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

As I flirt with suicide, I realize

I am famous and of much importance without being paid for it—

People enter my line of sight just to exist, I.

(lol)

I'm in an existential crisis

And this residential area

Is under surveillance

Psychological violence

And terrorism is technological

I'm a flight risk

But if I die,

The devil inside my child l l

I digress

Will probably profit l l

Cause very n*gg*r is a star

With two consonants at the end,

Okay,

We're gonna kill each other

Okay

The song's almost over

Okay,

I've got a lot to do to day,

Would you throw yourself

At the bus

Or from under my keychain

Okay

I got pain in my heart, you know

Okay,

I'm stuck in the road you know

Okay,

So I left the door I open

To go play darts at the bar

And the dog walked in

Okay

You don't want a bad problem

Okay

I got a trunk full of bodies

Okay,

I need guitar lessons

Okay—

So this table wine calling my name

Or what

OKAY

so we're gonna kill each other

Okay

Alright

Okay

So I left the door open

OKAY

I got a pest problem

OKAY

I don't want no more problems

I don't produce movies

I got 12 dollars.

Okay,

Stop talking

Sunlit spells under midnight moon

You turned your heart on mine

The ocean calls

What realm of hell is this, I walk?

The devils eyes have found

Your world

Made of fractions of illusion

And robbed

Of stardust

The light of the cosmos

Is here upon lost,

With the mark of the crying dollar

For it was I who died high on the cross and

Yet, did not die at all,

So was boarded under rocks,

A bolder and slumped over

{Enter The Multiverse}

Serrated imagery

No response server

Straight at the begging of the seven years,

Was the forager blind, who would become journeyman, Shepard and son of all

Who had witnessed since, the oncoming of her arrival.

Come, now Ishii.

You were a terror.

Aren't I now?

Let's not forget, there are commonplace errors here,

Among the redaction

And in all time,

It could take years,

To find the days

Coming toward tomorrow

I say you should let him out, if ye know what's good fer ye.

I say, you should say less than nessecary, as my patience is shrinking and you, my foul ogre are a lot more pleasant when you're not speaking.

Forget I said anything.

I wish that I could do that.

I used to grant wishes, too, you know. And I'm only part ogre.

Hush, will you.

Yes I will.

[beat]

What's the other part?

—French.

Bitch,

CLEAN YOUR ROOM BEFORE YOU TAKE A SELFIE.

On God—

wtf am I looking at sometimes.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

The Complex Collective. ©

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

An ascended extra terrestrial being with the ability to travel throughout infinite existence within the multidimensional world enters a simulation of their own creation in order to understand the dynamics of its interworkings, and to repair a mysterious series of problems plaguing the world'a inhabitants, in order to prevent the imminent eventual demise of the species and the world in which they live.

Sector 12, Dimension Q10

Just be on the lookout;

You know these primates aren't safe—

With some sort of thinking they're ‘evolved' more somehow.

—or less.

What's at stake here is the planet.

In totality,

I honestly couldn't give one single fuck about it;

whether it lives or dies, or who's on it.

—but you're on it.

I'm on it.

Somebody kill this raggedy motherfucker

Before I do

On good conscience.

Are you not worried that they're going to kill you?

They won't kill me.

They won't touch a hair on my head. You know why?

Cause it's fake?

Exactly.

You ought to be in prison.

Probably,

I'd suspect I'd be getting more ass that way.

Or something up yours.

Up mine—up yours—what really is the difference?

Did you really think you were protected.

Nothing is safe, nothing is sacred, my dear—but you see, what I've purchased here is time.

Time? Where did you get all this time?!

Where did you get all this money?

It wasn't made out of time!

So the old adage stands corrected.

So it does.

So what did your parents do for a living?

I beg your pardon?

To what do I owe the honor of your privelege?

Hard work.

Try again.

Back massages

And thick cut bacon

I just went to sleep

And woke back up again reviled

Revelations on motorcycles

Harpists on steroids

And movies on markers

God ought to have thoughts of

Something, honest and awkward

Other than to govern up a sermon

Of prophets

On Altoids,

Or morons—

No mountains,

So far I

Have leapt from the riverbed

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

The Complex Collective. ©

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

I'm inside of the machine–

Santa Monica–

As Seen On TV

It's just a game to me

Life's a beach

Skip the tent

This ain't Venice

(I'm on Celebrity Apprentice)

BURBANK.

VENICE.

WESTWOOD

PANTAGES.

HOLLYWOOD.

CENTURY CITy

MARINA DEL REY

Lol i might never finish I _ NY cause i'm too busy fucking hating how fucking noisy and rude it is over here.

At least it's not homeless and tents under bridges over here.

yeah but it's segregated as fuck tho.

At least there's affordable housing!

That's correct.

—And transit.

Also true.

And everyone's not so fucking perfectly pretty that I like, need to slit my wrists over it.

I mean, there are perfectly good reasons to slit my wrists on the East Coast.

Yeah, but it's not dying of “why don't I look like that”

(no, it's definitely not that)

The fruit fly sighed,

“When I die,

I'd like to be a butterfly–

Admired in the wild,

Just for flying by

And I replied,

“Well, so would I”

It was a wonderful sentiment.

I thought about killing him just so that he'd make it more quickly to butterfly

Maybe that's why white supremacy is out here killing niggaz.

“You'll be better in the next life. promise!”

“Maybe”

*blat blat*

“Lets hope”

Probably immediately recycled into a better existence.

Lets hope.

(I didn't kill the fly, I just figured both our lifespans were just about the same length and hoped the best for either of us to be recycled into something beautiful and admirable by others–instead of seen as ‘pests'.)

–it became less of a beautiful sentiment and more of a crises when a few days later, I thought of the fruitfly again as a beautiful butterfly fluttered across my window, and as I admired him, a bird swooped down and ate him.

That shit was raw.

Yep. Nature's a GOAT.

–and you expect me to believe that less than 200 years ago we were still brutally fucking murdering people publically just for fun and that all of a sudden that shit is over? Fuck outta here. These people are natural born fucking killers with the equivalant sadism as a fucking lion that likes to play with its food before he kills it.

BBQ'n

The Spider

alienz.

Kool-Aid.

“The 6th Saint”--whatever the fuck that is.

anonymity . (VI)

Book I: Secrets // Seekers

Book II: Lies // Lights

Book III: Shadows// Values

A car full of caskets

An ear full of oxymorons

–A cat full of questions

Wallets full of oxycodones

Fountains of cocaine

Romance on obstacle of fortune,

Lust,

And emotionless reconciliations

–”Illuminatus.”

This fucking trap won't open.

did you put the password.

Yeah, like six times already–

I'm scared if I try again and fail,

I'll have to restart the level.

Did you try saying it?

What do you mean?

Say the password.

Say it?

Did I stutter?

Like, out loud?

Yeah, out loud.

Why would I do that?

It might work.

It's not–there's no mic.

Try it.

…

…

“Illuminatus.”

[unlocked]

huh .

What's up.

It opened.

Huh.

For Your Consideration

Unfamous

Whatever

LEVELS

(Or Lack Thereof.)

Explorers of The Multiverse

The Wonderful World of

Series Q10 (A Sociological Experiment)

Flux Capacitor

Every time that door slams I swear to GotT I get fucking richer

I swear to GOD every time that door slams I become a fucking icon

I fucking swear every time that door slams money is added to my fucking metaphorical piggy bank

I swear to God

Every time that door slams

Karma crawls up the ass of whoever the fuck slammed it

and waits there

Until it becomes the most painful everliving shit

that door slamming piece of fucking shit

ever has to take

In their life

I fucking swear

This beat is made of cotton

I picked it,

But i didn't want to

(I didn't want to pick it)

Then the master made me

Nobody even paid me

To do: lol [never in my life and all my gods would i ever]

—fuck these f*gg-t motorcycle door slamming ass…

The Festival Project.™]

The Complex Collective ©

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2024

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

I am the nylon light

That sheds Grattitude

With kindness

To your fortress

In honor

There's a certain power that comes in realizing that you don't give a fuck anymore—

Whether you win or lose—

Succeed or fail—

Whether you live or die.

There's a certain kind of magic in the chaos that comes from the world's own utter confusion in not knowing how to react to a fully volitile ticking time bomb.

When you get finished with being fucked with—

And you realize the greatest of all evils—the thing fucking with you—is somehow still also yourself— you give up and give in to the torture that becomes knowing that in a world where there's everything— you were made to be from nothing.

I can't tell.

I think I'm still sweating, but I don't know. Could just be my hair; I pat my head with the towel and feel my hair with the palm of my hand—No, I'm still sweating profusely. Whatever. I'm too fat. I slept the night away and woke up later than usual again—came one half mile short of my usual cardio routine before dashing upstairs for my weekly phone meeting—I made strawberry and oat whole wheat pancakes the day before. I was a size 5-slash-6. I needed to be a size two.

If you could make me feel.

I wouldn't be standing here

Looking for a way to feel

I would be

Walking by

Looking for a reason to live

I wouldn't be standing here

Craving a book to fill the cases I've emptied

Or the crimes that I've drafted

The tears on my pillow

The time that I've wasted

The scars on my lips

Or the release in my heart

I'm counting the reasons to smile

The words to a song still forming

On my crumbled mind

You wanted a story;

On fast approach, I wrote one

Trying not to belong here

whatever.

-whatever EP.

The Festival Project.™]

The Complex Collective ©

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2024

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

What are you doing?

Nothing you wouldn't.

Hm.

[a pause.]

—It smells of blood.

Hm. Keen sense of smell—and familiarity with uncommon scents.

A bird flew into my window this morning.

BIRD

hey!

*smashes against window*

…it wasn't open.

Damn! How does that happen?!

GOD

Did you see that, though?

