Niko

Notes on Riding through the Suburbs

Niko — Wed, 01 Sep 2010 17:17:23 +0000

We drove miles through suburbs that I thought would never end. I hate the countryside and I loathe the suburbs. The people scare me. Everyone seems disabled in some way, and there are always insects in the country– unless it’s California, or the Winter. I hate the look of middle-aged faces. They seem to have been bullied by time and resigned themselves to accepting things as they are. Everything is wrong! Look around! Old people can’t retire, young people can’t find work, and normal, boring people are standing by the side of the road begging for spare change!
I take solace in a reoccurring dream I had, where I was a prisoner in a high-security prison, doing the same things each day, moving very little, always alone, never having to think– it was a relief. It was a happy dream, or at least not an unhappy one. It reminded me of a series of fantasies that I had as a child, which I would envision before falling asleep: I was a member of an armed community living in a tree-top village in an impregnable, impenetrable section of rainforest, high above harm and the rest of world. Or I was on an ice planet, buried in a clandestine, subterranean fortress miles beneath the frozen surface, far below where trouble could find me. It all made perfect sense. My mother used to beat me.
I was no longer capable of understanding the people that worked for me. Why did they get up each day and come to work and do the same things over and over? I couldn’t live like that. The same as in the past, I refused to accept the idea that doing the same stupid things each day in exchange for the ability to own a car, rent an apartment, watch TV, pay a cell phone bill, or get pizza at Pizza Hut, was worth more than being free and sleeping under that stars.
I see myself as being on the same class level as the crusty-punks in the park. If I have more money, or possessions, or opportunities, it is because I am producing what the bourgeoisie want, but that is by accident. I disavow the concept of progress. I despise my benefactors.
There are four class levels in modern, Western society: the poor and stupid unlucky class, the artists and derelicts that refuse to plug-in or do regular work, the wage-slaves and upholders of social norms (such as the cops and all civil servants), and the wealthy businessmen and political elite that exist at the top of the power structure.
The artists and derelicts are the only ones to transcend economic boundaries. The modern bourgeoisie are the wage-slaves and their enforcers (whom would be mad to find that I lump them together in a single group), and they need things to be constantly moving, always making noise. They want air-conditioners blowing on them, radios singing to them, TV’s washing them with waves of light and noise. They need alarms and coffee to get them up in the morning, high-fructose corn syrup to get them through lunch, and sleeping pills and alcohol to put them to sleep at night. Does it not make sense that I need a continuous supply of drugs just to be functional around people like that?

N., I respect you even though you disgust me.
S., I admire your sloppiness and the big fuck-you that you radiate to the world.
K., I still love you even though I finally understand you, and see how weak and pitiful you really are.

Character Flesh

Niko — Sun, 29 Aug 2010 07:57:12 +0000

Sex is life, is love, is everything that is not death or entropy. The smallest toe wags the leg. The more I give, the more I get. Yet having all, I want it less. My pleasure lies entirely In the acquisition
>

My Man, Young Jimmy

Niko — Thu, 26 Aug 2010 22:25:50 +0000

No related posts.

Smoking Boy

Niko — Wed, 25 Aug 2010 15:28:01 +0000

No related posts.

Timothy Atticus, Bent Gallery

Niko — Sun, 22 Aug 2010 23:08:51 +0000

Click here to view the embedded video.

Last Images of Markey before Death and an Epic Poem by Johnoneile

Niko — Tue, 27 Jul 2010 06:37:33 +0000

yo niko
yo took ill photos of me and i never seen em
bumps of he——–ron in the mars planetary
mutha fuckas interstate,
interplanetary
give it to you reallly
rap music south bronx uptown
les.manhat5tan
brooklyn
out to staten island fuck queens and holliss run dmc and and 50 cent can have it
my world evil swan music
shoulda put in the guggenheim
time is mine soon im in the whitney art museum
punk rock radio tv party oneil is count the billy fuck a milly that’s 9 sqad of death down here the les
put you to the test like a military don’t give a fuck about that clothes you where
uniforms
aintnada
shit to me
mayor judge and illuminatti dont wanta fuck with the johnoneil name the game the franchise ma team
tame a poloice forces and a ci
IRA bomba boooooooooom come through wit da shells flyin
pitols taurus
brand new brazilian made
pump pump action long ramge rifle stanged ya
100 out. steeple towa shout yeah im O N E IL the beer lout
nationalist music out my veins though u think i like I HATE u. know i, sprayin like the shower gang graffiti art spray it down like im jamaican and im the COKE name
holdin down the hood from the insiiiiide
like you know them cops lie
wo’t want to come innnnn ssssssssside
yup. is right weed toools and merchan banks atms and video poker machiness
shump shink
clink dreams
bullet proof misses ya
flys by the police try and sweat me
fuck prcinct andprecinct family
frieds of johnoneil to the end stop writin whe the fingers hurt me
can’t stop me. won’t drop me flow freely like fly by in my way might die be hurt like a trck hit ya pcp spit ya
DUST mustard
blood trusted
marsbarjpphotoshootnyctospray can red paint johnoneilmarsbarartworkmagicevilalienprobehustlerswan death music blackpool flowoilveinscocainebrainmethfreaknoteetheatdickswallowcumeatturdoneiloneiloneil word.

