And then this one time I seen punks pogo dancing in the soopcoolture, that was somethin’ different than just playing the kissymouth diamond slut or showing your bare hairy legs as a gag tranny at some event, that was somethin’ else man, that was energy and not giving a shit about the art-full bourgeoisie, ’cause in the soopcoolture every everyman misjudges: Not just what you see, but what’s hiding behind it, and the more everyman struts his hip under-underground, the more’s hidden behind it in the soopcoolture, and for every everyman who quits posing, another cult-ured creep creeps along, and some well-behaved man freaks politely out. So whatever he dumps in the shaker, it’s guaranteed the stuff’s gonna boil over, and pounding in the ingredients brings the hip pot to the breaking point, I think shaking the shaker does somethin’ for the soopcoolture, but it doesn’t matter what feed you shove in, the sick motor just has to stay on and keep the feeding trough full: a lot of people get their potbelly from the feeding trough, and even the ones who bitch about the soopcoolture get their fat from it. And that kinda thing is its pure function, everyone living off of everyone else, making this kinda circle thing, where everything and anything dies a dismal death, and the guru-god figures out what's going on about half-way down the line, lays back, loosens up, and floats down the mainstream and threatens that the soopcoolture will have its Explosion Day and its Action Day, but only if all goes well. And ’til then: an outfit and an opinion about it, a movie a record a book and a statement about it, and fuck pint and fuck pussy, and menfrustration and womenhate. This loser-hoopla is tip top, ’cause the industry employs system-gluttons and critical pop and AIDS pop and Anti-Aleman pop and your Kanak Attak shit are great lookouts for the system, ’cause you, we and the whole world make noise for dough and whine for hard cash. Everyone's showing everyone what he's got and the coolest line goes: I’ve got the better throwing arm for shard-shatterin’ and cop-crazy-makin’. Who's the tuffest hustler, who can dig the longest tunnels, and what's my best trait and didn't I fool the enemy good, and we all taunt the pig ’cause the pig brings us down, and here, there you’ve rammed a skewer through his flank. The pig covers us all, and we grunt in the stall, and he’s the keeper: That’s our only truth, but we all hold onto the goddamned scoundrel’s Palazzo-dream and someday we’re gonna kick our poor skins and our rock bottoms into the hot hell and drive the pig into the stall, and until then: dead man and soopcoolture, where crazy tricks are the thing, and a handful of folks brain around the thing about guessing games, how to get a good hashstone from which ’68 dealer, and who when where hip or not pulls off a slippery speech, and who when where hip or not ripped a raw scratch from a few grooves, and who when where hip or not shat a cult-trace in a Prussian drill, and altogether what who where the puppet state roughly amply offered as soopcoolture, in and out, on the go and gone again. And another one’s felled by the virus, the virus has hollowed another one out. And someone's fed up, takes the resistance gun and plays Action Day, and then he’s gone too: no immunity, no protection at all. And what’s going on in the calves’ heads: that little people get the radical fever and can say: I stole the Purina from the mutt. This multi-armed middle class sowed its kids in all the fields, and now they’re running ’round with their seminar pusses: an idea forwards, an idea towards the edge, where you can rustle around unnoticed for a minute, a step into freaky leather and then back to just doing things for the sake of happiness, they run ’round: full speed to where it’s at and on the run from the big snooper state, they run ’round on the roll to the meatless hardware, but all those sweet small actors aren’t clear. The damn ignominy lasts forever, swallowing trips and that kind of stuff like a Host for an acquittal or a picture that even shakes a dead man in his sarcophagus: black hungry cells that swallow everything they see, and that tie themselves together in zen communion wafers and cross paths with everyone who does anything in the soopcoolture, even if it’s just being there, even if you just sniff the good old sugar pop air: the black hungry cell is your shadow.