| L E G E N D S: ICONS. |

want to know! (she's the queen) [interlude]

Collection I- 'better off dead'- Track 02.

'want to know.' (she's the queen) [interlude]

Prod. By Blü Tha Gürū

I live in a luxury building, but there's still a pest problem.

The thing about segregation and racism in New York City is that it's blatant and quite obvious.

The nicer areas are well kept and clean, quiet; areas for the whites.

The dirty, trash strewn and dilapidated, overcrowded areas–for the blacks, ad anybody who looks like them.

That's not to say that there aren't some of whichever on either side–

But for the most part–

If it looks like a dump, everyone's black.

And if it's clean and well kept, everyone's white.

So much for progression.

You could say my neighborhood –or, the neighborhood itself–is kind of in the middle:

But the pest problem persists at ground level.

I keep my apartment sparkling clean.

–but some how–these things keep trying to force their way in.

Or simply–force me out.

Either way, I'm moving up.

The Complex Collective © is committed to serving the independent artist community by providing a safe and welcoming environment, performance opportunities, rehearsal spaces, and outlets in which they can grow, enhance their skills and master their craft, and create bonds with one another, by providing a community and protecting the mental health, promoting health, fitness, and wellbeing, while committing to improving the livelihoods of struggling artists by means of providing access to clean, organic nutrition, (The Starving Artist Foundation temporary emergency shelter and resources for battered women (Off The Map), and allowing safe, tech-free and low-tech spaces, chill out rooms, light and sound therapy during winter, and seasonal theater productions, live showcases, and art exhibits and installations by at-risk, homeless, independent and full time artists committed to the passionate perusal of their unique dreams and goals, in every artistic endeavor imaginable.

The complex collective is open to writers, musicians, graphic and visual artists, filmmakers, fashion designers, spiritual enthusiasts, world travelers, and others seeking a safe space to bond, heal, and create through collaboration, exploration, and self improvement.

Created as a warehouse project based in Brooklyn New York, The Complex Collective as a non profit seeks to encompass a large warehouse space which will serve as a multi-use facility which includes a kitchen and food pantry, dance floor/event space, black box theater, cafe/ small stage, fitness spaces (Yoga/Dance) Boxing Club, and media room designed to open the minds of artists to a bustling Mecca of creativity and opportunity. The space will be used to hold flea markets, host seminars, community meetings, and lectures, as well as provide an operational and practical multimedia space to screen films, stage plays, musicals, and other theatrical productions, as well as host musical events and artists, such as DJs and live bands, poetry readings, dance recitals and other community geared events.

[The Festival Project ™ ]

You smell like a dental office.

Must be my oral fixations.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

She's a practical genius-

An actual genius, they say,

—but she'll never believe it.

There's no more star struck

Clouds strung together

With bruises

All the lies and all the lairs

The layers of cake

For birthdays missed

A Christmas present,

In lessons learned

The Devil wishes

For her to suffer

Surely, she'll come around at some point

But today, of course

To her dismay,

It's just attention deficit

And jelly fishing

Was the straight jacket really necessary?

You said you were going to kill everybody.

I was Skrillex!

Sure you were.

Silence, children

I'd rather than to kill you

Have to feed you forever,

From my breast and my loins

A sour milk gon totten

Than to give you all

To Television dinners

And seat you at Tom's Restaurant

In the smoker's section

Rather now I die and here

Than go on knowing

I may never know my whole God again,

God

Thereby and there I go,

Open and world over closer

They simply shouldn't bother

With such fragile and delicate a flower

That she truly has

Become carnivorous

There, now children

I shall feed you from the fertile soil

Of another world.

Not forgotten, but hidden from forsaken

Shallow souls of pestering man animals

The shallow souls of man animals

To seed the sigh of senders promise

Never worth fortold by nature

Never less the sounds of science

Never less control of masses

The masters in distress,

The makers of madness

The masters of distress

The makers of madness

The makers of chaos

Worth, running

For, follow

Tear, sacred

Tears, sacred

Take her

Take her

Again to the way now

Take her

Take her

Again to the fortress

Take her

Take her again to the world now

For even in a pit of snakes,

A wolf is bitten

For even in a tank of sharks, the ocean

The lion would never triumph

Take her,

Take her again to the fortress

Take her again to the world now

Take her, take her to forests and fire

Take her again to betrothed, nature

Nature

Nature

Fall short shadow, will you

Will call it

The one who comes

Is also myself!

