Sunday, March 13, 2011

underground man don't care; underground man don't give a shit

why all the hating, you ask? possibilities: mama's practicing. mama's on steroids. mama can't spell anymore & it's pissing her off. mama's sick of cliques. mama's sick of mens. mama's sick & twisted. mama's hungry. mama's horny. mama's bored. those kids are on mama's lawn again. mama's bike got stolen. mama got a cat. mama got a fuckweasel. mama's a honeybadger. mama's eating larvae. mama's been reading Notes from the Underground again...

underground man is a hardcore hater.

mama's fave part in Notes is when our lovely narrator gets krunked up and marchy-marches around. check this shit out cos underground man don't care; underground man don't give a shit:

They was all hangin round the big pimping baller, Zverkov, cos Zverkov done bought the Courvoisier. Three bottles for reals. Zverkov was all rah-rah while he poured one for his homies & tot dissed me. I mean, bougie buster didn't ask me to partake, of course. The marks sat round him and ate his floss up. "Word? Word?" I wondered. They conversated about the East Coast, the honies and the shorties, a straight-up hustler called Podkharzhevsky and fronted like they knew hims, of how the Princess D was butta & how they was all tights with her, too, then they started on how Tupac ain't dead...I started to wig cos I was buzzing & on my way to getting krunked. I was on my grind to get their attention but the busters didn't pay me no mind. They wanted me to bounce so I kept marching back and forths. "Peace out, busters. I march for myself, yo." I was tripping from the turning; sometimes I thought I was straight up bugging. I felt throwed, for reals. I was stabbed to the heart by the thought that ten years, twenty years, forty years later would pass, and that forty years later I would remember how that night I played myself.

mama's starting the writings of her new novel. mama's new novel's about hate and death; just like Homegirl! was about love & sex.

for realsies,


  1. Did you really get a cat?

  2. nah, mama got a honey badger.

  3. loved this shit. also yr previous post. I have quite a few thoughts re. the muumuu house people, tao lin, the "shitstorm." etc. I followed it with some amusement for a bit but really. Lin seems to me a genius in some strange way; if I read his shit just before going out in public I feel oddly good, it alters my ontology slightly somehow for the better, I feel almost wrapped in a membrane but still very alive. Maybe I'm making all this up. But all his imitators are sort of intolerable. I don't know. I do love Noah Cicero, who has been around or quite a few years and who was living next to me when I was in Ohio. But I also like to pretend that I am all emotion. Blood and guts and blood. Anyway. I liked the shit poncho says here

  4. hey thanks, josh. checked that link out. cool cool. i need to read lin before i judge, i guess, cos i'm doing that thing that i hate that poets do & dividing the world up into aesthetic schools... bad mama.