Simon Sellars: Sleepy Brain Archives

by Lawrence Ythzak Braithwaite

for Nick & John, MArKING, Gardner (G), Gerard “JustG” Witaker & ELeMentaL

image by Vic Arndt

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Go where you may, search where you will, roam through all the monarchies and despotism of the Old World, travel through South America, search out every abuse and when you have found the last, lay your facts by the side of the every-day practices of this nation, and you will say with me that, for revolting barbarity and shameless hypocrisy, America reigns without rival.

Frederick Douglass. “What to the Slave Is the Fourth of July?” July 1852.
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Kahin was pissing on an ATM machine next to Flipside who was trying to get some scrill for the wood. “Transaction declined insufficient funds Please contact your branch”.

– You know they got you on camera doin that, Wa-
– So? You gots no dosh, ri? They got everything on camera, now. Remember what Mos said bout all that? They want you to think that they know everything. So lets make a television show for them. We’ll dumb it and make it poppy. Mistah Narrator break this story proper ¡Ya!-
– Cho-

…drop the intro here:

Flipside was 12 when he saw him. Kahin was on his bike outside of Flipside’s window. Flipside always sat there looking out onto the streets on his momentary breaks of instant chats and running missions for his games. He just bought a new helmet. Flipside had trying to get it for months. But he realized that he advanced beyond the need of the gear by the time he finally got to wear the thing. It looked well horry and showed of his cyber ninja gear pretty well crass.

It was in that moment.

Flipside lookedup and saw Kahin playing chicken on his bike with this other kid. Kahin slammed into the pavement and split the back of his headshell open. It was at that moment which set a pause into what was a life of virtual virtue and an endless wideband stream of pointless exercises in obedience to orders given by words typed onto screen.

As the crack brain beneath the skull fused itself for repair — something summoned immediacy.

Clearity
Clearity
Logic
Lucidity
All in meaning
Sonic Born to the 3rd Degree

…Kahin went a walking into the deepness of the innervison of his destiny. Dismantled Hellcats and throatless MC$. Silencing the scream of drones AMG 114s. Selectors speaking in tapeloops with resin drenched hands.

What Lessons he had completed in Wittgenstein linguistic mathematical equation. Computers were just cheap imitations of the brain set to imagine wonders of elements in our children. Kahin was one of them. He looked to right to see Flipside staring with compassion and new then that both needed a taste of free domes.

His mime was jugglin with a top line optical fader. They had connected the shareware/set privilages = read & write. Search and download/access allow = look into his eyes and see yourself in the wonder of the reflection he caught of you. You fueled him. He’ll never run fool on your game.

[stereo “Hold onto your ego” Wilson Sound System — echo]

As the ambulance came to gather the shell of Kahin, Flipside finally rose from his board to walkout and stand and watch them put the stretcher into the back. They caught eyes again and as the doors closed and Kahin’s eyes started to close Flipside said,

-You takecare, ok-

Kahin’s eyes opened.

Don’t sleep.

Weeks after he was released from hospital Flipside came to visit him at his parent’s place.

He sat at the side of his bed holding the Optimus Primal he brought him. Flispside asked him if his headshell still hurt. Kahin said not much…

– …anymore-

They stayed working the transformation from machine to animal while listening to the soundtrack to Joseph and his Coat of Many Colors and A Tribe Called Quest on shuffle.

– You really like this music-
– Yeah, my parents took me to see the play-
– It’s an opera isn’t it?-

– Musical-

?

