took LSD, I had this vision of what heaven could be like: imagine creating a network between all things, all ideas, all monads, everything in the entire universe, for infinity. For the existence of that thing to be more valuable than its absence, despite the fact that for years we did without it. Tempeh, garlic, Earth Balance Buttery Spread, hot sauce. War is a terrible thing. We do not seek retribution, we seek an end to war so that no-one should ever have to suffer this again. I had become so cold to my own being that the massive, groundshaking panic attack that should have occurred on the drive home did not occur, just more external coldness towards the work and towards the future. Does anyone actually come round and scoop up these corpses, or are they just slowly digested or do they blow away? There are too many bodies, and too many minds, and they are all screaming. Mix them. The text is superseded.


released June 24, 2016

art by Charles Gregson (IG@chomplie)

RIP Great Britain



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Silas Price Lowell, Massachusetts

seeking truths via questionable means. variety guaranteed

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