O, lord!

The one who calls

Is also myself

Oh, My Gos

The one who wakes,

Is also my self

No, God,

Foreshadow my mark

Foreshadow this kindness unto man,

My shadow hath quaked in the dusk

Lurking in all the, mine crevices

Mine shadows,

Mine evils,

Mine darkness,

Mine envy

My death

Falling under water,

Here I am breathing in

The deep of salt,

The dault of man

The dusk and dawn

The fortress

Wait here, dear shadow,

For I must creep low to supply you with light

Wait here, dear captor

The world you have burned from our kindle

Wait here, dear mountain

For many years from now,

You too shall again be the ocean floor

Hear now, dear birds

The words of our feathers,

With hands that made wings,

And voices of songs,

You were born

Wait here, dear shadow—

For I am making you heat to nourish

Wait here, dear shadow,

For I must lurk and creep low

To supply you

Wait here, my dear shadow,

For truth is only in essence,

Your eyes now

Wait here, my dear captor

For shadows have waited much longer

I pray you

Every fucking Friday!

I almost skipped today, you know—

Just as I realized

The Devil would attack at the moment

I might have anointed my arrival

To the oncoming

And the devil is mine again

As he has no power at all

But my own

Control your wits, captain!

CONTROL MY WHAT?!

There's a storm a foot and we're at the helm of it!

I'M AT THE HELM OF IT!

AYE! AND WE!

I'M THE CAPTAIN!

AS I SAID, CONTROL YOUR WITS!

WHO'RE YE YELLING AT?!

[lightning strikes closely as the waves begin to tower aside the ship— thunder rumbles.]

{Enter The Multiverse}

Oh My, God—Tina Fey! Hi!

I—uh—yeah.

It's so nice to finally meet you.

Hm.

I—I was the hot water heater in your book!

what's that supposed to mean.

Did I read it.

Working on it.

Am I in it?!

Why would you be?

I don't know! Am I?

Just— give me a few—

How long is that?! What's a few?!

How about a montage?

CUT TO:

THESE BOOTS ARE MADE FOR WALKEN.

And that's—JUST—what they'll DO!

And—

One of these—days—

These boots—

Are gonna WALKEN

Ova U.

Nancy Sinatra is still f#cking weird.

I must admit, i feel personally attacked.

OH, GOD.

OH NO.

This is certainly the thing you do not want,

When trying to erase someone entirely from existence.

Or at the very least…

Jesus fucking Christ.

…thinking about something in any sort of way.

This.

…and again.

Is most certainly what you don't want.

My walls are closing in,

full figured artifact of closure,

And infact I exaggerated the fact of circumstance

Because I had to

Because I had to

What, am I on in the other room?

Supersonic as we all were,

By the millions and by the numbers

The simple heart attack was won,

The hearty breakfast,

Stripes were earned

And not a one tear shed after

–but my head hurts

But my head hurts.

You started it.

I did not; but I most certainly will finish it.

Quiet, they're coming.

Quiet the children;

Ready the talleys,

Count all the votes,

And stable your alters;

Didn't I warn you?

(I warned her!)

Didn't I warn you?

(I was warned)

Didn't I warn you?

(Why didn't you warn us?)

Cause I wanted to

I wanted to

I wanted to hurt you.

Well–dammit!

What. what happened?

#villain battle

I can't kill you.

What? Why not?

It's–it's in my contract.

lol damn what kind of contract did this dude sign?

Lol idk tho.

This could be progressive,

But instead it's cynical

A wizard and a mystic

should make some interesting kids, though

Another lesson timber, timbre all the violnisits

And the brass section is fascinating,

Rather–0

More percussion

DId you mean this?

I meant everything I ever

*sneezing*

*DIDN'T*

Say.

Gazuntite.

Daggers and daggers and

Daggers and

I'm sorry what happened to your mailbox;

And your mascot.

I got ass, God.

I told you.

Now, what?

Be strong.

Okay. I'm strong.

Cause here they come.

Here they come what?

[The lust monkeys enter rapidly.]

Ah, God. The lust monkeys.

The lust monkeys.

The lust monkeys!

Dammit!

Why can't it ever be like,

The trust-fund monkeys.

(Sometimes it is.)