– …kinda cheesy, Fli-
– I like it. It’s really nice. My parents took me to Vancouver . We got a hotel. It was real fancy and they dressed me up and we went into the theatre and it was really a nice evening. I also saw The Phantom of the Opera and Cats-

With that Flipside started to sing the entire score to The Phantom of the Opera for Kahin. Kahin just sat there staring at the ghettoblaster listening to Flipside, not the score, croon. Each tune went into the other as Flipside never faultered a note. Then Kahin without a pause recited;

– I’m a brutha in Victoria
I’m a real muthafucka
My homey’s call me
Kahin
That’s K to the Aaahh
To the Ha
I.N.S.
My buddy’s Fly
He the best
No mass
Singin solos just right, yo
Step up and hear his flow
Fly as a Kai
He a visionist…// …Whad you think? I thought of that myself-

– That’s pretty dope-
– Yeah?-

They fired pellet guns loaded with matchsticks and watched the land turn into busted images into a decay of skewed transmissions. The mission. Kahin had organized from Flipsides bedroom and layedout the floorplan in his backyard. They had spent the afternoon shooting up teddybears. Flipside and Kahin had made the yard into a pretty Disneyesque fairyland of bomb stuffed bears, rainbow bellied bears, unreal pink giraffes toys; what inspired uninspired toons, which went very little next to nowhere but advanced the hook in the repetitions on untight visual glare and nonstop commercials.

the message of the teamwork and countless reproduced friendships. Every freakish critter was copyrighted till the image was nothing but grains stationed in Kahin’s backyard waiting to be bombed into degradation.

Yuh yard is yuh personal turn to fixing the portable soul incased in tin and plastic. Flesh the microchip and set out to walk among the people. The stuffing had disintegrated into plastic gas. The corporate DNA of tabs and labels remained and would not be destroyed. So they buried the evidence deep into the soil and a compost heap of bought products.

Sleepy dreaming in a subtle vision reverie a spoon woke up next to Kahin and spoke gently. Lifted from it’s burnt backside it told him of glory. The worlds delusion. The ugly beings possessed by daemons. The wicked and excorcism. Stuffing crackpipes with plastique and glycerin. Lay a voice down and pin it with beats. Take turns on it rippin linings muzzlin compressions wanting to speak. An intrusion of cords entering the wind channels. Let the riddim come to liberate. Speak/Kahin/seek a Fly bwai on the Flipside and a go chase the pandemonium from the streets.

It took a few more months until Kahin headshell was real right and they took the stitches out. B.U.T. his will was stronger. His psychic connect to Flipside was at full frequency. They’re determination on this mission set like Parsifal hearing his name for the first time. What destiny. They plotted til they were 6 and 10.

[a great code was taught to me once when I was sleeping from slamming a bolt into my forehead to stop the shouting all outside my room. Sometimes it would be cool to cut the top part of my skull open and remove my brain to wash the mess/wadein the gutter primative/vikings stiped bare/by the Ummah on the night of their visions/it’d be all grey like smog infested snot/follow Ghost to full capacity/focus/focus/life and story stumble/literary DMC/throwing DJ on tables and scratching them/cuttin into them/chop them up/let cross fade this/and it goes like when?/intellectual property/I will give you literary attacks/you jackin philosophy/X-rays to an optical creed/I aight]

Six years had gone by working the terrorist game on the city through sk8er drivebys on pedestrians and American tourist; tagging up the city with anthropomorphic writs on walls, jakes’s rides and city halls. Oh mayn, how they had gon a bombin Victoria like ghosts stealthing righteously through the night under an Island moon. Bomb went their cans and phatty tips slashing concrete and brick with their imagination blasted in outervisions manifested on industrialists urban pornography. A creed far from greed founded on Asian railway laid down tracks for stolen dreams. Buildings set to connect to condos crushing the cardboard boxes laid out for the people who broke their backs throwing them up.

Tell me how you like…
How you
Tell me
You like that
How you like that
When I be on the strike
Yo
¡Ya!

It was the well wicked wench Kahin met as he clapped eyes on her walking down the street carrying a bag of chips working her rack and the phat back attack. Well look a that. It for a fact that chica was right stacked. Made Kahin want to strap a mat to his back.

I will commit seppuku for you.
A tru
A tru
Everything I say
Prerecorded telephone machines set on automatic redial to whisper spits by Anais Nin into you lonely ear.
I saw you.
I saw you.
I sa sa.
Strip the mix bare
An elder
I saw sa.
Eyez a saucer
Meet you on the beach by Dallas on the corner.