Yeah, God—okay, you win.

I'm up, I'm up.

GOD

You okay, Jack?

I'm fine, I'm okay.

Try being a better bird.

I'm—the best bird I can be.

I meant— a bigger bird. Much smarter.

It's not my fault; I thought that the fourth wall was already broken.

It was; your mistake however lies in the simple fact that that wasn't the fourth wall, it was a window.

My mistake.

Try a Seagul.

Wouldn't it be amazing if peacocks could fly.

CUT TO:

[PEACOCKS can fly.]

OH DEAR GOD.

CUT BACK TO:

No, it would not.

Kesha — tik tok

Ohhhhh, that was Kesha.

Yes.

I get it now.

No, no you really don't.

Should I be afraid of whatever's about to happen?

I think you should be more concerned about the things that shouldn't, and are.

Oh…Kay…

Every kiss begins with

—kill the bitch.

Holy shit! Another one!

Don't worry about it.

The DJs

(It would be the DJs doing this)

It would have to be!

Have developed a bird-cannon.

(Actually, it's just a t-shirt cannon from the music festival.)

Which music festival?

Idk, you pick

MAGIC MIKES MUSIC MAYHEM

{Sponsored by Mike's Hard Lemonade}

Sure.

I like that one.

It—yeah.

Whatever. Isn't it just technically—

INT. THE INFINITE RAVE.

—wait, are you naked right now?

…

I'm always naked.

GROSS.

Barf.

If you want.

I'm not changing.

The three DJ's with the bird cannon have successfully tricked—

Who is it

Idk

—The DJ inside into rescuing the three birds catapulted at the window; this results in the DJs then shapeshifting into the three birds in order to infiltrate the DJ's kitchen, which has been reportedly used as a multidimensional portal.

We soon discover (or have already discovered, keeping on the series progression or multidimensional arc,) that the entire building itself can be transported throughout time and space, which the DJ, [who has been revealed as an immortal mystic space God] often moves through realms and throughout time and space in order to bend and manipulate reality—destined to find a hospitable destination, where likely the planet's inhabitants have reversed earth's untimely demise and preserved humanity, and ideally, where the world is living in peace and harmony with itself and one another.

Lol the building moves.

It doesn't exist!

It kind of exists! It has to!

Yeah— kind of.

Psh!

I'm so hot

That I put

Pancakes on my Mancakes.

Psssst.

(Sizzle)

I put pancakes on my mancakes

(Flip em)

I put pancakes on my pancakes.

(Sweet and hot like a McGriddle)

I put pancakes on my mancakes.

For rizzle.

SUNNI BLŪ has become so visibly veluptuous that people are beginning to talk about it— a lot.

I told you, stop squatting!

I can't! All the tour bus gots is barbells!

Can't you just go running like a NORMAL person?

Go run where?! My face is on everything!

CUT TO. FLASHBACK- before:

FANS

Omg is that him.

*girls screaming*

*cattle stampeding*

*pandemonium*

CUT BACK TO:

—and that was at my house!

Sunni—

—in Iowa!

s—you bought I house in Iowa?

Hence the cattle. Duh.

God.

I thought it would be quiet there!

SUNNI BLU counters this speculation with a new single which references having glutes so intensely hot that one is able to cook pancakes atop them, in which the music video showcases Sunni's bottom being used as a pancake griddle and features rap legend SNOOP DOGG—

MANCAKES ft. SNOOP DOGG

Models and dancers surround SUNNI rapping and take turns making pancakes on the veluptuous butt—ie—“mancakes.” Dressed in scantily clad chefs outfits/ sexy aprons and barbecue outfits// a barbecue pool party scene in which the booty is used as a pancake grill while the models and dancers drink mimosas at a backyard brunch.

The song wins numerous accolades including song of the year, and skyrockets sunni BLU even further into fame—luckily, this distracts the public from further speculation, however— a small group of other celebrities become suspicious after unanimously deciding that the “jiggle factor” of the butt is explicitly female, and launch a secret csmpaign to expose Sunnï Blū as a transgender—thinking that this will upset the rap and hip hop community, and resulting in Sunnï Blu's removal from the top of the pyramid crowned as the entertainment kingpin.

The Festival Project.™]

The Complex Collective ©

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2024

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

Evidently the motorcycles begin to now attack when I am at rest , on line, and not recording.

However, once I begin recording, they stop.

This has only been since I've been intentionally collecting recordings and data to add to my report to the NYPD and any applicable law enforcement agencies, as this continual threat seems to be politically motivated—and motorcycles, mopeds, and other motorized vehicles being used as a form of psychological terrorism as a direct threat to public health and safety. Terror stalking.

Gang stalking.

This may be a politicized attempt to promote or enforce gentrification or other political agendas.

Living//Loving life on a server,

Doesn't it seem wonderful?

Let's face it—

It's Fast Friday and I'm not going to be

Bouncing off the walls, or anything—

But I might be prone to a lot of

Critical thinking,

And though it's an expensive maneuver,

And risky expenditure,

The fact of the matter is—

I haven't really been doing anything.

I've been not complacent,

But stagnant—

So perhaps maybe this little detour

Will be just the thing I need

To erase some of the damage that's been done

To my psyche—

Sitting in this terribly loud apartment

In Brooklyn

Trying to find peace

And make music;

When the answer all along is that

I need to increase my visibility

In order to find what's needed;

The fact is—

Knowing where to go

Or what to do

Or who to meet

Is not going to come in isolation—

No, not at all.

It would come from a neatly designed

—whatever, I just got bored.

Perhaps if I study hard enough,

One day, I could complete my studies somewhere

Like Harvard,

Or Columbia—

But first,

I'll need a new diploma in my actual name.

You see, nobody's giving any kind of real fuck about my music.

I can't keep throwing money at it thinking that the way to success is going to be making enough money, to spend enough money, to hopefully buy the attention of the robotic masses, and eventually maybe even a club owner or festival promoter

Who might be looking to put me on.

Don't get me wrong— my music is good.

But we live in a computer, and let's also realize:

That with the noise in this building,

And the overall head trip of counting up my pennies for every little thing I need,

I'm starting to get physically ill,

Just sitting here, understanding that

To look the part, one must prioritize

An expensive beauty regimen—

Which either would leave me at the mercy of some man,

Willing to do these things for me,

Or that I might earn this myself…

As you see,

I've chosen the latter route—

The more challenging, perhaps,

However,

Leaving my celibacy intact,

And granted, otherwise uninterested

In the males at my level of circumstance

For any purposes beyond entertainment—

—seek no other actual companionship at all.

I like myself,

I love myself—

And though feeling uglier and uglier

The more I stare into the face of my telephone screen—

I am wonderfully beautiful all on my own.

—but—

The masses expect a spectacle,

And so,

It becomes part of my job, as an entertainer,

Part of my repertoire—

—have mercy—

(I'm going to choose to ignore that, sort of)

To do at least what has become expected of me as a woman—

To be “pretty” —

And though the makeup and hair and nails

Might be fake,

–Cans cost a fortune—

Myself without those things, as observed and proven

Becomes overlooked, dismissible, and only attractive

To those, of course, to whom I have no business

Associating

For both personal,

And professional reasons.

—moreover…

Conduct yourselves well, my dear—

As the furious skies have warned us,

That the roles you carry out to mark and torment others,

Will soon reflect upon your own mirror

Into which you stare,

And no mercy is given

By the eye that looks,

Or any other

The nearer to doors I am,

The harder they slam—

The, though I am fasting,

I'm suddenly hungry,

A far cry

Which forces me to realize

That all of mankind

Has been poisoned

Toxic,

And become

Unsafe

So,

What's wrong here

Is they've

Taken all the nutrients

From the foods we need

And put it on

A competitive scale

So that

The more you earn

The healthier you are

And of course

The healthier you are

The more productive you are

Which creates value

Maybe I didn't have to take the GED;

Maybe there was some way to go about getting

My actual name

On my old diploma—

Hopefully without cost.

But it didn't make sense to move into a new era

Or a new world

With old haunts.

I knew I needed to seal the name change records

So that my abuser could not have access

To my identity.

For whatever reason,

I wanted things like Harvard and Columbia—

I wanted to succeed and to win with a reputable and respectable foundation—

I wanted to raise my son

To play football

And split custody

In the sporting seasons

In which

I felt he performed best.

I wanted to show him success

Without making compromises

That would hurt and weaken

The strength of the body and mind —

But most importantly, the soul.

I hope by now you've realized how odd it is

To have a crystal dildo

Sitting in a glass jar

On your kitchen countertop?

…I'm soaking it.

…But why crystal tho?

Wouldn't you prefer

An iron tenderizer

For that steak

Rather than a

Silicone one?

…now that you put it that way.

Come closer, darling,

I want to connect with you closer

Than besides

In the eye of the camera—

Don't you know, anyway—

How dire the circumstances become

Once you've broken the fourth wall

And entered the quarry.

You lunatic!

Don't worry

The moon hasn't gone yet new,

And my honored eye

Still betraying the thought you are,

The battered ram and the shackled horses

The bloodied bull

And the heroic matador,

Fight

…

…

…

—by fury with design, for the holocaust.

The masses have loved us

From far beyond reason

For our class action theatrics

With no aversion at all,

To violence.

A treasury!

Kill him, then!

Kill that bitch.

No! Just— scare her!

Right you are,

(And right you were!)

Dear Johnathan,

I should have warned you

More than once,

What an. Honorable sacrifice

Your wicked life

Has offered us—

Foragers of freedom,

March upon the underspoken

Warcries,

Offer us none

But the end of our suffering

In solitude,

A service of none,

All together,

Hurt and bea—

Arthur.

I warned you once.

You see,

Men need women,

They move on fast.

One, none parted

Before finding another.

Let's not separate the eggs from the whites.