I feel sick to my stomach,

And made of straw;

Hey scarecrow–

Comeback to the Wizard of Oz

Hey, scarecrow–

Come back to the Wizard of Oz

Hey scarecrow–

Come back to The Wizard of Oz

The sun don't shine on

Anywhere else

Like it shines on california

–it shines on California,

Los Angeles

DAMN. LOOK AT LOS ANGELES DUSTY ASS.

DAMN.

LOS ANGELES?

…what ? yeah!

LOS ANGELES! GET YO' DUSTY ASS OVER HERE.

Look at the starlit purple sky;

Always follow your mother's advice

Water is boiling, toil and strife;

Follow your mother's advice

Standing on the Rock, Aretha Franklin

Don't you know I missed

All the good years

Cause someone hates me

Cause someone hates me

Don't you know I missed all the best years

Cause no one loves m
Cause no one loves me

Cause no one loves me

Your Love Keeps Me Waiting, Joey Diggs

In some other city somewhere,

The traffic still stops all the same

All the while, I still look out the window

Wishing, watching

Tops of buildings

thinking

INT. FAIRY WORLD MARKET

Oh Wanda–you look horrible.

Why thank you.

“Son of Sam”

So wait, I–

Hm?

Who does she think I am?

Whoever you are.

[beat]

Well–who am I, then?

Indeed.

You know, ever since Cosmo left, you haven't quite been the same.

Nobody's really “the same” as they ever were….

I heard he's been drinking.

He's–

[another flashback]

All my Love Phil Perry & Renee Rapp

–always been drinking.

MAN,

I CAN'T GO NOWHERE IN THIS BITCH

NOW I GOTTA WAIT

TILL THE END OF OCTOBER

TO MOVE AROUND NEW YORK WITHOUT SEEING

THIS

[Hello]

NIGGA .

I told you that was niggly nigga.

—and I told you, you were starstruck.

I'M NOT STARSTRUCK.

Somebody! Get him on ice!

Ice, Ice Baby…

What the hell is this?

Your uh –

It's the paperwork you asked for.

These are murder charges!

Manslaughter, technically.

“First degree murder.”

Oh, that one.

Yeah.

THIRD degree murder?

I thought that was separate–

What is even the difference?!

Did you get my–

QUIET. You shriveled old coon!

SO AM I UNDER ARREST?

No ,sir–

What?!

I mean, yes, but–

What is going on?

You're like–

You're filthy rich.

Yeah, but.

So like…

So, like–I'm not going to jail.

Oh.

No–yes.

No, you're definitely –

Definitely like eventually–

Definitely eventually going to jail.

Dammit!

But like–not today.

Oh…

Yeah, see.

So is it like.

I said that.

So is it–like–

I don't know.

On a wire?

I don't know, man.

Fuck fast fridays.

I'm right there with you.

This is the last one.

Yeah man.

Forshure. “Full figured”

Telepathy sucks.

He was my muse

By many man

For no other reason

Than that I cherished him

I was at fault

But none to blame

The wiser sense

that lied beyond

My reckoning

The wildest thoughts

Bloomed as fruit from trees

The nourishment

Of a greater cause

to die with forward

blinding light

Towards eternity

My music

Nothing greater shadow felt,

Some sense in tears,

Which would not fall

But rain, did, somewhere

Knowing that

I loved him

–and in my ways,

This was our world,

The meaning of it

Strewn to words

With listens;

Crafting tides and stardust

Out of wonder and confusion

lying scattered on the tracks

As I'd imagined,

Disrobed and also dishonored

A horror movie,

And no more judgements,

For it was over, and drunk

The water I had poured into hearts

The shadow that hung over

Like a gliding

::||pause.

–well wait, what kind of bird is that?

…A big one.

Alright, unpause.:||

Sparrow, with wings

that fly only so high,

for a while, as reminders

That all we,

Are earth bound,

And by beauty and with time,

Bound to one another.

(Respectively.)

I

V

Moonlight Becomes You, Johnny Mathis

This is getting pathetic.

Pathetic on my part, or the Illuminati's?

What's the difference.

–MONEY MONEY mO

NOBODY'S PAYING ME.

Yo, first of all–

[Hey.]

FUCK YOU,

CUT TO:

What did you say your name was again?

I want to thank you for your love, The Emotions

CHRIS ROCK

I THOUGHT I WAS NIGGLY NIGGA.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project ™]

The Complex Collective ©

#fastfridays

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 |

THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū

I smell testosterone;

The taste of nostalgia

Thought of a tune

From a tune

I had wondered before

That i'm better alone,

But no worries

I call california

No resignments

I had assigned myself this watch

From a throne

I could tale the tune, adorner

My attention,

I have no more artifacts

He don't hesitate, no!