The New Rome

Niko — Tue, 27 Jul 2010 06:20:34 +0000

July 20 at 3:17am

Like a pilgrim on bleeding knees
I try to crawl back to the womb of sanity
But alas
there is no god
there is no god
I turn the corner of prayer and burn
And I must take what I have brewed
Throw it forward into old age
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay
Pitiless as the sun

July 20 at 5:44pm

I like the old bags when they see me
out of their eye’s corners, teasing their hair
unlike the easy pussy, it still gives me a rise

This wood tent in the seam of my jeans
snatching madly at fetid roots

I like to watch
prim girls in skirts and heels
talking too fast, try to hail a cab
fail, fall, snag their crotches
stumble ass-long into ditches
revealing true cunts and feelings

July 22 at 9:09pm

My flesh, weak as it is
I misuse for violent freedoms
Between-my-ears, against my cock
I dream of brains and seed
spilling in equal measure
like little boots

A Rainbow Gathering in the Allegheny

Niko — Thu, 08 Jul 2010 04:57:02 +0000

Click here to see the video

It is a lost home, this,
the infinitely dense
center of the universe
that could be found at the bottom
of a trash compactor

Peeling back the layers
of the onion of existence like the lovers of experience
and experience through lovers
we laid our many pieces in tents

Cries of “Teddy” and “Shanti Sena”
throughout the forest all night
The dim bulb
the bright light
the sun and children
naked humans
skin and fur
plastic mushroom caps in the undergrowth
hippies and crusties
next to fat camp is dead camp
“A” camp is agro, is Irish whisky, is dust
It’s the climactic antedeluvian jism spasm

The shellaced finger tips shine in the astral light
I’m supposed to say “Moo” when she twists my nipple.
It’s nice to see you here again
Welcome back
It’s six up, six up, seven up, the healers
It would all much easier if we didn’t have to piss and shit!
When are they going to fix that?
When the walls of the world collapse…

They call me pale tongue
as much for my penchant of licking sunblock off the backs
of nubile young virgins in the woods of western Pennsylvania
(sometime between the second and third Great Wars)
as much as for sucking on Super Blow Pops
which I carry around in a plastic bag
so that the little children come unto me
even when i’m not dressed as Santa Claus.

We are camping by the shitter,
which isn’t bad considering that you came as a college graduate,
and you will leave as a trans-dimensional goddess of the trees

Notes on Coming Back from Portland

Niko — Sun, 27 Jun 2010 03:59:11 +0000

I spent my whole life chasing freedom and irresponsibility.
One day I got a job and lost everything.

Traffic is snarled into twists
I have to remember to stay detached
I love the construction workers
sweat and waves of heat roll off their bodies
New York is beautiful to me again
another summer another summer another summer

Grey skies that break
rain that comes down in sheets
not to be found in such abundance
along the Pacific Coast
I adore you

Evertime I change the lens on my camera
I think about the type of images that lens has given me in the past
and I fall in love with it all over again

I don’t want to know people too well
When I can read them it’s as if I can see right through them
I need to leave a little magic to flesh out their bodies

Nowhere, California (Part 2): The Gathering

Niko — Mon, 24 May 2010 03:40:42 +0000

“I’m becoming more like them”, I thought.
Is it because I’m always becoming the things I’m around? I’m even listening to their music when I’m alone… Is this part of the deal? Was I going to start setting life milestones, striving for, and achieving goals? Were my values becoming drier, more conservative, more bourgeois?
Please bear with me for a moment…
The thing I remember most about living on the streets of New York City, and squats, was the all-pervasive sense of cold. A lot of the buildings we occupied didn’t have heat back then like they do now. Of course I had faced a terrible East Coast winter with blizzards that year on the Lower East Side and the South Bronx. Now I seem to keep migrating to warm places. How many times have I taken the seven hour flight to LA?
It must be a residual dread of the cold that has caused me to forswear all cold related artifacts– ice cubes, air conditioners, even fans!
Shane and I suddenly found ourselves face to face with a type of responsibility. We had called a gathering, an adventure with no end date, and we have no idea where this is going to go…
We decided that my brother would be our group nutritionist. Twan had shown a talent for crafting meals out of military surplus and we figured that just as easily and with a handful of dollars we could drop him into the nearest health food store to build a grocery bag of ingredients for our meals…
I’ve exercised a lot since I recovered from the pills but I doubt that that my dopamine levels are back to normal yet because my body seems to ache most of the time. (I like to look at my body and study it in detail. I wonder if maybe all my scars will form together one day and cover me entirely, like a second skin, or even like a glove. I feel that my scars serve to protect me.)
So here is what is going on: We are flying people in from all over the country. My brother, Shane’s sister, my girl, his girl, my best friend, and ourselves were going to gather at a gem of a hotel we found near the airport in Nowhere, California. A minivan, a large hotel suite, $2.50 happy hour drinks, a jacuzi, and seven desperate, enthusiastic, creative, crazy people ready to go camping under the redwoods in Big Sur, party their way through Disneyland in Anaheim, and then move back to the hotel in Nowhere, to live, and build the new store in the mall.
I’ve been really lucky this last week. I was able to understand Hollywood and even enjoy it for a while. The difference this time was being able to see all sides of it. Any three-dimensional experience has some charm.
I need to have bad experiences in life. I can’t get comfortable or else I’ll stop growing. The pain and trouble these last few weeks helped to clear my mind so I could appreciate the good things in life. How ass-barkwards is that?