Isn't it all “the egg”?

You know what I meant!

What do you “meant”?

The yellow part!

God, you don't half to yell.

I'm not God, I'm just playing her part while she runs off for awhile.

How long is “awhile”?

Just finish those tarts.

Mm. Pop tarts.

NO.

NOT POP TARTS —

Just TARTS.

…wait, can she hear us?

I can hear everything!

I'm playing God's parts!

“Parts”?

(Let's just say it's a double role.)

Hey.

How's it goin?

Okay. Relax…

I am relaxed.

I don't want to scare you or anything.

—nothing's scary—

But—

[pause]

You have a knife in your back.

[beat]

Yeah.

[beat]

(Cont'd)

It's just [a little] something I'm working on.

What? We should call an ambulance!

Nope, I'm fine.

Just—

No! Don't touch it!

What?!

Just leave it.

It's time for pros and cons lists—

It's time for diamonds

Time for great minds that think alike.

I sterted a revolution on Google documents m

Ya'll started chemical warfare

On skin color

God

Made me born into a world

War

Where fair skin takes priority

Over others

Gave me a notebook,

No pen

A traumatized mother,

A drunk father

And said,

“Fix problems”

I think I didn't like The nell Schooll ll

Cause their

mascot

Is a pices

They said I got

15 minutes of fame

22 minutes of superstardom

An hour of celebrity

And

2 hours in a leading role

Of a feature film

Franchise

So I'd better get used to it

And I'd better make use of it

And I'd better make better lists of

The huffsk yll m You

W t you

Sorry,

Gym typo

Because

Of course

I'm a beast

Faux pas,

As I was,

Saying—

I should make better lists

Of the guff I wanna boff,

The doves I Central Park

The pigeons, turtle doves and

Waffles—

—I still want the

But not the buttermilk kind

MAMA!

I gotta get to Tom/ Diner!

FATHER!

(Try papa)

Papa was the ops!

Nah, I'm vice.

I'd better get

Anything done

Before midnight strikes

Along with the hunger

My gloves are straight soaked

I got puddles in my shoes

I wanna top Obama

Start all my dawns

With hours of cardio!!

Look,

I can channel anyone I love!

Do you love me?

NO!

—I just want your body a lot

Like a lot

LIKE A LOT,

Tho.

We're too famous—

We sense crazies and go out the back door.

How famous are you again?

Apparently, like mad famous, dog.

Were so famous,

We look danger in the eyes.

Oh yeah, this dude is fucking nuts.

Didn't I say to pay it forward?!

I don't need a reminder

Of what time it is.

Sometimes I forget

This is yesterdays workout

And I'm due back

In the AM

Where the crazies

Can't get to me

Exactly

Where I am

(Don't remind me how high I am.)

I might jump just to get on the Television

Martyrdom for attention

Still haven't mentioned—

I'm thousands of galaxies out of him,

And only two millennia older

Than

HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!

Fuck you.

SUNNI BLŪ gets a surprise party for their 27th birthday.

I've been advised to stay away from the doors and windows.

Why.

Ū crashes through the window.

GODDAMMIT.

They don't make them like they used to

—I heard a song through a hardwire

I don't know who lied so much

I tried so hard

To be gone

But I still wake up

Under a security blanket

with a palm full of rocks,

In a glass house

God knows I'm sorry

Woah friend, old friend

I've heard the whole story now

Old frog, old toad

Old tortoise, long road

Special forces

Art protector

Fortune teller

Hypnotist and potions professor

Overall,

The one you wanted

Wasn't a body at all,

But just the thought

And so I'm off for once

Out of my zone and

LET ME TRY.

No, Jenna—

Liz, let me try.

I don't think that's a good—

HELLO.

Like this game, frog

Once a week it's fun

To partition the saints and summoners

Covers with salt

The cast out the others

And add flavor to prayers

Asked in hypothesis

My what a wonder

(A free form stream of consciousness)

—a free form flow of consciousness.

Stop repeating yourself'

Stop tripping over words for goodwill forums

Don't preach to the masses,

And head out the back door at the sense of danger

The sense of danger!

It's Jane kzmarzarakr

righ?

What the FUCK.

I'll get back to that later

I gotta—

…Somethin, somethin, somethin.

What.

Somethin—somethin—

There's something between us.

—is it cancerous?

Probably comical.

Are you on one, or off of it.

Careful, Mr. cervix.

Why AM I Mr. Cervix?!

Because you fit the part!

I'm a woman.

My decision stands.

#focus shifting.

Re-examining mental health conditions which affect those facing poverty or at risk environmental circumstances.

I had been searching to no avail for the title sequence of one of my mother's old soap operas without having to ask her —

#focus shifting

No, sometimes it's just ADD.

lol

Yes,

Okay.

I already know all the words.

Sometimes I have to hyperfocus

To fully comprehend,

But really

I just want to figure who produced it m

In the cadences,

I'm like diamond for hire,

Pull out the subs for submarines;

I put out real fire

But, something like a half forgotten language

There's something unknown in the darkness,

I'm unsure what to put into perception,

Just shadow boxes

Making friends with The Devil, are we?

You shackled me to your horrors,

Out of control were my monsters

A gratitude of nothing more or less

To offer my body, curse

The sacrificial lamb

Tied to hard earned disaster

A heroism and seeking

Solace in the night

—interceptions.

Whatever Google,

Take care now

All morale is lost

On sacred worship

Cruel to hurt,

But all has costs

To front

— the standard values

Only those amongst mankind

Who have value in vanity

And fortresses of design

Not in truth,

But of auspicious and

Inglorious

—

Goddamnit,

How far away are you?!

I can't make out almost anything that you're saying!

Far!

That's because, it's not saying it in your language!

He

Sorry. He is just using the closest possible language so that you can keep transiting it into English!

Well, you're doing it wrong!

I gathered!

There's no direct translation whatsoever.

They might as well just be speaking Martian.

They are.

(Well, some of them are.)

I think the best way to go about making anything

Into anything

With the species is to

CRUCIFY HIM!

…that's not gonna work!

You just blew my mind, did you know that?

Not on purpose.

—but did you know that?

I try not to know things, but you know,

The more I try.

Guess what.

No.

You've got something coming.

Let's make it positive.

As you were—

As you are, then.

I realized that something had changed,

That not only had t seemed it had become unsafe to speak, but also,

That I didn't want to much.

But, in Order to do something, in order to grow at all,

I would have to force myself to understand

The things that I always could have, but did not

Multiplicity, Faction

Are you an altruist at all, or just a

Song starter—

Help Me- Appleknockers Flophouse

Just remember aces of embraces

Sitting in the shape of the eye of protection

Of obsidian collars and bracelets

Still no percussion,

Instrumentation and perfection

Graces

And remembrance of getting a ring,

As strictly enforced

To do what I'm told

With nothing to hold onto

But hoping the means to an end

Shouldn't be the barrel of a gun m m

How soft spoke.

(No, no words at all)

The name was new,

But the form was old,

And he said—

“I curse the day you were born!”

And I laughed at him—

“But how could you curse the first day there ever was!

Before days at at all had come to mark

To pass the dawning of the ages?”

And of course,

There are the ones who had come and gone

And left no trace at all.

You all should learn from us—

Come, then gone from earth

And left not a spot at all—

Of course,

The mystics of I,

Are as one,

To have given you thought,

Words,

And artform—

To have written at all, your published works

And then none

A far cry!

To have cursed the day I was born—

Is to have cursed the world at all

It was all at once, anyway

Astonishing

A far cry!

#focus shifting.

Now what are we on, and over – m?

Now are we an art, or have we bought or purchased

Another swarm of haunts?

What have you offered?

A lesson? A song?

Cheshire?

A treasure chest of ideas, and new haunts

And four plus four hours marks

A full workday

Of harsh tidings

And no commas.

The dollar sign is all you are

All you are,

dear serpent

The shadow box

Of times and talks

The heartfelt words

And omens

Marks of

Long:

Crude

Color

Let's not reform to how hallmarked

The call was

To sign for

The wrong box

It was published

In her heart

To mark twilight at dawn,

Sorrowful, beyond words, was the sloth

And the stolen love of the harness

—that's right,

I was once the ritual disaster for your kind

And cause!

The false tongues to fall upon earth

A false prophet, marked at all,

By strife and swords to battle

The Ark of all,

In the eye of God,

So opened the chapter of

illuminations, once for thought as wicked

But after all, the merchant of saints upon man

Stricken in time to the word of The Lost Ones,

the eye of all,

The origins of love

As we are

Born in color.

So spoke the caterpillar of the butterfly—

Not knowing he was only

What was to become of him

As some are

Also

Disgusted by us at all.

We are,

What is to become

Of those who die

Blue eyed and bewildered,

Though beautiful,

Unknowing of strife

And hard earned glory,

The solitude of

Kindness

So said the spider,

Drawing upon the corner,

Her thoughts of the ocean,

Once earned and once taught

To perform out of mercy—

Now cradling heartworms,

Challased, unspoken

Signals to all throughout cosmos

The end of a

Turpentine, serpent calls

Gods of old

Summer winds

Striking songs

Games of dust

Simple throne, cast away—

Are you Ark,

Or seeking proper

Word form?

Given you, a taste of fury—

Given ye, a taste of envy—

Given they a fire for exile

Are you now

Another forager

Waking in the wind

Or cross tied bounds

Seeking refuse in waste rebels

Eyes you are

Of one that wants

To bury in the far side

All the awakenings

Of cherished nature

Never to be shared

A guilt of refuge

Are you?

Are you now beyond bounds—

Behind bars—

Let her

Guide you to move words

Like rivers,

Unknowing

Unknowing

Unknowing

Basking in the shadows, are I

Made of stone and withered

Basking in the broken tongues

Of cherished thoughts

And severed forms

words over

Of false ties

And blood bonds

So for us

Mistaken!