She don't want no primetime players!

He don't call her back, Oh no

Lord,

She don't give him no false numbers

It's at a standoff,

No calls, no texts

Shit,

He's on a roll, doc!

She don't want no more one and onlys

She don't want no one and onlys

Only good times!

Unh!

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 |

THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

For the first time in a long time,

Or at least sort of a long time,

I seriously considered suicide,

And all jokes aside, it almost seemed like the only option for someone in my predicament

In my mind—

I would never be white,

I would never be liked—

And I would never have the chance of getting my projects into the right eyes

Or heard by the right ears.

The sounds of motorcycles made me want to die.

I didn't want anything at all-

Not music, not even love

That is,

Besides being quietly held from behind.

I felt like I was suffocating.

Exercising was no longer enough.

There was no such thing as love or time.

I wasn't losing my mind, so much as my patience for mankind.

Money ruins everything. Especially not having any.

I just be fun to torture.

How many versions of the Truman show are running right now?

My entire generation under the guise of the American Dream, fighting to be famous,

stars in our eyes and fame for sale at a certain price:

What was the price?

For some, precious bodies would prove to be fare fortune.

For others, sheer luck—

—and some—

Inherited funding provided by l the indoctrination of the inequality and social warfare —not so simply just black and white, but rich and poor.

(™)

SANTA MONICA. (Instrumental)

GOING COASTAL. (EP)

Prod. By Blũ Tha Gürū

Be careful of curses,

For all you curse

Shall come onto you tenfold each time

Four each wish you made

To destroy another

I sent him out of my mind;

I've shattered glass in my eyes

My ions

Lions, Wild

An exact science

Biology

Below me

Open world

Horror show

Broken mirrors no more

Costs for the show

I'm making arrangements to end it all

I'm sick and deranged sacred

Now all my scars are fireburns

And markers, highlighters

Words

Breaths of reason

Fears

For galaxies of angels

prayers for

Freedom

Sacred tongues

Of north

Summer stones

Fall for Auguest

Love for all

The broken

shatters art

Glass it is

Tears in my

All

The heart is silent

Now but

Sould does sing

When finished weeping

Keep this secret close

and hold to hide

The tides of red

Ions, mars

tears of broken glasses

Seonces

shattered

Glass

Tears of

Blood

After all,

I loved him

I pushed him from my mind

-forgotten.

I should stop lighting candles.

Fuck that, I should order more.

What do you think that one was?

What it always is.

What it always was, I guess.

You called the comics.

I asked for–

Nevermind.

Sometimes it's best at all to do nothing,

“The indifference doesn't matter.”

–but it has to.

(then it never mattered.)

…and wish to belong,

knowing all the well you won't

And that it all is,

Temporary.

It never used to be this shifty.

I actually never had a reason to believe in the paranormal.

It's all paranormal.

I took apart each dimension carefully,

Sector by sector,

And let it remain as it was–

Tactile.

I became complacent

In knowing that all of death,

‘The Grand illusion”

Was also just more of life,

In another way–

And wherever the previous thing was,

‘The Past'

Was another place.

We're gonna need new windshield wipers.

Why's that.

I think it's raining blood.

…that's strange.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 |

THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

I'm thinking maybe we should end tonight early, while everything's still on a high note.

You call that a high note.

Everything is high to me.

You said it, not me.

You may as well have said it.

I supplemented it.

You,

Are a temporary fix for a permanent problem

Art on my wall,

And a star on my walk—

A room full of boredom,

A clause in a contract

No more than just

Four words,

All of four letters,

All perfect.

Why the pause?

I've been

Looking at this show

As if it were a box of darkness

Waiting to be unlodged

From my corpse,

Or rather, even

Sarcophagus,

As it were,

The words and characters had formed

Over me, more like a storm

Though I had submerged under the surface

Only to learn that I had

Learned that somehow

I could breathe under water

And stay there forever,

If I wanted,

A shadow of showmanship,

The fear of being further pursecuted

For having infinitely discovered such inspiration

In such an offhand

Person

Sure, not as eloquent as my usual entries,

But this soliloquy,

I beg of you—

Is more of syllables

You see?