We can view the hue of colours making pretty patterns over Victoria.
Flipside and Kahin had set the primary, secondary and combo the tertiary all over the place. They had mastered bombing without a trace.

Kahin, he went up to her and asked for her name.

She said,

– Selah-
– You from here-
– No. I’m from Washington. …Seattle-
– Can I colonize you, Selah-

…and Flipside swooned at the sight of Kahin losing his heart for the first time.

A few days later Fly and Kahin went to Fernwood square to check up on the freaks and welly mamas hittin up sk8ers for bill and time. Seemed there was only one man who could born a manstar in that area. Delirium mastered truth in a sunfried bench squat of burnedout whitetrash and methadone wasted recovery drones. Dig the longboards stacked up for 300 fins. Compact wasteland of assembled refuse for sale to 70’s sitcom crackbabies. Sample steady homies on a ride kickin over Frisbees in the square. Catch a wif of the dreaded whitebwais being kissed by Chinamen for lookin like a girl. Flipside bought a dimebag off the chick and Kahin tabbed another til the next day.

Feedback and freestyle
Mostly feedback
This elbow
Feedback and
Freestyle boards making memories to champion the gow of the Z-town boyz. Tight Jaks. Check my digital — it’ll crash your screen and waste your harddrive – seen?
Seen.

You know what Kahin and his amigo Flipside should do?

– Let’s chill and rob the day, G. Let’s blazeup and go to Monty’s-
– Yaeh, alri. Seen-

Hit me.
Yaeh
Yo
Get at me with a wack beat
I’ll drop you lines with magnificent feet
Tropes is cheap
Come and get
Break beat
Crack a crack to game the city
Big poles with titties
Wrap gloriously
In allusions of my willy
Man to the lord
My hammer
Never stammers at the sight of her
Seen?
Get my meaning
In the beginin there was sk8ing
Blazing
Lead em to the wasteland of Vancouver Island
Watch you
What you waiting on fo
Too early to handle your liquar
Knuckle up wigga
Leggo and do battle
Can you handle my mercenary
Diary of an Island kid/fixed on a mission
The destruction of the construction of maison de masons
In a pyramid stolen
I don’t want to be an American
I eye you walking
Along handling your rack
Swanging chopped spuds
I got an eye for you
A manstar missile stud
Blast your phat bottom
Booty to another district
Come go rollin with me and my bwai
Yo
We got the tightest cousins
Never missing a 1 to 2 to 3 in our Lessons
I would live for you
Come download my dreaming
I got a suggestion
What’s tight
Once they hollad bitchin
I’ll drive you
B.U.T. here’s the meaning
That’s for Building Universal Truth
Let me piledrive this motivation
What you say beau?

Hips smack the atmosphere as Pacific Frontal System decompresses the cube of the interiors. Monty superior female fantasy freaks swang the humdrum back beat of the squares. You dare? Do you dare? Smack that peach? She got a pumpum a sweet as a smile on Adam Beach. Swang yo. To and fro. She got them coldsweating—hot blessing. Master me equality. Stand and deliver! 16 letters set me to chillin add it up to the cypher of 7 now all Kahin can do is ride the riddim. Take to turning tables and commencing to knecking and cussing at the supreme inspiration of the temptation. Flipside re: born. Kahin got a face to match that body wiz hittin back to his dome. You are. You are. You are. Kahin carry a true 9 motion equalizer; feel it load in his trousers. Hear it? His ego. Boom. Boom. You best clear this. I wanna take her on a trip in my tardis.
Oh
oh
Oh
…how I get
whot
Oh
oh
Oh
Zig
Zig
Zooga zoog zoog
…and it goes like

Yo! Who that one likkle picnney pretty looking on sugar out a go spanking big daddy. Kane enable this her cemitry with the one act unknowing defiance. Watch your step it’s crouching at you door. Listen to the voices in the brutha cyphered in 20 and 4.