Misgoverned.

Torturer—

Where are you now that I've my shield

And sword,

And warguns?!

Have you cried

For your mothers kisses,

As shadows have cast

I have killed you before and always!

Where are you now,

That I am not without my wings?!

Where are you now, torturer—

Given nothing at all

But a word form song,

Destroy

Art thou my kind, or another?

Art thou a man at all?

Art thou my kind, or any!

Seeker,

To destroy you

Be my glory,

Though I come not

From worlds of war.

I come not,

From worlds of rage.

I come not,

From worlds of pity

And refuge

And disaster

As your worlds are.

I come not of darkness.

I know not of pain to cause others.

I know not of force.

But act instead, on behalf of love,

Dear brother—

As to kill you,

Whether or not be my kind—

I kill my self also.

You'll remember this part in a moment – m.

What a strange time to be alive,

And yet-

Yhes— I do remember

The teacher warned us,

With no sign at all,

That the dust formed in all stillness kind would follow,

The awakening of shadows and sleek stardust,

Carried out acts of misery and misinformed

There now awakened in the callings,

Are I not, wanderer,

Your teacher and also those alike

To be called offspring?

I Am.

Tainted not the purple swarm

Essence of her greeting

Beyond fortress,

No house of mine,

But awakened yet with the gratitude of offerings

No kindness at all but a mark

Of Serpent seed,

And references

To that of past,

No need to bring

In present times.

No concept,

And full force with the shadows,

They're making a call to the wild,

After having raped and defiled her,

To ‘save us—‘

But savor this now,

The mark of I,

The eye of mark

So betrayed and strung,

Nearly all that lies beyond the screams of

This,

Your world,

Our fortune,

To grasp a new kind among us

To fault ye

Of your greedy.

Oh!

It has become what does awaken,

To awaken!

For once,

Thought to have been written,

Was thereby foretold,

On many journeys

The soul seeker, had won.

A cherished and unbeknownst charter.

You called it—

A paychonaught?

You called him:

“A pedophile”

Granted, the wish was that

The outside world

Would be shown

What I had seen

To no witness

But a toddler,

Mine born

To have guided

A new life

From two kind

Once blue

Eyes at all

I promise a sword.

I had realized finally what it meant to go unprotected once proclaimed to be of Diety within a magical realm, with given talents of medicinal force, and with refuge—though only to give upon knowing, the sanctity of soul, and the purity of heart—the kindness of spirit, as I once had.

You'll remember this,

But last time near a river,

A bed full of green, soft (m) grass

And your time has come to feast,

And end of fast,

Twice given thoughts to form,

And knowing worlds would come foraged

From your knowledge.

Are you forgotten?

A mango, ripened to heart, of course.

Nourished the journey,

Yet untold

[The Festival Project.™]

The Complex Collective ©

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

...and then what? (Happy Accidents)

{Black- ish}

2014. Sitcom. 8 seasons

Dre Johnson (Anthony Anderson) has it all - a great job, beautiful wife Rainbow (Tracee Ellis Ross), four kids and a big home in a classy neighbourhood - but as a black man, he begins to question whether all his success has brought too much cultural assimilation for his family. With the help of his father (Laurence Fishburne), Dre begins to try to create a sense of ethnic identity for the members of his family that will allow them to honour their background while preparing them to embrace the future.

Mix story:

Two traditionally stereotypical black(ish) dudes decide on a whim to buy some electronic musical festival tickets, which come with a mystery suprise dosage of an unknown psychoactive hallucinogen which takes them on a in unguided journey through time and space through strange and unfamiliar, bizzare and unknown music—unguided, that is, besides for by the light provided by the hands of the DJ, who acts as a spiritual guide, immersing the partygoers into a new world of bass heavy drops, Kandi coated ravers, and freedoms yet unbeknownst.

The Festival Project, Inc.™ is a multidimensional multimedia platform which encompasses exploratory and artistic social personifications and expressions on cosmic theory, spirituality, growth, health & wellness, philosophy and theoretic dynamics in entertainment such as music, design, film, television, radio, dance and festival culture, art, fashion, literature, and science.

The Festival Project™ and it's subsidiary Non-Profit, The Collective Complex © aims to challenge modern artistic and philosophical ideals, break commonplace barriers, forage new creative mediums, and provoke inspired and reformed thought and actions toward evolution and overall societal improvement and ecological sustenance through a new-wave and post-modern, avant-garde and philanthropic hyperawareness driven by a unique culture of global values mediating global respect and preservation via open consciousness, multi-sensory and synesthetic (multi-preceptory) expansions of sound, language, vibration, movement, color, emotion, and ritual governed conceptually by the aspect(s) of love, truth, unity, understanding, and peace.

Thank you graciously for your time, consideration, understanding, and support. ^.^

To Donate Please Visit,please visit gofundme.com/thecomplexcolletive

TRIGGER WARNING!

⚠️ VIEWER, LISTENER, and READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED. ⚠️

This series contains adult content not suitable for children or under the legal age of majority.

Listener and reader discretion is advised as this publication and / or broadcast and its selected readings and projected writings may contain explicit language, provocative wordplay, profanity, open expression of suicidal ideation, discussion of evolved/ de-institutionalized theories concerning depression and mental health, race relations and colorism, socio-economic inequality, political injustice and media politicism/ mass media manipulation, unresearched/undocumented scientific hypothesis , modern philosophical ideals and spiritual explorations, crude/ adult humor and may also include and contain pornographic content, references to fictionalized interpretations of celebrities and/or public figures (fan-fiction), caricatures or references to pop culture, modern art, music, science and other entertainment references which may evoke biased emotion, inspire adverse reactions, contemplative thought, discontentment, or discomfort. The views and opinions expressed by this series and its subsequent editions, additions, chapters, broadcasts, and publications are solely the writers' interpretations as expressed with artistic and entertainment purposes only.

The artist reserves all rights to intellectual property maintained and produced by any and all publications of this series and is thereby protected under any applicable copyright law and/or trademark. All fictionalizations of persons living or dead are meant to be perceived as characterized and/or fictional (fan-fiction) are for entertainment purposes only, and are not to be perceived as real re-enactments, dramatizations of events past or present, media dialogues or agendas, or factual exchanges pertaining to and surrounding real-life circumstances.

The dialogues and entires expressed in this project are in no way liable for any action, expression, disagreements, entitlements held by the reader at his or her/ their own discretion.

[The Festival Project ™]

Apparently, the Yeah Yeah Yeah's are a real band.

No fucking way.

Apparently.

I had no idea at all when I wrote that….

–Wrote what?

…nothing.

[The Festival Project™ ]

…

‘Mm. More protein.'

I knew protein wasn't exactly entirely going to help me lose weight, but I had lost a lot of muscle only cycling and being bombarded at the gym— and the inferior protein I had purchased earlier in the month was less than inferior, as it turned out— it simply wasn't working.

How the fuck is this a real rock group?!

I don't know! I thought I made it up.

I thought you made everything up.

I MADE EVERYTHING UPz.

Well, this is turning out to be a disaster.

Hm. No spouse listed.

You fucked a drummer?

You could say I hopped on the bandwagon.

Ew.

Gross.

What do you want from me?! Shut up!

{Enter The Multiverse}

___

I'm going to need you to feed my dragon.

Uhm. Okay.

Don't worry. She doesn't bite.

Uh.

Give her a kiss.

…no.

Do it, or she'll set you on fire.

*kisses dragon*

..Okay.

Good girl.

She's soft. For a dragon.

Yes, she's very friendly.

So. What does she eat?

People.

+.+ –Agh?!

—but only purple ones.

What?

She's not going to eat you, Fredrick.

Who the fuck is “Fredrick”?!

(We don't know.)

My name's not—

—you're not purple.

I'm not.

No. Don't worry.

I'm—worried.

I said don't.

Well; wait— what color am I, then?

That's not important.

*shiny*

Oh, good. A gatekeeper.

What in the actual circumstance is this.

Length?

8.5 inches.

Girth?

A hearty 3.5

Circumference.

What the fuck is “circumference”?

[VOID.]

Well, that's was fun.

What was?

…nothing.

OH GOF—

GOD

Go to sleep.

…I just want to know, though.

Just ask Google.

I'm not asking Google that!

Hey Google…

GOOGLE

/incognito

{Enter The Multiverse}

Body shopping on the internet

Not worth following

Got to find the father who bought me the body

I can self publish books, but can't do it all myself

My artform costs money. Performances put off till

I can afford to look adorable

By New York standards,

On California stereotypes

No work darlin'

An escort service

Will cost

Two dumb dollars more

In your karma jar

Than you've got goin.

Call Tony Hawk,

A star struck hallmark card

For the workman's comp

You were offered

—Subpoena the penis.

—oh that's right,

I need actual ink pens.

Oh God, he bought secrets on stop signs;

—someone's daughter

#stop for comedy

DO NOT PUT FOOD ON MY VAGINA.

DO NOT—

No.

My vagina IS food.

You don't put—

No.

No.

You want peanut butter all over your dick and balls?

Awesome.

You want whipped cream on the shit?

Fine.

Chocolate?

(Non dairy, if you will.)

But DO NOT.

I repeat:

DO NOT PUT FOOD ON MY VAGINA.

Toppings are for ice cream.

This here is sorbet.

#lilbitz

{Enter The Multiverse}

So I did the math the other day—

And I finally figured it out,

That the reason the world is such a fucked up place

Is that 80 percent of dudes have short dicks.

That's why the “ideal” woman has always been small waisted, short, petite, tiny.

— 80% of men have penis lengths smaller than 5 inches.

That's statistics.

I'm just saying—

There's a reason why super models are super skinny.