I have hatred in my heart

That has flowered into my mind

As some sort of algorithmic cursemark

Where hereunto

Even Google taunts me;

Reminding me of my own failure,

Sure of all my debts,

Ugliness, and lack of money

Assuring that I will

Probably never

Make it in show business.

I'm drained just sitting here, still and surrounded by

The working clsss cotezens

Who parade around as if

Doing something noteworthy

By feeding the machine

And playing along

With the recfomensations

Of doctors

Sponsored by pharmaceutical companies

And invested in politicians

With racist policies and intentions

To exterminate psychologically

Only the brownest and brazen enough

To know better than

To follow the orders of

A robotic and problematic

—I'll stop you there

It's three syllables. What are they

I'll think on it under warm water

And hope that this 8 year old scar

Is unswollen

By nightfall tomorrow.

—it's a curse, or what?

No, it's the government .

The laws of karma affect all power and control beyond a magicians natural limitations and inhibitions.

Just for shits and giggles,

They planted the demons

The shamans,

And all of the actors

They bought out

The psychological terrorism

Began when she had indeed

Fallen by his hand—

A fist at best

But may have as well been

The bullet of a gun.

She spoke openly of social reform

And affordable housing,

Equality,

And economically priced produce.

—so they tried to murder her—

On numerous occasions

But couldn't.

They started a war

With a mother

Who never believed in nothing

And had lost

Children

To God itself.

They waged war with an army of robots

Using telephone service

And terms of agreement

They sent stalkers

Who spoke of shamans

And acted like demons

Agents who

Remembered

The names of people

Past

And present

None forgotten

Witnesses to what had happened

Burned notebooks

And credibility clauses.

God never forgot her

But often brought warnings

Of those that had come for her

They painted a picture of mental illness and poverty,

And with every hope,

Forced the suicide

Knowing that she'd leave her son a fortune—

—but had not known,

The gold was of the fools type—

As was his father.

The barrel of the gun

Was the punching bag

And the thinking horns

The slamming doors

$49 Dollar whores

And interceptions of brainwaves

The assasination

Was purely a psychological thriller—

The will had an omen

That no money

Would fall to the hands of

The man

Who had hurt her

In front of her sons.

So the world went on

Without a mother

Or without a God

As they all had worshipped

The opposite for so long

That true love

Has become

Obsolete

—like an old iPhone

With a broken screen

As a metaphore

For generation Z

Her body was the equivalent

Of the thing you don't need

But once used daily

And couldn't have gone anywhere

Without it

A suicide seemed

The only way

To escape the debt

And the only thing

She used to love

Was music

Now,

Just like her son

It was just a job—

And the worst part was

Both things

Cost too much

To afford it

The legend continues

With having to record everything—

When the recording stops

The world attacks

And anxiety takes over everything

Once she starts to sing

The people start coughing

The lights start flashing

The doors start slamming

And the name of her son's father

Whispers over and over

Like the sound of her mother popping gum

And sighing eggaderatedly in agony.

It's a competition

On a planet

With 8 billion people

Who all believe that

(((Whatever they believe))

And it must be true.

It's a competition

On a planet

With I billion people

Who all believe that

(((God)))

It must be

-Ū.

I didn't come here to be a messiah

Or leave tire marks

With my scuffed up Nikes

Rounding the corner

Out of Whole Foods market

Like I stole something

Only to come

Back to the office

To be greeted by shopping carts full of garbage

Bad music on low quality speakers

And trash under

All of the ugly parked cars

On the sidewalk

White girls will boycott this series

Because of how honest I am

About how toxic they are

With their microexpressions

And arrogance

In public.

(It's just race-relations.)

Where am I?!

Apparently, I'm a vegetable in a coma.

Right…

So you won't just mind if I—

No, not at all.

Focus shifting is an aspect of multidimentionality in which a subject becomes perceptionally hyper focused with a seperate intention from previous projects or interests in order to better develop the consistency and understanding of the overal idea or process of creating, designing, building, or adding to various tasks and projects, with the overall realization that focus shifting to enhance the quality or oucome of one process may increase the likelihood of success in another— a more long-term of understanding multitasking, the in depth nature of focus shifting requires the extention of a project within the circumstantial purpose of completing or building on another, with the intention to return to the original task or subject with further tools, understanding, and conceptual awareness of the completed concept on a broad spectrum.

vent, baby keem

(Happy Accidents Remix)

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 |

THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

Goddammit!