[agents 800 with MCs to follow/brutality rules inertia in daddy’s army/taking an axe to the devilment/destroying ignorance with a quest = the perfect beat]

Cypher the scientist. Who’s got the stuff to drop/what will leave you in a concussion of consciousness? Counting feet. Kahin bop a whole through his jeans at the motion of her and her and her crushing the atmosphere to closure.

– Yo, Flipside. I’m done, mayn. I’m outy-
– I hear ya-

Kahin and Flipside rolled up to New V.I speakers box and Kahin blew a bullet into the video. He puffed out his poison to collect his syntax in oxygen caps through his mouth and built up an atmosphere of a psychic dome around him/so he could bust his revelation.

– Yo, yo, this ain’t dissin. I’m no hater, dude. Whatever, dude. But they had built a system of poetics where each word symbolized a number and arranged the word into a mathematical equation to the sum of 14, 83 or 120 or more. Big metal weapons of musical allusion. The paragraph was just the ciphering. The thesis statement defined the conclusion and proved the equality of topic to sum.

Don’t believe the trifling. It was vorticists conceit based on concrete imagery with no mixture of the sublime and the problem solved to the perfect definition. This is corporate appropriation of underground culture. What the fuck did metaphor mean anymore. It’s the use of pop to alter the Island into a collection of ghettos and get us to thinking like criminals. …bad ones at that. You know like the one’s not really good at it. If we all built a musical community with no griping or separation we could fuck shite up like Reggae and Jamaicans. Yo, Yo YO, you don’t believe me about this conspiracy? just look what they did to Ian Hunter, man.

The ol samo living in the last days of the trilogy thing. Kahin knew it. The equation on his internal sequencer proved it. Global spys posing as DJs set to mix the conformity into the set. MC$ and powerpoppers calling themselves griots and punks rockin their corporations on Much Music. It what the conjure added up to in Kahin’s brain. He gave brain his just due. Flipside was down. Drenched bent but still in function. It was never gonna be the same again. Maybe it was a blessing. The awakening. Slayers of the badmind and keeper of the anti-fame. They gonna jive forever. They were gonna preach to the fly. How high.
I will commit acts of illegal downloads of digital seppuku for you. I will burn MP3’s and destroy the industry. I will never wear Circa and gear. I will keep the sleeves on my tees. You seen my sleeeeeves?

[I’ll wrap you in streams to unconscious you]

Human Human Human Him Human Human Human Hymn

Rollin up and down bwai/he had to resend the message make the pitch rock again. Rats with ratchets catch it a fire in amazement peoples watched Kahin set bomb that booth with his Science of urban logic. Flipside had the chemistry kit. They had converted to urban terrorist. Every decent kid on this Island knew how to make bomb go tag.

Boom whoom bouyah soon they is off on ride racing against the smoke of the crushed timer. It’s the warring words. NewVI, Speakers Corner and detonators. Leggo and collapse the Parliament and give the Empress to the homeless. We could have the house party along the Gorge and have The Pricks play until we break this day. Watch those kids by the George Jay they can twist their spines and backspin marvelous. Collect our thoughts and leggo change our provincial flag to a tagg by Ghost. With no Fear, but real groovey memories, Flipside and Kahin set out to tear the roof the vicdoms what set to play them for suckas in Victoria.

[pull tapes from the #01 demo 05/02/92]

Empty apts. with singular tables, wrecked carpets and sk8ers playing cardgames designed by orubus. Crazy 8s capped and curbed to remain in continuous degradations. Flipside squatting next to Kahin takes an exacto and cuts a new Whale patterned griptape onto his deck. Kahin adjusts his trucks and admires new gummy wheelz. ¿ ghetto blasters shutters a few molecules with the X-ecutioners choppin up Linkin Park. Black concentration of caucasion pastiche techniques. The niggas vs wiggas in a messy rage from America murda the speakers in cNada. This is another story exploding into gloryholes of pornography. Sit blankly in Victoria and absorb the hysteria. System corrupted files run down from repairing wrecked bolts and straitening grooves on a screw – WD40 huffing the centre to fit.