That's so dudes can hit it and really feel like they're fucking shit up.

With their little short dicks.

These tiny short girls make their little dicks feel LARGE, okay?

Doesn't even matter. I just figured out the whole world is fake.

I want to go somewhere the fuck else.

I want to go somewhere selfies don't exist.

{Enter The Multiverse}

MOO-HAHA

HA-HA

HahAHa-HAHA!

WHAT!

That's my evil laugh.

NO ITS NOT.

What do you mean, it's not?

“MOO-HAHA”

NOBODY LAUGHS LIKE THAT.

That's my evil laugh!

No, it's not.

Well, how am i supposed to laugh, then?

Justnfucking—

“Mwa-ha-ha”?

There you go. That's perfect.

What!? That's simple. That's just like everybody else.

Be simple then.

What!

You're also just like everybody else!

I am not!

What makes you different?

I'm—going to take over the world.

See.

See—what?!

You're just like everybody—all the other villains.

I am not!

You are, though, for real. Like—

Ugh.

Just—do your laugh.

MOO-HAH—

Not that one.

:(

The other one.

What—

Do the other one.

…mwa-haha…

That's better.

:(

Come on. This opener is running lo—

[TITLE SEQUENCE]

I earned two tattoos and a crown

From loving a man

Who can't love me back

I won the pawn, the aces, the sword

Chariot, gardens and graces

A house full of waivers

Could you uncover the arc of the architect?

Probably not,

As it changes upon discovery

Could you uncover the mask of the rabbit?

The tantra of habit?

The cruel suffering of the crucifix?

Neverwell you, Harper

Son of Sam

And Harlem's daughter

The forever golden one

—a forager.

Arches—

Hark, you call, cruel summer

Never forward

Wondering blossom,

Talking of longshores, sportsman's,

Wailers, down coats

Fools for orphans, are you all!

Proof of the word for the propaganda,

Mother Sandra

Bullocks and Bulletwounds

(But Bullock would have wanted one next,

Just to summon a role for her.)

Passion projects!

Here they are, now!

Bulletproof and,

Table readings—

Don't be greedy!

Your agents and managers

Also are facing inflations

On yachts and at parties

And meanwhile,

The projects of poverty are awestruck

With guttural proportions

Of treasures uncovered from rubble

Of sidewalks

And storm gutters

—how was your morning?

Celebrity, aren't you?

Well, aren't I then?

Relax rabbit,

I have a new task for you—

Go bring me back what you haven't yet,

And try staying on task without habits at all

Or adderall—

(Won't be that hard on an all organic diet,

Proper programming and parental encouragement,

Plus support, recommended.)

Here you are again, to bother anyone around you.

There I go again, not caring a fuck less.

Here we are both a genius and robot

Deciding to go walk the dog,

At the wrong time

Just a reminder

I'm less of myself,

In a room full of anyone else,

Nevermind

A few thousand

—the likely cause of my invisibility.

Battlegrounds as the brainless have managed to outnumber us.

Beyonce became the first black woman to headline Coachella in 2018.

Halle Berry, just shortly before that in 2001 became the first black woman to win an academy award for best actress.

I'm just realizing what era of time I've been born into—and I have to continue to keep wondering to myself—‘why do they hate us?'

For the first time in my life, advertisements for a Disney movie which will showcase an African American girl as its lead character—not as a frog, or a lion, or a mermaid—but as a human being—and one of the first animations in my lifetime to feature a female character with brown eyes—and not the usual blue, green, purple, or pink the media often uses to dehumanize or water down the blackness of dark skinned characters— saddens me, as although she is wearing braids, she is still made to look light skinned, with freckles—as beautiful some girls are, but still, this alerted me to the fact that white audiences still hate seeing black women in the spotlight, and solidified the truth that white audiences will not adapt to watching dark skinned women as the leading role in almost anything.

Is the intrinsic hatred and jealousy of the white supremacy the underlying cause in the continual disadvantage of darker skinned women and the portrayals as such as strong leading characters—why does the success and happiness of the black woman seem to be such an imposing threat to whites so much so that the entire media has been, even of late, a parade of forced diversification, further colorism, and the solidification of light skinned people being seen as more beautiful, acceptable, and prioritized, in the media and otherwise?

Has the obsession of white hatred towards black woman been the underlying cause in the justification of white supremacy in the media in order to create more steady sources of revenues for entertainment provisioners, programmers, and networks—appealing to largely white audiences with whitewashed and Eurocentric classification of diversity amongst the new generation's subset standards?

The dark skinned woman continues to be undermined and unappreciated — it seems out of deep seated fear— fear of dark skin, fear of dark eyes—fear of having to share a world which used to revolve around eurocentricity—with diversified beauty—fear of actual equality.

Why Do They Hate Us?

Wine glass—

Bloodstains

(My blood four hundred proof)

—I disappear for about

Three days

Come back golden

(But ya'll out of order)

Bitch, buy me a bottle!

Nobody else can hear the

Motorcycles

Cause I'm the

Only one sober

Writing in fours because

After all

This is

A drama

Not a

Comedy, no

(Nope, not at all)

I get wronged for it when I black out—

Funny thing about it is,

That ain't never happened

Colonizer poison all of the water

Code of conduct

I promise the karma

For carnival circus

I promise when I die

The rest of it goes out with me

(But not coming home with us)

The darker the berry,

The longer the story

—the older we are

Y'all out of order

Ain't it funny when

The whole world is

Sons and your daughters

Wine glass—

Bloodstains

(My blood four hundred proof)

—I disappear for about

Three days

Come back golden

(But yall out of order)

I tie the rope,

Then I slit my wrists

(Pull the trigger)

Amen,

I'm three times dead,

And ain't left my apartment

Bitch, buy me a bottle.

Yo.

I don't hate white peoples.

At all, bro.

But—

They're just scary.

Sometimes.

Like ey—

Stop trying to kill us.

They're like,

“We're not!

…Just…

…the ugly ones…”

But then that's like…

They're the ones that set the standards in the first place on who's “ugly.”

“Ok! Ok! Everyone's beautiful!”

[That's good.]

“…Just the stupid ones!”

lol.

But they run all the fuckin systems,

So the education system is like,

Unequal and shit.

They're like,

“It's okay! Everything's better now.”

But all the dark skinned people in movies are either like,

Men, or like,

Off to the side and shit.

Morbidly obese and shit—

Like,

“Here's your representation.”

What in the fuck though—

I swear to God I don't hate white people.

I don't.

But it's like…

Every time we get too far ahead—

Or no,

Try to catch up to them,

They're like,

“GET THE FUCK BACK!!”

AHEM.

I mean—

Ahem.

“Ahem.”

They got gatekeepers.

Like the only way they can handle dark skinned people,

Especially women,

Exceeding is if it's by being ghetto,

Or standing on some soapbox,

Or going above and beyond in some way.

We only get centered representation of color,

If it's in some ways, in total,

flawed.

Watching the Olympics,

I almost thought they had Simone Biles hair messed up on purpose.

Like,

“Here's your representation.”

That is our representation.

How Americans actually feel about black women in general.

Like, we couldn't have our best and be our best.

Nobody's gonna pull this girl to the side and comb down those flyaways?

An Olympic champion!

A fucking Gold medalist—

a perfect representation of the fact that America can't let black American women be “all the way the best”.

Something looks wrong!

I don't hate white people.

But now I'm like…

…

…

…Why do they hate us?

Ahem.

{Enter The Multiverse}

After an intense round of furious masturbation, I had the sudden onset feeling that I may have written something interesting over the last 3 months.

…

Mm…perhaps….maybe.

—but first, some heavy deep cleaning.

I don't like the way it smells in here.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2024

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

Sleep on it

Sure.

Maybe we omit everything about race?

Probably.

Could just put that with—

—with the other race war stuff.

Probably should.

Maybe just release the uncensored copy on the Skrillex podcast where it might be more well received?

Probably that.

Yeah.

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, to form friendships, professional connections and networking opportunities outside of the restrictions and limitations of social media, mass surveillance, and algorithmic privilege/ preference tactics governed by corporate media enterprises without judgement or interference by outside influence, while creating an open-concept and free-form space as an artistic springboard and color-palate for all artists wishing to expand each's own mindset to involve out-of-the box thinking, outer consciousness, awareness, inner peace, and overall health and wellbeing, promoting a clean, modern and evolved, hyperrealistic lifestyle.

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.

Up Next:

Re-examining mental health conditions which affect those facing poverty or at risk environmental circumstances.

Killing Me Softly is an organization established to help de-victimize and support survivors of un/reported violent crimes; an answer and antithesis to the #metoo movement, Killing Me Softly promotes the ideology of the safety in anonymity, as survivors of violent crimes often forego seeking traditional treatment or filing reports against such violence in fear or persecution or retaliation. Historically, reporters of violent crimes (particularly against women) are met with accusations of falsifying or fabrication, social exclusion, defamation of character, and even revenge and punishment enacted by the perpetrator of such crimes in defense– which in today's current justice system has proven to derail survivors livelihoods, wellbeing, and put their safety at risk. Killing Me Softly seeks to maintain a safe and anonymous space for survivors of violent crimes, welcoming all genders, races, orientations and those who identify across all spectrums who identify as survivors of un/reported violent crimes seek by to remain anonymous or maintain a change of identity due to violent crime, allowing the de-victimization and empowerment of survivors of all acts of abuse, physical and/or psychological, neglect, psychological terrorism, gangstalking and other forms of ridicule, terror, torture, or abuse overlooked and systemized and/or classified by standard systematic institutions as disabilities or disorders, incapabilities which include misdiagnoses due to medical inequality, colorism, racism, biased, or sociopolitical inequality such as, but not limited to; mislabeling as paranoia, hallucinations, conspiracy, fabrications or other under-recognized or deprioritized documentation of incidents and intent to cause harm to others by a singular abuser and/or groups, hate groups and organizations designed or designated to attack and subdue diversified others, minorities, and ‘lesser-persons', those represented in the media or otherwise as second-class citezens, and treatment by organizations or authorities aimed towards dismantling the peace of mind or livelihoods of others for personal, political, or socioeconomical reasons.