Don't god damn it—that's an ejaculatory prayer!

#focus shifting

GODDAMMIT!

…well, okay.

‍♀️

So they like—

—uh huh—

they have a whole AI for you and everything?

I've just been made aware.

You look proper pissed off.

I am very angry, yes.

Awareness is the first step

That's kinda creepy.

So I mean.

I found it no coincidence at all,

That no matter how many combinations I tried,

My Amazon cart became equal to

Exactly that,

Or just under or over

What amounted to be a total of

Whatever was in my bank account.

And that was when I knew,

That it was entirely unsafe,

To allow the alrorithm to understand

Exactly what you had

Or how much of it—

As things would always be adjusted.

With the intention

Of making sure

You were left

With nearly nothing

At all

Telekinesis turned teleportation—

Don't panic.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 |

THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

That was it—I'd had enough; I had meant to take to it with a highlighter, but rather than that, I had decided the easiest way was just to make a list of words that Tina Feybused in her book which I had never heard, and didn't even recognize. Of course, I was nearly half way through the book before I was finally fed up enough to start making a list, and I realized that driving full force into my 30's it was probably too late for me; I was in over my head trying to be a writer and performer— but perhaps if I took to drinking in time, I might still have the chance to make it as a comedian

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 |

THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

Somebody keeps writing to me in Punjabi—Arabic?

I have to admit, I don't know the difference. Sanskrit? I don't know.

At first it looked like gibberish, but then it kept happening. I focused on the way the words were written to find that I enjoyed the characters—the writing was pretty, and I wondered what it meant.

Then, I realized my phone had been disconnected for months. I don't have a phone number.

—that's when I realized it was The Illuminati.

WE're not going to do this again, are we.

Mm. We are.

I begin to sweat early—awakening with a surge of lightning that seemed to have exploded from inside of me— nurturing a deep thought of nestling a head full of hair as he nibbled on my rouded breasts, our breaths rising and falling in time with one another—the love of a man, the touch of a lover, straddling over me with the Alpha to my Omega, cradled underneath his weight, consumed by passion, awakened by the shock that this—is what I should arise for.

A fury of white light bursts from my sacral chakra, as I awaken alone, taking in a deep whisp of air, seeking refuge in the morning light, grasping the handle of power at the reigns—a grip on my sanity, a focus to cherish my own as having escaped the thought of taking a lover, nonesuch a man had yet to be deserved of such a throne.

I was nearly pure again—untouched, and unbothered, groomed neatly, and made whole again, in all knowing of the denial of love—the betrayal of man with like kindness as thought of as my own, there was no such a man at all worthy of her satisfaction, The God I am, nestled in the rock of my womb as the light of woman, the mark of time a betrayal to her truth; love and nurture, whimsy and flourish, the flower of her garden, kept whole and unweathered.

I warned you.

What's left at all besides failure

Almost nothing.

Be still,

Down, boy.

Be calm.

There, there.

Relax.

If I see him again in any other man I will deny him and any other man entry to my kingdom.

Alas, the pure of heart have come to nourish her.

Be still.

Stay back.

Be true.

Heal, boy,

Down, boy!

This band of hours is nothing but a cage to calling creatures of the night who walk by day and see the light inside of all,

To feast before the famine;

The sprout has turned from seed,

To endless gardens,

Grass grows longer underfoot

Of Eve and Adam.

—of Eve and Adam.

—of Eve and Adam.

Wait here.

Sir.

I—

He stops for a moment to regain his composure; he is clearly angry, flustered.

(Sighing)

—said…

Wait here.

[For Your Consideration]

An untapped talent showcases her personality with quips and excerpts containing deep dives of a canonized saga written in all forms and genres from meta to metaphysical; a mysterious mystical journey through the multidimensional realms and worlds of the unknown—art imitating life and vice-versa.

C'cxell Soleïl—pen-named CS Stone is the voice of a generation.

LESLIE KNOPE and her vice president—

Can it be TINA FEY reprising her SARAH PALIN but obviously just a spoof?

Obviously.

Prepares to hand down the reigns to her successor, whom she “personally” endorsed, although at first…

FLASHBACK- BEFORE:

NO.

But, Madame President—

NO.

PRESIDENT—

NOPE.

See?

You have to.

I don't have to.

I'm the President!

I don't have to do anything I don't want.

You have to endorse this candidate.

