Macrotonal Frequencies
Macrotones occupy a tempo of +/- 5% of 377 syllables per minute.
The Macrotones of Body Hair Awareness Month
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Watching Larry Kudlow while I tickle her butthole, the ways of the world, those are the breaks, everyday I’m elated to be fertile if not awake. Let me unrobe as well, just so you can successfully kiss my ass, I drink tears like ginger-ale after twelve mezcals, no disrespect, but fuck you, I’m a nice guy, fuck me, I’ll stick a Civic car key into your brother’s eye. Suicide bomb your fuckin grandma’s assisted living center, three hipsters talk getting food truck bullshit at Guatemalan festivals. Screwing in cymbals, Alice Cooper performed with Filter, nah, I respect that craft, shitty fuckin bands relapse to playing the same shit every night, it’s actually nice. Koreans crank you off mid stroke asking if you're Pakistani, identities are antsy, in fifth grade Anthony never successfully pantsed me.
Example at 365.0 Syllables Per Minute
52-39-37-46-46
I enjoy believing what I hear, they ID’d bin Laden by his ears, my lobes are super distinctive too, twenty thirteen, I was in three hundred square feet, double debt to income with none of it expungeable. To be honest, I wasn't against being run into by a bus or two, but RIPTA fucking drives too slow, if I’m gonna go ideally I’d like to go. My hair clippers sounded like helicopters in the wet Rome lavatory, Americanos the size of a micropenis agitated me. My zipper had a mind of its own on New York Avenue, I didn’t tip on my second set of Fernets at the tavern, oops!—too busy bonding over wanting to cease completely. Local journalists have become too busy to write more than fifty words on a murder, some fuck got shot, now I guess he rots?—let them snap a selfie for their IG before confirming.
Example at 376.1 Syllables Per Minute
34-37-41-45-54
Being made vaguely aware I could have possibly gotten beaten up by anonymous parties at an undisclosed period in time. The old guy with the white hair in the pink house picked up an Amazon package on his stoop as I walked by, a week later he was beat to a pulp. Deceased in the basement by a guy with a face that looked like a decent looking insect, dying is underrated, annihilation is essentially reflexive. I was elated at the baseless allegation, every day I pray to remain the politest, chucking spears like Leonidas at middle aged men making moronic threats. My sobriety’s Ben Simmons on the Nets, I’m embarrassing myself in public, it’s the best, rusty trombone phone home, nothing’s of interest to me, there’s an indivisibility to perceiving a fucking tree.
Example at 375.7 Syllables Per Minute
40-46-53-52-48
Even Cheryl eventually threaded more eyebrow than appropriate, leaving me practically bare boned in brow, despite default caterpillar contours. Questioning if the light skinned lady guzzling a creamy espresso martini was actually dating the old East Asian man, or if he was only making motel donations. Meanwhile, the big bearded bartender with the lower level central tooth gap seems to dap every fucking body but me, is it possible he recalls my exposed bracciole and balls from his previous bar—fuck it. The empty pint of Yuengling looked like it was having a seizure on the cement in the wind on Fricker, there’s an architecture to walking drunk alone in the dark, sometimes I dabble in gin after dinner. Analyzing arguably asinine signs in Dallas Cowboy games broadcast on solitary Sunday afternoons, I no longer take what’s figurative as anything more than something assumed.
Example at 367.7 Syllables Per Minute
37-54-47-40-55
Tethered to an uninterrogated subjectivity, we bicker about one drop rules and data dumps of public policy fat tails, fuck you. The Bill of Rights is junk email, I check my gmail like I'm the fucking algorithm, when analyzing such and such within the prism of what the fuck seventy percent of NGOs concluded many males often pay bucks for cunts. Not to get political, but a wise man once told me the only good politician is a dead politician, decapitated Palestinian children keep playing the victim. While Millennial US Senators listen to Limp Bizkit with limp wrist kids who enjoy getting fisted until making a modicum of sense is blacklisted. Voluntarily shoving US government propaganda up my own ass, mentioning dollar denominated crude oil trades is considered a touch crass—I caught a shitty sea bass on my Uncle’s boat and tossed it back.