Created as a music warehouse project based in Brooklyn New York in 2023, The Complex Collective as a non-profit seeks to encompass a large industrial 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, media room and recording spaces 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.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

The Complex Collective ©

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2024

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

{We appreciate your time, charitable donations & support.}

[Thank You.]

gofundme.com/thecomplexcollective

givebutter.com/thefestivalproject

Sometimes no matter what you do

Black is ugly

It don't matter—

That's just the way things are

Dark skin, negro hair, brown eyes

You must grow to understand that to the oppotite race,

Those things are lesser than

We love blonde

With blue eyes preferably

And only a hint of olive in the lightest skin tone

We like a carefree, fun loving girl

Who doesn't worry about trauma

She doesn't worry about oppression

Or the right hair

Because the “right” hair grows out of her head

There's just something too harsh for us

About dark skin

And dark eyes

There's something so intense about

Frizzy hair

And black features

That we cost ourselves hundreds in

“Beautification” to look like them

So they respect us more

While inwardly, they become relieved

That they don't have to spend money on

Weaves and wigs

and when they wear braids

It's a costume

Or a statement piece

Not a way of life

Because it has to be

To Submit Your Artist Portfolio, Track or Demo for distribution on our record label, please contact:

Email Us At:

[email protected]

For Membership Information and Opportunities, please visit

http://thefestivalproject.bandzoogle.com

The Festival Project, Inc.™ is a multidimensional multimedia platform which encompasses exploratory and artistic social personifications and expressions on cosmic theory, spirituality, growth, health & wellness, philosophy and theoretic dynamics in entertainment such as music, design, film, television, radio, dance and festival culture, art, fashion, literature, and science.

The Festival Project™ and it's subsidiary Non-Profit, The Collective Complex © aims to challenge modern artistic and philosophical ideals, break commonplace barriers, forage new creative mediums, and provoke inspired and reformed thought and actions toward evolution and overall societal improvement and ecological sustenance through a new-wave and post-modern, avant-garde and philanthropic hyperawareness driven by a unique culture of global values mediating global respect and preservation via open consciousness, multi-sensory and synesthetic (multi-preceptory) expansions of sound, language, vibration, movement, color, emotion, and ritual governed conceptually by the aspect(s) of love, truth, unity, understanding, and peace.

Thank you graciously for your time, consideration, understanding, and support. ^.^

To Donate Please Visit,please visit gofundme.com/thecomplexcolletive

TRIGGER WARNING!

⚠️ VIEWER, LISTENER, and READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED. ⚠️

This series contains adult content not suitable for children or under the legal age of majority.

Listener and reader discretion is advised as this publication and / or broadcast and its selected readings and projected writings may contain explicit language, provocative wordplay, profanity, open expression of suicidal ideation, discussion of evolved/ de-institutionalized theories concerning depression and mental health, race relations and colorism, socio-economic inequality, political injustice and media politicism/ mass media manipulation, unresearched/undocumented scientific hypothesis , modern philosophical ideals and spiritual explorations, crude/ adult humor and may also include and contain pornographic content, references to fictionalized interpretations of celebrities and/or public figures (fan-fiction), caricatures or references to pop culture, modern art, music, science and other entertainment references which may evoke biased emotion, inspire adverse reactions, contemplative thought, discontentment, or discomfort. The views and opinions expressed by this series and its subsequent editions, additions, chapters, broadcasts, and publications are solely the writers' interpretations as expressed with artistic and entertainment purposes only.

The artist reserves all rights to intellectual property maintained and produced by any and all publications of this series and is thereby protected under any applicable copyright law and/or trademark. All fictionalizations of persons living or dead are meant to be perceived as characterized and/or fictional (fan-fiction) are for entertainment purposes only, and are not to be perceived as real re-enactments, dramatizations of events past or present, media dialogues or agendas, or factual exchanges pertaining to and surrounding real-life circumstances.

The dialogues and entires expressed in this project are in no way liable for any action, expression, disagreements, entitlements held by the reader at his or her/ their own discretion.

[The Festival Project ™]

Apparently, the Yeah Yeah Yeah's are a real band.

No fucking way.

Apparently.

I had no idea at all when I wrote that….

–Wrote what?

…nothing.

[The Festival Project™ ]

…

‘Mm. More protein.'

I knew protein wasn't exactly entirely going to help me lose weight, but I had lost a lot of muscle only cycling and being bombarded at the gym— and the inferior protein I had purchased earlier in the month was less than inferior, as it turned out— it simply wasn't working.

How the fuck is this a real rock group?!

I don't know! I thought I made it up.

I thought you made everything up.

I MADE EVERYTHING UPz.

Well, this is turning out to be a disaster.

Hm. No spouse listed.

You fucked a drummer?

You could say I hopped on the bandwagon.

Ew.

Gross.

What do you want from me?! Shut up!

{Enter The Multiverse}

___

I'm going to need you to feed my dragon.

Uhm. Okay.

Don't worry. She doesn't bite.

Uh.

Give her a kiss.

…no.

Do it, or she'll set you on fire.

*kisses dragon*

..Okay.

Good girl.

She's soft. For a dragon.

Yes, she's very friendly.

So. What does she eat?

People.

+.+ –Agh?!

—but only purple ones.

What?

She's not going to eat you, Fredrick.

Who the fuck is “Fredrick”?!

(We don't know.)

My name's not—

—you're not purple.

I'm not.

No. Don't worry.

I'm—worried.

I said don't.

Well; wait— what color am I, then?

That's not important.

*shiny*

Oh, good. A gatekeeper.

What in the actual circumstance is this.

Length?

8.5 inches.

Girth?

A hearty 3.5

Circumference.

What the fuck is “circumference”?

[VOID.]

Well, that's was fun.

What was?

…nothing.

OH GOF—

GOD

Go to sleep.

…I just want to know, though.

Just ask Google.

I'm not asking Google that!

Hey Google…

GOOGLE

/incognito

{Enter The Multiverse}

Body shopping on the internet

Not worth following

Got to find the father who bought me the body

I can self publish books, but can't do it all myself

My artform costs money. Performances put off till

I can afford to look adorable

By New York standards,

On California stereotypes

No work darlin'

An escort service

Will cost

Two dumb dollars more

In your karma jar

Than you've got goin.

Call Tony Hawk,

A star struck hallmark card

For the workman's comp

You were offered

—Subpoena the penis.

—oh that's right,

I need actual ink pens.

Oh God, he bought secrets on stop signs;

—someone's daughter

#stop for comedy

DO NOT PUT FOOD ON MY VAGINA.

DO NOT—

No.

My vagina IS food.

You don't put—

No.

No.

You want peanut butter all over your dick and balls?

Awesome.

You want whipped cream on the shit?

Fine.

Chocolate?

(Non dairy, if you will.)

But DO NOT.

I repeat:

DO NOT PUT FOOD ON MY VAGINA.

Toppings are for ice cream.

This here is sorbet.

#lilbitz

{Enter The Multiverse}

So I did the math the other day—

And I finally figured it out,

That the reason the world is such a fucked up place

Is that 80 percent of dudes have short dicks.

That's why the “ideal” woman has always been small waisted, short, petite, tiny.

— 80% of men have penis lengths smaller than 5 inches.

That's statistics.

I'm just saying—

There's a reason why super models are super skinny.

That's so dudes can hit it and really feel like they're fucking shit up.

With their little short dicks.

These tiny short girls make their little dicks feel LARGE, okay?

Doesn't even matter. I just figured out the whole world is fake.

I want to go somewhere the fuck else.

I want to go somewhere selfies don't exist.

{Enter The Multiverse}

MOO-HAHA

HA-HA

HahAHa-HAHA!

WHAT!

That's my evil laugh.

NO ITS NOT.

What do you mean, it's not?

“MOO-HAHA”

NOBODY LAUGHS LIKE THAT.

That's my evil laugh!

No, it's not.

Well, how am i supposed to laugh, then?

Justnfucking—

“Mwa-ha-ha”?

There you go. That's perfect.

What!? That's simple. That's just like everybody else.

Be simple then.

What!

You're also just like everybody else!

I am not!

What makes you different?

I'm—going to take over the world.

See.

See—what?!

You're just like everybody—all the other villains.

I am not!

You are, though, for real. Like—

Ugh.

Just—do your laugh.

MOO-HAH—

Not that one.

:(

The other one.

What—

Do the other one.

…mwa-haha…

That's better.

:(

Come on. This opener is running lo—

[TITLE SEQUENCE]

I earned two tattoos and a crown

From loving a man

Who can't love me back

I won the pawn, the aces, the sword

Chariot, gardens and graces

A house full of waivers

Could you uncover the arc of the architect?

Probably not,

As it changes upon discovery

Could you uncover the mask of the rabbit?

The tantra of habit?

The cruel suffering of the crucifix?

Neverwell you, Harper

Son of Sam

And Harlem's daughter

The forever golden one

—a forager.

Arches—

Hark, you call, cruel summer

Never forward

Wondering blossom,

Talking of longshores, sportsman's,

Wailers, down coats

Fools for orphans, are you all!

Proof of the word for the propaganda,

Mother Sandra

Bullocks and Bulletwounds

(But Bullock would have wanted one next,

Just to summon a role for her.)

Passion projects!

Here they are, now!

Bulletproof and,

Table readings—

Don't be greedy!