Ultra magnetic truck keys. Black grease potions, tool kits an a brains
taxed to the tee. So much pressure on the ingenuity of this science
projected to perfection an clearity. This sk8er philosophy “know who you are. You Know Who You Are? Where you are?

Learn to fall. Where you fumble/for the all city status of sooper star.
Thét kid plays PS2 like Old Dirty bangs burgers and ladies. Would any of them get penetrated if Allegra Geller said she?d watch and held the tagger steady? eXistenZ was a Gas — belchin up an vaporize the place — it?s a race/set for the conquest of the Empress. Cream yuh fist but fus power punch = A perfect plan//yo! daddy/do a semi/go phatty as your brutha recovers from a dbl kick. Unknown cyphered possiblities in pullin 360 ¡Ya! Yo! ollie, ollie, oxes and freestyles. Immediate an idiots; fads an gadgets, Kahin gonna teach thét kid a trick thet gonna take him outside the virtual would of rainbow feggin Tony Hawks. Fyah bun yuh like a guy on a faux sk8s daye.

Mistah master rapid thump control, ese. Yo, puto!!! Kahin was like groovey griptape and exactos — ‘dig my hip equilibrium/perfect motion from limbs stability/yuh cyan get next to mi actual perpetual motivation.’ Dustin Ghosts wiph stready Balaam. When Kahin sk8 ain?t no television

– You done with that nofriendo, there, Dark-
– nah-
– …two top sk8ers and kid…
–you can’t rap worth shite, Kahin-

oooooooooooOOOOoooOOOoooOOOoooh

What I got at my headshell rhymes with fun
Check the style kid
It’ll fill your dome/with levels in the Sun
22 special/issues/is you/ready for this trip
Centre the circle roun my explosion
Atomic chronic blasts/knock you out, Dark/like David
Go lie with vidiots
Head can’t get ahead/when they headshell’s stuffed with gum
Comin at you to relax you with a semi
Dig my trip
Knowledge this
All good sk8ers tune to 97
A pocket full of e/look at what I got in pants for this trip
I am what you seek/combining Earth Stars and Heaven

No pillars holding pyramids/only the 1 and only
I’m down
You down?
Recite this after Him
Go down
Sent from the decedent of Hashim
Come Know Me
Real horry
Kinda feggy
Glide along the deck
I’ll lead you to glory
Peewee-

Trans adhesive quick fixed on electronics,

– I told you your shites wack, Kahin-

[grab a bite from Lydon chanting a Poptone/who’s your chanting hero?Eliot and Lydon/Big Youth and Jaxson blowing bullets on banger called Death Disco Õ video of dead swans floating with suffocated niggers with opened mouths and smeared white lips]
I’m into slammin
dom
I’m into slammin
dom
I’m into slammin
dom
I’m into slammin
dom
In my lastin I’m 0
Boom kAHtish
Lastin
Boom kAHtish
To my cypher
KaHtish pop
Into my 0
dom
Death to my disco
cho
…and the slam comes down on brains
Slowly we rottin
A lyin Lamb

Flipside asks Dark,

– Your brutha still beating you up-
– Not since you talked to him-

They had made a night op on the diddler. Snuccup and slashed his tires and dumbed shit all over his beamer. Tossed a pipebomb at his garage and legged it into a vortex. £ notes in pockets get a bitter pill to jam a signal with. Breakin copyright codes = Radio pirates tapes and downloads low fi heterodoxy destroy a brutha’s evil deeds.

Mostly freestyles
Send negative feedback—add a comment.
Destroy/Build/Build/Destroy/Dissin and toys

…and it goes like..

Flipside gets up to go across the room and pull a draw from a blunt some kid over there was smoking. Kahin decides to go get them an onion worth of the wood.

– Yo, Fli, you got any scrill in you bank-
– Yeah, I think…-
– Well…-
– Yaeh, sure, Wa-
– Is there an ATM machine around here-

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…::: The END