Example at 365.0 Syllables Per Minute
The Macrotones of The Mentally Different Cannot Be Modern
41-49-45-49-37
Tiny spoon shitty coke at the COVID country club wedding, whoops, the architecture of trauma, the inanity of recollection, I can smell my own cologne. Disappearing is conceptually presumptuous, no, continue to attempt this, you haven’t achieved a modicum of honesty yet, the shit you forgot is hugging you like a shark jaw. Your head is still in a sink filled up with water, it’s often the case that intrinsic in the solution is annihilation, and that’s okay too, this dive bar is just a portal. This world is an illusion, a reflection, something existing as a conception, I’m the day in the night, the night in the day, I never learned to pray until I discovered recollection! What you see in dream is the only real thing, a guy who looked like Burt Young bent down on Broadway and picked up ostensibly a dropped coin yesterday.
37-45-51-47-52
Two receipts for twenty four eighty four to the penny back to back, I was slightly surprised, Cambodians with breast milk communicate through bar tabs. Just to remind you your life is a lie, I’m a walking apology, suck my dick, my granddad lost the lottery, the United States government honors the words of pieces of shit. To prosecute ambiguous cases against respectable men, tell the right lie and you might just tell the truth, read the income statements of enough shell companies you might find a reason to remain aloof. Chug a double espresso and pop a shroom before patronizing the Dominican shisha establishment, Ray gave Matthew twenty bucks on Broad, it made his night, I was glad to see it. I enjoyed the company of BBWs before it trended, you have to stay ahead of the curve no pun intended, because you can’t discuss with anyone the images that remain ice cold frozen in your mind.
43-50-49-42-54
I’m a new beginning with a prewritten suicide note, asking God for forgiveness only to be told I’m an inimitable extension of what I can’t compute. Truthfully, I’m nothing if not basically straightforward in nature, an old lady wearing a navy blue political tee inebriate-ly confuses me for some shitty son she claims she has. Being flagged and informed of body hair fetishes for body hair awareness month, despite believing in some indivisible Oneness I can’t comprehend rudimentary social cues I’ve heard. It’s almost like I emerged from a parallel universe—‘The organism is the first fallacy,’ I recite imbibing my own beauty in a full body mirror. I'm trapped in an infinite illusion and things have never been clearer!—I’ve finally become incomprehensible to myself and I find it swell, at a Clarks-Bostonian retail outlet I discovered Hell.
35-37-38-48-53
Bartenders at Muldowney’s understandably claim you could’ve been present on a plane on Nine Eleven, reprehensible images of youth. That can only be overridden by fresh regrets, a form of hell that I accept, partially agreeing with Imams, texting Wordles to my mom. Multinational procurement anal probes fund pre-revenue record labels, slightly unstable, there’s no statute of limitations on oppressive shame. Perception is nothing beyond assigning names, discriminating in taste between artisanal Mezcals like a complete cunt, two genders of cock, the one and the many, it’s opulent fun. A half cup of white rice and green peas with fresh lemon and cold pressed olive oil failed to absorb my nine mezcals, I gave a nice black girl eight bucks walking home, she claimed she’d fuck for the twenty, but I respectively passed.
41-38-39-38-45
Feelings come from gain of function labs, gleefully disassembling yourself over a subtle pack of American Spirits, are you just a little ridiculous?— Indulging in animalistic shit or is it that the intellect is ultimately always bereft—hold up, the Caucasian chick looks like Wyclef. And she’s got a cigarette and a sincere compliment, while others present a left hook and an honest guess, you should always introduce yourself as a Roulette wheel. Everything you feel comes from a gain of function laboratory, everything’s an excuse for a ceremony, or a photo op, or a food co-op. Or an allegory—we genuinely claimed to not recall our names when the shitty parking lot cop called the city cops, he’s got a heart of slop, I wish him the best in his endeavors.
