Chicklette UNFAITHFUL

Like making out in Juggalo makeup with whoever, smearing it into a sex-change daydream; a pair of 3D holographic raptor swimming goggles never stopped anyone from mouth-to-mouth contact; the title screen across her neck:

Hundebiss Records presents UNFAITHFUL by Chicklette

“You know she’s my favorite.”

Full. On. Male. Nudity. NC-17 written in large print on a giant white t-shirt she wore in flickering red and fluorescent beams of reflective moonlight, ad nauseam. Feminine by way of claiming “stranger” as gender and race; it’s beneath the skin. Peel it all away, whenever, u kno? But in the morning…

“Psshhhhhh, men. It feels as though all guys do that sorta thing,” he said. “Acting like RoboCop ain’t never happen, like—.” Merging into rush hour, a four-lane Caribbean cruise of water slides soaked in moist clothes. “But you say a lot of things,” he’s talking to nobody, a cheap can in the cup holder to his right. Vomit on the passenger door oozing around his fingers, while he’s screaming out the window, “I love cock and balls” to Joan Jett & The Blackhearts coming from the car radio going 25 mph in the next lane, pulling up a t-shirt print of the Sting’s bloody face in Nintendo 64-bits, flashing his sweaty chest-hair nips. Crawling back in saying, “…but I still have my principles.”

Fresh from last night’s sacrifice at the Holiday Inn convention hall, cut with bows from the ends of their curtain rods in a desert of non-culture and crust puss. A perfect shrill emits from the audience every so often, and the UNFAITHFUL beckons. Particle board made from wood that’s not wood, previously having tiled a strip mall at the end of town. High ceilings with white crown moulding and pistachio paint filled ceilings above collard t-sweatshirts and voyeurs plucked from irrationality and anger. It’s really a Boiler Room event, and the television program starts funding snuff films by way of occult. Sentimentality visible in goosebumped skin. That one fingernail dangling. HD Tummy Hairs. The highway hotel after-party hosted by the dudes doing varsity letter face tattoos in the bathroom next door. Wi-Fi as a spiritual output-modality.

This is not a woman. Who is woman? Nobody becomes in sanity. This is a complete misdirection in the explanation of fearing normal. Me? I’m the perfect-grin tough guy in the corner with the chastity belt not entirely whistling dixie, nodding to a mash-up of the Castlevania IV soundtrack and tape recordings from X-Fest 1999. She blew a kiss in a blue mist. She’s watching me intently, carefully walking into the shower. She slipped and hit her head, and the blood still makes the scene look sexy. But reheat the angel dust. I ain’t no suspect. Jesse Ventura and Danny Glover. Bloodshot vision. Drawstring backpacks as a means to an end. Foil by way of “heat rises.” Center your temples and align with oblivion.

“Loosing your temper and acting a fool ain’t appropriate for after-sunset park lingering, lady. Oh, no? You say you weren’t just in the park? [Indistinct mumbling] Some people, just; what’s it like never knowing the nicest person in the world? Ma’am, how closed is your consciousness right now? Give it to me on a scale of 1 to 5, please. Did she just write her name down on the sidewalk? Uhh, this is like that dream when you’re your dog eating its own shit over and over again, and Ma’am. MA’AM! LADY! Crash cart, NOW! That movie where the dude is a fish, but the gal…

Using an apple-drilled pipe on the Atlantic City beach around 4AM — post-post-water freezing on your windshield — previously looking for hard drugs at the Vitamin Shoppe in SoundView, watching Laura Dern’s assistant hike up her employer’s mom jeans, those cuffs in ankle paradise, and black hair to your left is questioning your moral judgement, all while you’re sporting a flannel-on-felt jumpsuit. “I’m going tonight with my dad, but I’m an alcoholic, yes” is a reply to the nearest sales person (who’s at the register and not paying attention until the exit doorbell chimes). Health crust diets. Traveling the Silk Road after graduation or dropping out, finding purpose on the internet, and now your soul exists. And it’s digital. And it’s a self-tattoo of a name, any name, on your internal hard drive. The backyard leads to absolution and its simplicity in never knowing how.

“That’s right, deadman!”
“What are you up to?”
“Nothing much

Awhile back, Chicklette responded to one of my emails to Angels in America with, “Why the fuck do you like this music?” referring to the Night People-released album, A Public Ranking. Above is exactly why I enjoy her music: the creative mindset, oblivious pop spectacle into a display of crude human nature, deliriously minimal and psychotic (borderline pathological) sounds against misanthropic lyrics, poised in a bathory of venomininity, seeping into the pores of each listener’s skin that bubbles like sweat under the surface, but reddening the amount of “core-value” determined in the individual experience, rather than judging the intentions of WHAT is UNFAITHFUL. Like having an orgasm and sneezing simultaneously, thinking, “I’m not too sure?”

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