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The Army is obsessed with spider silk because it is light and strong and a vest made out of spider silk would be much more efficient and effective than Kevlar in protecting our lead-sick troops against bullets.

The army hires intelligent people for their offices, and these office people all have one urgent question gnawing at their tans: how does one go about catching a spider? Ten Spiders? A Thousand Spiders? A Million Spiders? Imagine a quonset hut full of spiders, loosed inside the southwest, and you may have an inkling of what the Military is up against here, except you should also imagine an entire complex of these huts while you’re at it. The military men, sweating in their woolen uniforms like Pizarro’s troops cooking inside their armor, stroll the paths between the quonset huts with something like reverence. They sweat with heat, with bloodlust and wounded pride.

“We know that spiders can be caught with a glass taken from your endtable, as they crawl up your walls in your bedrooms across your fine country of azure skies and grey-eyed peoples with uncertain and angry minds, but this is not efficient enough for an operation such as the Military, nor its Industrial Complexes, and such harvesting surely could not be applicable to the industrial sized spiders, modified through the sciences of indecent means into thorax-heavy monstrosities, scuttling.” And my friends, they rage, how does one go about capturing a being engineered to catch others? Tricking them into stepping onto a piece of paper, to be quickly escorted out of the open and into a cage, seems reasonable, but close your eyes and imagine an 8 1/2 x 11 slowly drooping from the weight of hydraulic legs and sparkling eyes and you will see the nightmare horror of a dozen office scientists in a basement, right now dragging graphite across graph in a desperate attempt to solve this horrid dilemma. They eye the cobwebs under their desks, the deathly-quiet shadow play performed by the dead insects in their light fixtures. They shiver and blame it on a drafty room, a dark basement. The scientists know that they stand on a weak quay, held over a sea of archnids by nothing but a research grant and the nescience of tight-scalped Colonels. The scientists scramble and feel, for the first time, very small. The scientists are greedy eyed, pale handed, and universally avoid talk of home. They say: We are at a loss! The powers-that-be bring in motivated creative types, who mill around in checked shirts (the scientists feel the kinship of Plaid under their white robes) and straight jeans, who speak in strange riddles. They keep dream journals, ask non-experts, never even try for overtime and generally make tremendous asses of themselves.

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Mordre à l’Hameçon

A flesh crown and a hook-snarled lip

The suddenness when something rips

Enough yanks on the chains

And pieces fall away

Till nothing remains. I’m lucky I didn’t end up in jail

That whole night I spent on the dead lawn screaming and shouting

But enough for once about me

.

Kill the cows of power is a new idea.

I think we’re due another round at the stockade

Or the scaffold. A crown of flesh, you say?

If there will be nothing left

Why did you tell me you would see me later on?

And the snarl of the lip, revealing one

Pristine fang, and the pull of the chains on the hooks.

.

A million galaxies away an attracting force

More vast than we could comprehend

(We’d probably puke to see its face)

Draws us like a clever angler to the end.

Mount the horns on the wall above the empty throne.

A pale horse came riding, mounted on death.

There’s nothing left.

.

-Conor Lowe

Live! From the King Tide show!

The Amy Lynns, Live, February 18, 2011 by Mindfuckzine

The Citizens, Live, February 18, 2011. by Mindfuckzine

FACT

Mark Zuckerberg does not have the emotional capacity to perform oral sex.