Your agents and managers

Also are facing inflations

On yachts and at parties

And meanwhile,

The projects of poverty are awestruck

With guttural proportions

Of treasures uncovered from rubble

Of sidewalks

And storm gutters

—how was your morning?

Celebrity, aren't you?

Well, aren't I then?

Relax rabbit,

I have a new task for you—

Go bring me back what you haven't yet,

And try staying on task without habits at all

Or adderall—

(Won't be that hard on an all organic diet,

Proper programming and parental encouragement,

Plus support, recommended.)

Here you are again, to bother anyone around you.

There I go again, not caring a fuck less.

Here we are both a genius and robot

Deciding to go walk the dog,

At the wrong time

Just a reminder

I'm less of myself,

In a room full of anyone else,

Nevermind

A few thousand

—the likely cause of my invisibility.

Battlegrounds as the brainless have managed to outnumber us.

Beyonce became the first black woman to headline Coachella in 2018.

Halle Berry, just shortly before that in 2001 became the first black woman to win an academy award for best actress.

I'm just realizing what era of time I've been born into—and I have to continue to keep wondering to myself—‘why do they hate us?'

For the first time in my life, advertisements for a Disney movie which will showcase an African American girl as its lead character—not as a frog, or a lion, or a mermaid—but as a human being—and one of the first animations in my lifetime to feature a female character with brown eyes—and not the usual blue, green, purple, or pink the media often uses to dehumanize or water down the blackness of dark skinned characters— saddens me, as although she is wearing braids, she is still made to look light skinned, with freckles—as beautiful some girls are, but still, this alerted me to the fact that white audiences still hate seeing black women in the spotlight, and solidified the truth that white audiences will not adapt to watching dark skinned women as the leading role in almost anything.

Is the intrinsic hatred and jealousy of the white supremacy the underlying cause in the continual disadvantage of darker skinned women and the portrayals as such as strong leading characters—why does the success and happiness of the black woman seem to be such an imposing threat to whites so much so that the entire media has been, even of late, a parade of forced diversification, further colorism, and the solidification of light skinned people being seen as more beautiful, acceptable, and prioritized, in the media and otherwise?

Has the obsession of white hatred towards black woman been the underlying cause in the justification of white supremacy in the media in order to create more steady sources of revenues for entertainment provisioners, programmers, and networks—appealing to largely white audiences with whitewashed and Eurocentric classification of diversity amongst the new generation's subset standards?

The dark skinned woman continues to be undermined and unappreciated — it seems out of deep seated fear— fear of dark skin, fear of dark eyes—fear of having to share a world which used to revolve around eurocentricity—with diversified beauty—fear of actual equality.

Why Do They Hate Us?

Wine glass—

Bloodstains

(My blood four hundred proof)

—I disappear for about

Three days

Come back golden

(But ya'll out of order)

Bitch, buy me a bottle!

Nobody else can hear the

Motorcycles

Cause I'm the

Only one sober

Writing in fours because

After all

This is

A drama

Not a

Comedy, no

(Nope, not at all)

I get wronged for it when I black out—

Funny thing about it is,

That ain't never happened

Colonizer poison all of the water

Code of conduct

I promise the karma

For carnival circus

I promise when I die

The rest of it goes out with me

(But not coming home with us)

The darker the berry,

The longer the story

—the older we are

Y'all out of order

Ain't it funny when

The whole world is

Sons and your daughters

Wine glass—

Bloodstains

(My blood four hundred proof)

—I disappear for about

Three days

Come back golden

(But yall out of order)

I tie the rope,

Then I slit my wrists

(Pull the trigger)

Amen,

I'm three times dead,

And ain't left my apartment

Bitch, buy me a bottle.

Yo.

I don't hate white peoples.

At all, bro.

But—

They're just scary.

Sometimes.

Like ey—

Stop trying to kill us.

They're like,

“We're not!

…Just…

…the ugly ones…”

But then that's like…

They're the ones that set the standards in the first place on who's “ugly.”

“Ok! Ok! Everyone's beautiful!”

[That's good.]

“…Just the stupid ones!”

lol.

But they run all the fuckin systems,

So the education system is like,

Unequal and shit.

They're like,

“It's okay! Everything's better now.”

But all the dark skinned people in movies are either like,

Men, or like,

Off to the side and shit.

Morbidly obese and shit—

Like,

“Here's your representation.”

What in the fuck though—

I swear to God I don't hate white people.

I don't.

But it's like…

Every time we get too far ahead—

Or no,

Try to catch up to them,

They're like,

“GET THE FUCK BACK!!”

AHEM.

I mean—

Ahem.

“Ahem.”

They got gatekeepers.

Like the only way they can handle dark skinned people,

Especially women,

Exceeding is if it's by being ghetto,

Or standing on some soapbox,

Or going above and beyond in some way.

We only get centered representation of color,

If it's in some ways, in total,

flawed.

Watching the Olympics,

I almost thought they had Simone Biles hair messed up on purpose.

Like,

“Here's your representation.”

That is our representation.

How Americans actually feel about black women in general.

Like, we couldn't have our best and be our best.

Nobody's gonna pull this girl to the side and comb down those flyaways?

An Olympic champion!

A fucking Gold medalist—

a perfect representation of the fact that America can't let black American women be “all the way the best”.

Something looks wrong!

I don't hate white people.

But now I'm like…

…

…

…Why do they hate us?

Ahem.

{Enter The Multiverse}

After an intense round of furious masturbation, I had the sudden onset feeling that I may have written something interesting over the last 3 months.

…

Mm…perhaps….maybe.

—but first, some heavy deep cleaning.

I don't like the way it smells in here.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2024

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

Sleep on it

Sure.

Maybe we omit everything about race?

Probably.

Could just put that with—

—with the other race war stuff.

Probably should.

Maybe just release the uncensored copy on the Skrillex podcast where it might be more well received?

Probably that.

Yeah.

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, to form friendships, professional connections and networking opportunities outside of the restrictions and limitations of social media, mass surveillance, and algorithmic privilege/ preference tactics governed by corporate media enterprises without judgement or interference by outside influence, while creating an open-concept and free-form space as an artistic springboard and color-palate for all artists wishing to expand each's own mindset to involve out-of-the box thinking, outer consciousness, awareness, inner peace, and overall health and wellbeing, promoting a clean, modern and evolved, hyperrealistic lifestyle.

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.

Up Next:

Re-examining mental health conditions which affect those facing poverty or at risk environmental circumstances.

Killing Me Softly is an organization established to help de-victimize and support survivors of un/reported violent crimes; an answer and antithesis to the #metoo movement, Killing Me Softly promotes the ideology of the safety in anonymity, as survivors of violent crimes often forego seeking traditional treatment or filing reports against such violence in fear or persecution or retaliation. Historically, reporters of violent crimes (particularly against women) are met with accusations of falsifying or fabrication, social exclusion, defamation of character, and even revenge and punishment enacted by the perpetrator of such crimes in defense– which in today's current justice system has proven to derail survivors livelihoods, wellbeing, and put their safety at risk. Killing Me Softly seeks to maintain a safe and anonymous space for survivors of violent crimes, welcoming all genders, races, orientations and those who identify across all spectrums who identify as survivors of un/reported violent crimes seek by to remain anonymous or maintain a change of identity due to violent crime, allowing the de-victimization and empowerment of survivors of all acts of abuse, physical and/or psychological, neglect, psychological terrorism, gangstalking and other forms of ridicule, terror, torture, or abuse overlooked and systemized and/or classified by standard systematic institutions as disabilities or disorders, incapabilities which include misdiagnoses due to medical inequality, colorism, racism, biased, or sociopolitical inequality such as, but not limited to; mislabeling as paranoia, hallucinations, conspiracy, fabrications or other under-recognized or deprioritized documentation of incidents and intent to cause harm to others by a singular abuser and/or groups, hate groups and organizations designed or designated to attack and subdue diversified others, minorities, and ‘lesser-persons', those represented in the media or otherwise as second-class citezens, and treatment by organizations or authorities aimed towards dismantling the peace of mind or livelihoods of others for personal, political, or socioeconomical reasons.

Created as a music warehouse project based in Brooklyn New York in 2023, The Complex Collective as a non-profit seeks to encompass a large industrial 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, media room and recording spaces 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.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

The Complex Collective ©

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2024

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

{We appreciate your time, charitable donations & support.}

[Thank You.]

gofundme.com/thecomplexcollective

givebutter.com/thefestivalproject

Sometimes no matter what you do

Black is ugly

It don't matter—

That's just the way things are

Dark skin, negro hair, brown eyes

You must grow to understand that to the oppotite race,

Those things are lesser than

We love blonde

With blue eyes preferably

And only a hint of olive in the lightest skin tone

We like a carefree, fun loving girl

Who doesn't worry about trauma

She doesn't worry about oppression

Or the right hair

Because the “right” hair grows out of her head

There's just something too harsh for us

About dark skin

And dark eyes

There's something so intense about

Frizzy hair

And black features

That we cost ourselves hundreds in

“Beautification” to look like them

So they respect us more

While inwardly, they become relieved

That they don't have to spend money on

Weaves and wigs

and when they wear braids

It's a costume

Or a statement piece

Not a way of life

Because it has to be

To Submit Your Artist Portfolio, Track or Demo for distribution on our record label, please contact:

Email Us At:

[email protected]

For Membership Information and Opportunities, please visit

http://thefestivalproject.bandzoogle.com

At an interesting and quick pace,

The man asked to be seen by the doctor,

A wish,

No distasteful strand of eloquence left unopened—

He asked for a mailbox, and she gave him a shovel

(And a shower for a show!)

O Conan!!!

That just became so readily amusing to me,

That I might have failed to have mentioned, dear reader

An atrocity unwinding for us we have found—

and we have found such indeed, in perpetual times,

To be one another, and all at all times! A quest!