The Macrotones of On Incongruities & Recollection as Fabrication
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Recollection of minutia as fabrication, on my way to drink my face off at Needle I bought The Novelist: A Novel at Symposium, the cashier was not the nicest I'd encountered. Every center of gravity is the single center that's ever existed, there are in fact infinite centers, I pondered this sitting silently on a tall roof assisted by my so-called sensory organs. It’s no longer the case—things have morphed to the extent that people have no actual work to complete, which is maybe why the podcast industry is on the rise with such impressive growth rates, and they're all sublime. The nationalism of the Romiosini was corrupted, Romanides should have gone further east to find himself, drinking scotch, my glass reads ‘girlfriend,’ scratch that, ‘fiancée’. I try to achieve honesty with myself every three days, perusing Rubmaps with the royal nonchalance of a British prince, when unevenness is evinced that's just a ripple of triplicity.
52-46-53-54-55
Actually Giordano could have succumb to a devilish little trick his own damn self, is he burning in flames of folly, I’m tossing syllables onto a blockchain with the ex-boo of Sam Bankman-Fried. Rereading Noah’s nine hundred fifty year five paragraph creeds, are they drowning in the flames of an immanent plane that extends into the jurisdiction of the Kingdom of Heaven? Troubled souls are telling us ‘Timing is everything,’ but they only call at the absolutely most inopportune times, you ask yourself if it’s possible you’ve become morally outraged in illogical ways. Just maybe about matters which have jackshit to do with you?—wearing five dollar Foot Locker tees, I tossed Dave Yurman rings into the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean, or actually it could have been just the box. But maybe the relevancy is out of stock, timing is everything—no, waiting is a logical impossibility since Biblical eras people posted up til last call and only received chlamydia.
49-47-44-54-54
Imbibing blended scotch out of measuring cups filled up with ice on a quaint Saturday night, The Social bartender, although polite, deep down definitely held a ruthless vendetta against me. Remembering a comment I made months ago correctly critiquing her slow Corona Light service, she’s now superfluously charged me seventeen and a half bucks per glass of Mezcal. Faces contorted frozen in time, I chugged the cup of agave helpless, but at the same time it seems so antiquated, investing in things like depression and elation. If you can’t annihilate yourself in the midst of Mineral Spring what can you do, Rocco’s bar’s girth got extended, the cul de sac streams with lovely ducks got a cement redo, the tailor’s building is now a gas pump. The Syrian’s spots gone too, I spit on the terrible white truck after doubling back to spit on the white truck, in two decades we’ll remain the exact same age, the loogie on the windshield was just an illusion of change.
42-48-52-45-36
A young Korean female is wearing an ‘I (Heart) BJ’ white tee in the singular tense while waiting at the Broad Street bus stop, whatever the idiocy of your youth. It’s indubitably true that eventually it becomes something soporific and increasingly idiotic as times passes, ruthlessly asking attendants for top shelf liquor. Then quickly flickering into states of existential shock at the opulent bills received, insects with telepathy hypothetically could control the cosmos, we'd have no science to prove it untrue. They tried to impolitely poop on my aura, probably unaware of their actual bowels, I had to head a different direction, we used to obsess over revenge. Press necks against walls, certain substances suggest you could evade the Unseen, you might think you see a demon, but perhaps it’s just a generous gift?
46-45-50-39-40
Emerging from the condo, sun baking, a white crackhead is naked pulling up her Juicy Couture sweats in my fucking courtyard, I carry a black trash bag glancing at her pasty asscrack. She stares blankly back as I toss trash into a rat filled navy blue dumpster, Staten Island’s shaped like the Peloponnese, I enjoy vaginal cavities when they’re wet and they’re greased. On shrooms I find I’m often in tune with herbs and plants, shit hit when I exited to amble toward Cranston Street, dark skies fold origami-esque, the tinnitus of June was architectural I guess. Why would you want to be in control when you could instead be out of control, ‘time to come’ isn’t always linear, ‘raised from’ isn’t necessarily literal. We could consider memories recurring concurrently with current events, Sunday seems different during the day sitting in utter silence at the bar.