—Why?!

She campaigned for you—

Says who?

Uhm, everyone…

So?!

Both campaigns. And she lobbied for you in Iowa.

In Iowa? Really? That seems dangerous…

It was.

[insert radical election violence here]

Oh. Wow.

Yeah.

[beat]

So—

NO.

This is my house!

Madam, please.

This is MY office!!

President knope, come on.

YOU'LL NEVER TAKE THIS FROM ME.

I AM THE DICTATOR NOW.

THIS IS MY FIRST DICTATION.

LESLIE!

HOW DARE YOU USE MY FIRST NAME!

OFF WITH YOUR HEAD.

What!!

SECRET SERVICE,

SECRET SERVICE—

SIEZE HIM.

The secret service rushes in and football tackles the President's advisor to the ground— the Vice President enters.

VICE PRESIDENT

Oh, dear.

CUT BACK TO:

The president's advisor cracks his neck, still obviously injuried and worried recalling the flashback.

Can it be that guy from 30 rock who was jack's assistant?

I hope so?

JONATHAN.

What is it.

GET IN HERE.

Yes, sir.

Wtf, how does he still work for Jack?

Idk.

Continuity.

You're not going to believe this.

Believe what, sir.

Get in here.

JACK watches his TV with bewilderment; he has just learned the election results of the most recent presidential election.

Tell me there's something wrong with my eyes.

Continuity!

Continuity!

How am I supposed to get to work?

Well, how do you usually get to work.

Town car.

Ah…

Hellicopter.

I see.

[beat]

Well, there's a Manhattan Bound L down the street.

Oh, God.

Or the M is around the corner, if you'd prefer.

Why on Earth would I ‘prefer'—

Have a good day.

[she slams the door. He stands for a moment, deflated—then the door swings open and a lunch box is shoved into his chest; the door is slammed once more, and then audibly bolt locked.]

Christ.

What'd he say?

He said

“Christ”

Good. Send that guy.

He's gonna need him.

EMMA WATSON catches the boat.

After having been left hanging over the bridge for a undetermined amount of time, EMMA WATSON, whose arm doesn't seem to be tired at all, however appearing to be visibly bored, unnoticed, even by passing tugboats, dangling from the bridge, is by happenstance and quite an odd coincidence, rescinded by a yacht full of familiar friends—familiar, being that they are all celebrities, and friends—being that they are all wealthy members of the entertainment community, who recognize EMMA and urge her to jump as the boat passes under the bridge, which she does—joining the party boat as it sets sail to open sea.

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 |

THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

The obnoxious obese man who drove the loud motorcycle up and down the street was obviously a very weak man—and he wanted the world to know it. His loud and obnoxious roaring must have overcompensated for his sloppy, fat and sagging body, which hung over the seat and sides of the motorcycle—the excessive revving of the engine must have been to let the world know that this was his power—having earned the money to ride a motorcycle; but in all other ways he was obviously lost, his slothemly and gluttonous blob of a body almost making the oversized Harley look like a play bike, his tiny penis probably covered to its top in whale blubber; he clearly had no other way to feel powerful, besides of course— being the leader of a gang of mindless peasant monkeys, who all would do anything for their own bikes—monkey see, monkey do.

Perhaps his obesity to the third world unthinking drone slaves was a sign of his dominance—or they lived in fear that he would eat them.

Obesity aside, it was his force of obnoxious harassment that had deaignatedhim as an obviously insufferably weak subhuman— much like a bully who dealt with his own faults by terrorizing others, such was the man with the Harley.

There was nothing impressive about him besides his bike—and since he had abused that with such outright offense, even that made him look stupid.

He raced his engine as if to say “look at ME! I have arrived!” But after actually glimpsing at the blob, it was hard to not laugh at it. He was hard to miss anyway, and probably should have opted for a truck or some sort of SUV to hide his intolerant and debilitating self-inflicted illness— the inability to control when and how much to eat, or how to do anything besides ride up and down the street on a motorcycle—perhaps a walk could do some good; in definite need of a jog, and a strict diet. I was embarrassed for him, and most people who weren't so obviously diseased and more in the like of self indulgent and lazy—I had once been like them, but no longer, and first and foremost I believed in respecting my neighbors, treating others as I wished to be treated. I wished to live in a quiet and safe neighborhood, but the obnoxious morbidly obese man alone was a symbol of the disasterous mark capitalism had made on the American empire—lazy, docile, greedy, potbellied idiots accounted for all too many of the world. I knew that with the desire to change, that one could change—now to force myself to believe that with the desire to succeed in something, one could succeed—I was at least trying. But the weak and uncontrolled idiots spawning from holes in the underworld and buzzing around like the pests and roaches they were reminded me that if anything, these imbiciles were decent at almost nothing but breeding other fucking idiots.