Given a seat at the entry,

To have been given any attention,

And keep each of them with me

A mention—

For factor of disappearance— “¿whereforeartthou women? “

We'll ask—

(But no children please)

I get it;

I got tracked down for an autograph

And asked for one, if any

For a stone each

Goes to the other.

Listen,

Movement again

Catch me if you can, car//cat.

What a head trip

What a head trip

What a disasterous ask,

How I failed to have lost you at all,

And found one at the crossroads,

Dropped off at the crosswalk

Don't forget waffles!

Stramlining streamers

And bicycle tires

Times of the times

Of the times

(Of the times, I said)

I love iron

And ironing boards in the flatiron district

Don't do anything I wouldn't

(Fair, and very well said.)

Fair and very well done, your honor

Are we all on the same ark now,

Noah?!

No!

It couldn't be I had ever lived so dangerously

Look at me

I went all that way

And only lost $22 dollars!

A dollar a minute!

—times a wasting!

I went all this way

And still owe 30 minutes on the stationary bike

{After 30 More Minutes on The Stationary Bike}

In the crosshairs//crosfires of something once thought as love, we find reason to give in trust to such, as not has now parted from within these sequences

—of time, through time—

and by time, in and of itself, in nature

—with and throughout cause of now and where we have come, into truth;

Awakened by our judgement,

And in spirit, here gathered as farkind.

Sometimes, I honestly don't know what any of this stuff means— or what I'm writing until after I've done it.

I've got to go;

That's Christopher Lloyd.

John Wilkins, Sr. Sir. Reporting for duty.

Have you got your paperwork gathered?

As you asked.

As was commanded.

Yes, sir.

I see here you have— mounted—

—and unmounted—

—yes…this mission—several times within the last decade.

I've seen to it to show all paths taken within the simulation—sir—both in and out of each district within the series grid.

*face*

—uh, sir.

…I see. And your continuum?

Spotless: In fact— with your judgment, you might confirm I've become somewhat of a—

(Clearing throat)

Ahem.

—celebrity.

*coughs*

—sir.

[a break]

—it has been well documented.

All Things Considered…

…All Things Considered.

(Breaks fourth wall, as if to say “i beat you to the punch.)

(No pun intended.)

That's not funny!

No, it's not, but—

All Things Considered…

….

“All Things Considered”

{Enter The Multiverse}

Huh. A new show.

Oh My God.

What's wrong?

A new parallel.

—where?

…close.

And—how?!

Since when did we ever know how things happen—

[The Festival Project ™ ]

—In this realm, or anywhere else?

—-

How's “anywhere else” sound?

Marvelous— as long as it doesn't cost too much.

It won't.

Please tell me you're taking these things seriously.

Serous as it gets.

It's as serious as they come, I think.

They're going to kill him.

They're going to kill me!

I'm…gonna kill him.

Well— that's enough!

Off to work!

I've gotta go!

AND LIVE FROM NEW YORK, ITS

—I touched it.

Shut the ——

UP.

Um. What.

You can't say that.

We're live .

I just did [bleep] say that

Why is it—

—oh my god—

—where's the censor?!

Are we live!?

We're live!

Cut to commercial!

We can't!

Run the backup generators.

Ahahahahah.

We gotta get this thing off the ground.

We'll see.

Oh! She's—

I'm sure you'll understand lately.

Through the corridor.

Where's the corridor.

You'll see it.

*walks into wall*

Er—maybe not.

Portal!

Portal!

Portal!

Always.

Follow.

Your instinct.

Maybe later?

I—

Wait! Where are you going?!

Somewhere else! I don't know!

There's something you should know.

What should I know.

He—shot himself this morning.

Oh, that's terrible.

I might have my wires crossed,

Then again,

Come again,

Here again—

Second time

The controller of everything

Controller of God

—but if God has a controller

I guess that's who I am

(That's who I am)

I'm not tryna look cute today;

I just wanna go in on a loan

How long has it been

Seen I seen what you saw—

But if I saw your face,

It's a whole new world

I got lost once;

No more scholarships

No more storms,

No abortions.

No missed calls,

No more harsh words

(Harsh words lost!)

No more music,

More songs

Fire on,

Bass guitar—

I play everything on the wall

I'm a whole animal

I got tired of the wall,

I got a will to work

I just won't work

For a star!

Someone call my employer,

I got ties, and bosses

Leather cuffs and centrifugal force less

I'm so worthless

But you started it for her

No, I don't want to smile;

I should just start the fire under my soul

To get lost with it.

I'm still tied to the art,

Still tied to it all

I still can't decide

For my heart

Or my soul

If I should just move on with it.

I shouldn't move over so fast;

This whole car has bucket seats.

I should just leave it to God,

And I don't want to worry too much

About projects

I already took losses on

If it buffers again,

I know I'm in charge

Just thinking about where I've gone with it says

I should let it go,

All the way gone.

I don't need a divorce

I need to resurface

Just let go

And just get gone

I've been missing a piece of my heart

And I've had a lot of fun times

On rooftops

But I got two dogs barkin

With no bones

And no boners

As thrones

To sit upon

What was that about the crown?

If my plane goes down, all is lost.

I thought about voice activated doors—

Keeping the lights on at night

And starting wars over

Don't hold onto value

What doesn't serve you only

Sell the dream they sold you

To show you

The cold shoulders;

I need no more open doors

And no pawns

If it's not worth all of it

All of it.

I don't want

More open doors,

And more artifacts to show

I could only get cold hard numbers

No nurses more;

Wait till you get a divorce—

That'll show you the cold hard world.

I'm not worried about an offer.

I'm not worried about a job,

As long as I've got

long John Silvers

I'm not worried about the way it works so much

Except

Leaving a piece of myself

In the past,

With no way to get out.

(There's no way to get out)

Didn't I say before

That I loved the whole world over you.

You built the whole world over water

The wall around Rome in a day.

Remember the time you sold your piece

And your peace

Remember what you could give

To forgive

To forget

To spend your entire life

Spinning and spinning

In the wild

And

End-the-end

It's a win-win situation.

It's a push to start world, you know

This—we live in

A paranormal paradox

Of modern amenities

And

[Conviniences]

[The Festival Project™]

—-I just want to play with him.

I promise, I'll give it right back when I'm finished

I don't plan on keeping it

Or living long

Or doing well—

Or coming home till morning.

Everyone gets worried after supper

When the car backs out of the driveway, God knows

I could be gone for an hour at most,

Or a month,

Depending on

Where I'm going

Nobody knows

When I close my doors to visitors

Open to the public, on some days.

On some,

Corporate function.

Dress code with all the right

Suits and ties,

Dollar signs and

Brunches

Now, far beyond private

Firewall

And a lockdown mode.

I'm dizzy with the loss of time

But you'd chain me to a bedpost,

Managed by a stranger

Then again, at night

I've lost all hopes

All night,

Steady fishing in a man made pond

For nine hosts.

So if 9 out of 10 times

The answer is yes,

And one no—

Might as well vote;

Get on with it

I should fill out an app for McDonald's yet

I'm already full of c/gum

And water.

So why not?

[The Festival Project ™ ]

Laramie Hughes is a jack of all trades.

A representative of God on all behalfs

Tearing down the institutions of sanity

Forbearance of betrayal

Unkind, but bewildered

They come in all incarnations

Ignorant to one another

Which one's which?

However,

The light that brings awareness to all things,

The triad of knowledge,

Wisdom and

illumination

Your pain is words in music

Tears to translation,

The chaos, destruction

Of forming worlds once thought

As foraged, once of thought

But now become of us

What we are

The color of God

(He looks to meet his untimely demise atop a skyscapter in midtown Manhattan)

Oh God, here it goes

Below, the summoned protector waits, awakened as archangel and antithesis to what is known, to catch him — thus prolonging his existence, and though not truly preventing his untimely death, giving birth to his enlightenment...

Oh God, here it comes.

He jumps, giving way to all element

-a ragdoll,

She stands basking in his glory,

Nonchalont

And catches him.

A high tide breaks,

Catching into a storm

In the night,

Off the coast,

In Los Angeles

Embargo!

Embargo!

A sanctioned cry,

For here once more Friday comes,

Again we call to all Ark,

The martyr of aces—

Keeper of stones,

Craft of Wanda,

They call God,

But also non-form

Circumstance of other

Antithesis,

Before antiquity.

The light in your language

Has crafted pure steadyform

Emotion in my cadence,

Thought to be worlds of wonder

Dance, brave fortune has captured!

Light, scared not of darkness

But ending in all time

The underworlds unknown to awareness

At all—

A Kingdom;

See you now the heart unfold,

The tired messages of animals form

A love so misrepresented as to call it so

One,

Besides the box of fixatures,

Captor or wrechetness

The end of all evil,

The Sun of a new kind

Blood on the water,

Bask in I now,

Another misfortune

The keeper of keys has gone and fallen

Not into rest,

But another world—

Waking is he to the cries

And the sorrow thoughts of others,

The many amass,

To structure what had bonded

Him of his hands,

The ties,

No more a world he leaves behind!

No more is he!

Steady, mister

I have forgiven the end of all what is real

In exchange for your interest

Sanctioned

Embargo!

Embargo!

So, wounded mother—

In your care I bloom

If only to forget of you,

Upon waking my own,

A gifted enchanted and given sword,

No shield but I,

As my own title

Becomes coordinates;

A map and globe to scale

Crafted of thought

Trickle now your tears, chorus

Dear chorus—

Sing now of accomplishments and whistles gestured at the woven wicker basket

Have you a candle for us,

Doctor—

Or perhaps,

As architect,

You have fashioned, dear savior

A mercy-

Forgive us of our pondering

Unknown of your nature

Until light had vanished

From our eyes