The Brackish Heaves of Friendship!
Dreams of the Void
Four mighty hands have been keeping together what’s been falling apart. Palms quickly cupping the syrupy lumps of creative fetish that try to slump away from our creative goop! Goop piled high in some tantric mixture of two men’s’ brain juice and creativity.
Our imaginations have been hacking up love butter and blood, wincing our faces with tears and grimaces alike, watching each other birthing GODS, and evil women. The Infinite has been beckoning us like some alkaline serene, howling sweet epitaphs-join this loving daemon in the throes of God’s throat, oblivion! And alas, I fear we have listened once or twice to many.
The madness drove us to start fighting our hands against one another, wresting for more of the muculent body of work we hold together, testing the others hands by teasing to drop some of the precious viscous characters into the mire of ‘without you’. Each hand catching more of the love losing from the globules or the Infinite. And then the infinite spoke to us both in a dream, or were we awake? We will never know how it happened but suddenly the mind spires that we had built, standing tall to scrape the beautiful heavens that swarm around the artist. SUDDENLY we were both carrying the creative goop together again, it was as if a finger or two of our own had gotten lost in one of the infinite folds, and couldn’t the finger then feel anything other than the warm slimy pocket it had found in the mass we had made? As if minds would destroy the whole plasmid body for the right of one fold of flesh! Glory to the dream’s end! We now know that all the body of work is our body to finger folds and wrest slim-skuzzy balls. Yes happy bastard we have made friends again in the whole of the infinite. We will continue to break the rules of quadratic drama. And reining unicorns will tear with their horns the fabric of space and let in/out the benefactors of both universes. So sleep you no more, stay awake for this! Bastards of the Infinite IV has been packing its bags and getting ready to leave utero-state. Its fingers are uncurling and its eyes are swimming in birth juice. Its very lungs are drunk with love. It is drunk with love and wants to stagger, crawl, pull itself out of our conflagrating contours and then rest its heavy sweat laden head on our milky thighs. Brutus’s hulking arms reach for the ankles of our gams!
A Jewel in heaven is sparkling more softly tonight, as it needs not catch our eyes. We are set on holding it in our brow and feel the soul speak to us of wisdom and tact. Oh! And there is a small chance I might die tomorrow or be disfigured, so I want everyone to know that I want my comic books to go to Rylee and my SketchBooks and Flat file to go to Cameron, and then he can give with pertains to Kris. You guys are friends, so work that out. Scoot to Rylee for 300 to my brother and uh…my cloths to Cameron. And D-Flo gets all other stuff as he see it fit. Burn the Flag over my bed, I never wanted to see it stand when I couldn’t. I love most of you with most of my heart, and some just enough. But few of you had the best of me. The Infinite is an intimidating tall woman with great hair.
GOOD HUMOREDLY & The Blood Speckled Youth
Sammy Sayama by Kris Dyche
“The young guns from the critical world of published “real” work will inevitably take control of our waking life, dreams, and milk-shake boogies during these indispensable whiskey soaked weekend jaunts. What is one’s reputation if not a collection of over (or under)-hyped rumors and war stories birthed from the imagined existences of multiple shit-stained opinions? Is this something that you’re willing to destroy- to totally resign yourself to the ideal comedy? “
I was offered this question and slightly intelligible overture by a very dear version of myself 3 days ago, suffering after a grueling boxing session under the incomparable tutelage of Daniel “Snapshot” Herbertson, who followed his invaluable lesson with a bottle of wine and a carton of eggs. We want it all, of course, but the desire is not as attractive as it once was. We cannot get by on charm and voice alone. It got us laid, and for that I am eternally grateful, but the jig is up! The party’s crashing us now, so it’s time to toss everything into that bonfire of cool that burns on, regardless of all this sadness and the ever-deflating la-la land of our roaring twenties.
To do one’s best to represent himself and the lovers surrounding in every action – such is the code of Creative Villainy, as supposed by fellow raconteur Joseph Tenney, but is this not a series useless, damp torches scattered through the tunnels of shadow to cloak the family- a blanket of flowers against that condition of despairing? Melodrama aside, hopeful phrases are delightful enough to get us through till the sun drops low, only to rise again, and the shadows back to the holes they love. Camus says we cannot hope to truly depict ourselves in the work we smash into the nocturnal pulp night after night, sullen and staring off into the dull colors on the wall. So allow us to continue to give grace to our fellow friends and enemies, because who better to illustrate the depths?
!!!
After our recent and heinous duration of soulless inactivity, unavoidable transience, and slight personal tragedy, the boys and girls at Matador sequential are at it again- well-dressed in the finest linens, with polished fingernails and delicately oiled chest hairs to procreate for the knuckle sandwich of graphic tales, one which is destined to pack a punch. Straight out of the eccentric neon-lit streets of Tokyo comes the show-stealing bout of the decade as Japan’s ace wrestler, Sammy Sayama (a.k.a. The Flying Rooster), tests his gallantry against everyone’s favorite bull-battling crusader in THE MATADOR for an all out intellectual battle of glorious god-like physiques, sweat and two sets of rapidly firing synapses that are sure to bring down the sun with unadulterated speed and precision.
In lofty hopes of creating something new and explosively dynamic, we’ve stumbled upon the expertise of Jersey import Kris “Kintaro” Dyche to dazzle us with his loud, explicit approach to sequence, and his affinity for color and satire. It’s gonna be hot one in the old town tonight as the Bull Warrior hopes to take down Tokyo’s favorite blood-fucked Yakuza in an all out , knock-around , chin-kicked Shibuya, cyber-punk street war. The boys and girls back home better work on their ground-game: THIS ONE’S GOING FOR BROKE!