Understanding the rabid and its apocalypse music machine experiment requires reflecting on lost fanfare for a bad acid trip guide, the myth of the song that saves you from the brink, the Virgil of John Wayne’s MK-Ultra back stage coach at The Wild Ones with Mick and Brando, cooking up a storm.    

     Zelig was a film by Woody Allen about a man whose personality was a chameleon like mask, which he couldn’t control, it adapted to suit whoever he was with like a rare multiple personality condition.  It would be helpful perhaps to regard this from the inside like a deep ecology meditation by Tami Simon (....I the dreamer clinging yet to the dream as the patient clings to the last thin unbearable instant of agony in order to sharpen the savor of the pain’s surcease…) to arrive at something less than knowing what befell those who looked into Medusa’s eyes.

      The reality about CMU and Penis Gabriel is like the Bell Project of the Axis, signifying the toll, temple of the golden dawn, but Aum Cult loved Fripp.   

Hitler is dead ~ JFK

      Nietzsche is dead ~ God

      There is about the smell of acid a hint of expensive perfume.

      Looking at the scowling foreign English in band of gypsies we consider again the way that Eisenhower was astute about foreign betrayal during the Suez conscription that failed.  It would take considerable faith in mendacity to proclaim that the Tripartite affair was given that name innocently. Who gave Axis to Hendrix’s delirium? Taboo’d against the golden girl, the language seems lost in the desert of Israel, the vacuum describing the air of disappointment.   Tribal, planned, ordeal, Berkeley played Hendrix, and tie dyes took over the suit and tie gentry of King’s coffin, while the rabid dumped unmentionables into the shocked but hardly awed head of Eisenhower’s little Jimmy.

     Sit here in this puddle and sing us that song, fucking queerbait.