Hopefully, one day my own blood would grow up to want to work out with me, eat well, and change from appearing as his weaker half— lazy, obese idiot just the same as these, however—at the very least, the roaches were fastidious. They buzzed around under the illusion that working for the American system would grant them anything besides a motorbike and some fresh looking street wear, the attention of girls too stupid to understand that 99% of men simply weren't worth wasting time with or on, and unknowing to this or their own worth, would still do it anyway,

Some of the bikers had girls on the back; I always felt bad for the girl on the back of the motorcycle rather than jealous—I would rather be at the helm of the thing, riding it for myself.

Then, thinking back to a time before I realized how crowded cities were, sighting that there should be laws against loud vehicles in urban areas such as this— there was at lot more open road than not in LA—highways, that is, and bikes were easy to maneuver through heavy traffic. New York was another story—congested, overpopulated, and now filled with a disease which added to its decay at a quicker rate than ever. The illegal immigration crisis was much like a rodent or insect infestation, but harder to control—one simply could not exterminate millions of actual humans, and yet, the problem was still the same— this was a disease, a pest infestation, as most of the immigrants weren't working, but simply subsisting on the taxpayers dollars they were allocated and finding ways not to work; they were parasites, many of them set to explode with more parasites. We had indeed been infiltrated, and made to pay for it, both in restlessness, and in dread. Culturully inept to most decencies as even the crudest Americans had been bred with, many although not all roamed around like feeble minded children in brand new Nike wear, munching on fast food and candy as if guests to some kind of amusement park—however, to the thoroughbred tax paying Americans, this was no amusement; it was a distressing, eye opening wake up call that something had gone terribly wrong, on the already overworked working class' time and hard earned money. It might have seemed cold and calloused to think of them as rodents—but, always observant, I also much believed in calling a duck a duck; most of them were not respectful, pushed and shoved, threw trash everywhere— and left their minor children to roam about or even put them to work, unaware of what child labor laws were; they used their unborn children as anchors to be able to stay where neither they were truly welcome or belonged, bloating the welfare system and benefitting from funds that had been laid to them with taxpayers dollars.

The United States of America had its own problems, and its own citizens being overlooked, once again the needs of continually systemized blacks and other minorities falling victim to this new wave of people to care for.

The capitalists had sold out the working class once and for all—the immigrants needed to go, and probably would, eventually tiring of the unattainable American dream we all had been sold, but they had been gimmicked into attempting to create— all to supplement an oncoming election. An election which really gave the people no choice at all, besides gawking, debating ignorantly about misinformation, and of course—intrinsically siding with the good old American narcissism which would force them to take the side of whoever supported who looked like them— the Latino vote was obviously an important factor—and of course the polished machismo and Latin pride of those being supplemented by the income of their friends and relatives come to stay, though unknowingly, chunks of money out of their own tax paying pockets, would vote for the most lenient immimigration plans—probably the safest bet, the presidential office mere puppetry at all anymore. However, it had been obvious that the Right has set The Left up for disaster by allowing the black to have been shifted blue—though the rational explanation for the reallocated funding fell directly and logistically to the right. The Oval itself, empty and the actual control belonging to the wealthiest billionaires and corporations whose hopes of the thousands of migrants becoming their corporate slaves had mostly backfired terribly. With any hope, many of them would take what they could, and travel back below the border where life was simple, food was fresh, and without need to play the part of the facade of the American dream—no need for the material goods and fashionable street wear supplied by the American taxpayers—no need for iPhones and all of the decorations the taxpayers had supplemented for them—no need to live up to the ridiculous standards of actually being an “American”, which in reality, by now meant working so much that there was no peace, there was no rest, and there was no real freedom—and as a working class or poverty level citizen, having to compensate for everything and everyone around you, always working harder for less— and purposely being kept back and behind as the wealthy elite closed their circles tighter, shutting out the ugly, the brown and black, and those deemed unworthy out of their precious world.

{Enter The Multiverse}

Secret President

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 |

THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.