"Great music, it said, and great poetry would like quieten Modern Youth down and make Modern Youth more civilized. Civilized my siphilised yarbles. Music always sharpened me up, O my brothers, and made me feel like old Bog himself, ready to make with the old donner and blitzen and have vecks and ptitzas creeching away in my ha-ha power."
--Anthony Burgess,
from A Clockwork Orange
I wrote this book of prose and art between the years of 1995 and 1999. I've never had it published because most of the original artwork, which I had scanned and edited with photoshop, were lost on a hard drive about five years ago. some day I'll have enough money to fix the hard drive, but it was almost three years of work, and my dumb ass didn't have it all backed up.
I do have a lot of the art, most of which is posted on my site here. And I do have all of the text--I'm not that retarded--but in any case, here we go....
if you don't like prose, or "poetry," I suggest you just look at the pictures. if you don't like pictures, I suggest you see a therapist. if you just don't like my pictures, then click here...
excerpts from The Life and Tendencies of 1 Don Incognito
art and words by Brandon Dean
11:47 and the wind has caught my breath
sleep is certain, seems to be the doorway of my death
I've asked a million questions, all their answers are the same
they scream to believe the fight is just a game
they've introduced us to a hell of senseless law
I'll not forget the agony and suffering I saw
11:56 on a bed of softened bricks
inside a house of rotting wood and geometric tricks
mid-afternoon next day seems exactly like the last
maybe that's because it is and maybe there's no past
to believe in, no story, to fester in my brain
(which has no true idea of that which they call pain)
the time the time the time we know the time we know it well
and despite their want of perfect chime past-dwellers crack the bell
they forge their blades with haste and guilt to plunge into their necks
and promise that it hurts them as they stab it in their backs
why do you attack yourselves with hope of material bliss?
Earthly bliss not exist until the war is over with
it all was just a passion, strung out on five sense hope
conflict was your gallows, duality your rope
it's everything I've always seen
the modern day is long
so long that it never stops
so short that it's gone
the stars aren't shining but reflecting
the light's a shadowy blue
the clock is selling seconds
the grave is suffering's end
to live is like a trial
sentenced to yourself
nocturnal rest and tomorrow's hope
do time in your own bones
~@~@~@~@~
Forever-the reason
for robbing the grave
stuck in four seasons
your wish will be saved
the sabbath is the one day
to buy happiness
in the breath we call life
which keeps meaning less
and it stays for a lifetime
this triumph regret
you're dying to feel fine
and trying to forget
don't try to change
but accept your mutations
as the link rearranges
each evolved creation
children can't stop time
adults don't grow younger
no police can stop crime
money can't end hunger
but it's perfectly alright
to be excessively content
it's perfectly alright
to destroy and invent
Ever home to bed and rest
Condemned to roam in dread and jest
File along to certain doom
Push them down, create some room
They sing and dance as they advance
into my held hypnotic glance
The rhythm of the dead awakes
To find the pulse that life-blood makes
A billion shrieks arise as one
As they succumb to the now-rising sun
They sing and dance as they advance
along the thinly guarded fence
listen to me
O you evil ones
forget the night that
never stops calling
I've forgotten all the cherished choir hymns
forsaken all the
easy acronyms
developed into the
mold of the black sheep
condemned to wander
contemptuously pondering
the worth of thought
dispelling the fables
of my own reality...
don't hesitate with fun
O you evil ones
remember the night and
the comfort of silence
I lost my trust, for
they parted the Red Sea
but couldn't swim across fast enough
before God was sidetracked
the sea closed in, they
never lost a step
contemptuously pondering
the worth of thought
dispelling the truths
of my own reality
don't listen to me
but don't forget about
the evil ones
Are we more clear when fear is on the conscience?
though losing face while growing old
and looking meek while feeling bold,
the sinner is each and every man
searching for a desperate plan
bury your possessions deeply
there's a chance they'll drift away
~@~@~@~@~
Lost my working sanity
amid the fact'ry sweat
dropped my oblong boxes
within my father's debt
stiff and still
grinds the iron mill
between the hazy hills
alone and lost
I turned and tossed
drowning in the pills
I have dared to live my foolish dream,
to drag my skin through famine,
only to ignore the future.
I'll see them all again,
in loathing they'll attempt to shun me.
But the illness never left them,
the virus never stops its hunt.
Know that your pain is viral ecstasy.
They are the plague, and you with them.
Dealt the welfare hand, they left you out.
Grab your own is what you learned.
Hide the ace is your instinct.
Produce the proper illusion
is the game of goals,
while others break their souls with routine.
Produce the proper illusion,
deduct your mental tax
from the dregs of redundancy.
No passion will be displayed today---
concern is for the faithful.
Over there in the bright corner
they're posing for a microphone;
amidst flashing lights they play along
with the dregs of decency
to produce the proper illusion.
"Here lies the noble fearless knight,
Whose valor rose to such a height:
When death at last did strike him down,
His was the victory and renown,
He reckoned the world of little prize,
And was a bugbear in men's eyes,
But he had the fortune in his age,
To live a fool and die a sage."
--Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra,
from Don Quixote
copyright Brandon Dean 2009
--Anthony Burgess,
from A Clockwork Orange
I wrote this book of prose and art between the years of 1995 and 1999. I've never had it published because most of the original artwork, which I had scanned and edited with photoshop, were lost on a hard drive about five years ago. some day I'll have enough money to fix the hard drive, but it was almost three years of work, and my dumb ass didn't have it all backed up.
I do have a lot of the art, most of which is posted on my site here. And I do have all of the text--I'm not that retarded--but in any case, here we go....
if you don't like prose, or "poetry," I suggest you just look at the pictures. if you don't like pictures, I suggest you see a therapist. if you just don't like my pictures, then click here...
excerpts from The Life and Tendencies of 1 Don Incognito
art and words by Brandon Dean
11:47 and the wind has caught my breath
sleep is certain, seems to be the doorway of my death
I've asked a million questions, all their answers are the same
they scream to believe the fight is just a game
they've introduced us to a hell of senseless law
I'll not forget the agony and suffering I saw
11:56 on a bed of softened bricks
inside a house of rotting wood and geometric tricks
mid-afternoon next day seems exactly like the last
maybe that's because it is and maybe there's no past
to believe in, no story, to fester in my brain
(which has no true idea of that which they call pain)
the time the time the time we know the time we know it well
and despite their want of perfect chime past-dwellers crack the bell
they forge their blades with haste and guilt to plunge into their necks
and promise that it hurts them as they stab it in their backs
why do you attack yourselves with hope of material bliss?
Earthly bliss not exist until the war is over with
it all was just a passion, strung out on five sense hope
conflict was your gallows, duality your rope
it's everything I've always seen
the modern day is long
so long that it never stops
so short that it's gone
the stars aren't shining but reflecting
the light's a shadowy blue
the clock is selling seconds
the grave is suffering's end
to live is like a trial
sentenced to yourself
nocturnal rest and tomorrow's hope
do time in your own bones
~@~@~@~@~
Forever-the reason
for robbing the grave
stuck in four seasons
your wish will be saved
the sabbath is the one day
to buy happiness
in the breath we call life
which keeps meaning less
and it stays for a lifetime
this triumph regret
you're dying to feel fine
and trying to forget
don't try to change
but accept your mutations
as the link rearranges
each evolved creation
children can't stop time
adults don't grow younger
no police can stop crime
money can't end hunger
but it's perfectly alright
to be excessively content
it's perfectly alright
to destroy and invent
Ever home to bed and rest
Condemned to roam in dread and jest
File along to certain doom
Push them down, create some room
They sing and dance as they advance
into my held hypnotic glance
The rhythm of the dead awakes
To find the pulse that life-blood makes
A billion shrieks arise as one
As they succumb to the now-rising sun
They sing and dance as they advance
along the thinly guarded fence
listen to me
O you evil ones
forget the night that
never stops calling
I've forgotten all the cherished choir hymns
forsaken all the
easy acronyms
developed into the
mold of the black sheep
condemned to wander
contemptuously pondering
the worth of thought
dispelling the fables
of my own reality...
don't hesitate with fun
O you evil ones
remember the night and
the comfort of silence
I lost my trust, for
they parted the Red Sea
but couldn't swim across fast enough
before God was sidetracked
the sea closed in, they
never lost a step
contemptuously pondering
the worth of thought
dispelling the truths
of my own reality
don't listen to me
but don't forget about
the evil ones
Are we more clear when fear is on the conscience?
though losing face while growing old
and looking meek while feeling bold,
the sinner is each and every man
searching for a desperate plan
bury your possessions deeply
there's a chance they'll drift away
~@~@~@~@~
Lost my working sanity
amid the fact'ry sweat
dropped my oblong boxes
within my father's debt
stiff and still
grinds the iron mill
between the hazy hills
alone and lost
I turned and tossed
drowning in the pills
I have dared to live my foolish dream,
to drag my skin through famine,
only to ignore the future.
I'll see them all again,
in loathing they'll attempt to shun me.
But the illness never left them,
the virus never stops its hunt.
Know that your pain is viral ecstasy.
They are the plague, and you with them.
Dealt the welfare hand, they left you out.
Grab your own is what you learned.
Hide the ace is your instinct.
Produce the proper illusion
is the game of goals,
while others break their souls with routine.
Produce the proper illusion,
deduct your mental tax
from the dregs of redundancy.
No passion will be displayed today---
concern is for the faithful.
Over there in the bright corner
they're posing for a microphone;
amidst flashing lights they play along
with the dregs of decency
to produce the proper illusion.
"Here lies the noble fearless knight,
Whose valor rose to such a height:
When death at last did strike him down,
His was the victory and renown,
He reckoned the world of little prize,
And was a bugbear in men's eyes,
But he had the fortune in his age,
To live a fool and die a sage."
--Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra,
from Don Quixote
copyright Brandon Dean 2009
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