Hot on the heals of the razor-moist, media-blitzed neon-drench of the multi-platinum-went-without, pre-apocalypticly post-mordem over-hype-enated smash fail Most Big Sad Time at Planet Cool, we here at Five Rocket have found ourselves rolling in more than enough cold hard catch-22 to warrant spending ABSOLUTELY NO MONEY on a gigantic cyberspacely-enhanced collaborative art project we're calling the DEMIX. Emphasizing the ethnomusicological perspective that a remix "is a major conceptual leap: making music on a meta-structural level" the DEMIX wants to portray as broad a scope as possible of what was once called "remix culture" and is now, we feel, simply "the entirety of the 21st century's musical landscape". DEMIX wants to explore this space WITH YOU. If it happens to touch you inappropriately at any time during your journey, maybe you shouldn't dress like you're asking for it, slut. Interested parties will be SUBJECTED HARSHLY TO ABSOLUTELY NO RULES in a celebration of the principles of CANarchy while noninterested parties will NOT BE SUBJECTED TO ANYTHING AT ALL in a celebration of the prim staples of WONTism. Anyone can play, no one will win. Find the album at Mungbeing.com, email us (hardtouching@gmail.com) what track you want to demix, then go ape-shit. Rerecord all the words so they make sense to you, or just wipe mine out altogether and replace it with a baboon mating. Smother those phat beats in digital tape hiss and white noise. Appropriate the hell out of it. Make it your bitch and show off to all your friends. JUST FOR GODSSAKES DO SOMETHING. ANYTHING YOU JADED CYNICAL MOTHERFUCKING BASTARDS.

Source files can be provided.

Be hearing from you presently.

love and kisses,
b

Mungbeing.com Issue 20 has the exclusive release (fully downloadable) of my new album, Most Big Sad Time at Planet Cool, an interview, a flash-based lyric booklet by the lovely jessica izaguirre, along with the usual assortment of ridiculous art poetry music essays and more. The theme of this issue is Migration or "the movement of things in one direction. The converse in t'other."

Go get it.

MUTO a wall-painted animation by BLU from blu on Vimeo.

Most Big Sad Time at Planet Cool is nearly complete. In the meantime please enjoy the pictures:

two new hugely funktastic bibble singles are hot off the presses onto magnetic plates and transferred to your ears via all manner of cables satellites and technoscience wizardry. get em now before your 15 year old sister tries to play them for you off her iPOD. that'd be so embarassing.

myspace.com/callmebibble


( lyricz )

her first show was bjork and joanna newsom and she loved it.

for his final animation project, aaron (young adonises, one half of hard touching) produced directed and animated this video using a clip fron a zenseiders skit. hope you all enjoy it.



this is a rough edit.

ladies and gentlemen, may i welcome you to the newest bibble experience? sure, only god knows what's going on anymore, and even she's kind of fuzzy on some issues, the bitch, but who cares? we've got some great tunes full of crazy cartoons and maybe, if we're all REALLY lucky, a revelation or two. remember, clarity always comes for free, so when you buy something don't expect it to be hiding there. and for godssakes don't forget to laugh.

head on over to myspace.com/callmebibble for the three track preview, which are:

1. Most Big Sad Time at Planet Cool
2. Hurt to Him
3. Beggin' Eggies



http://www.facebook.com/pages/bibble/5989274073
( lyrics )

most of you have probably been wondering for such a long time what a collaboration between the stunning sonic stylings of Jamie Stewart's stellar band Xiu Xiu and bibble might sound like. so long, in fact, that you've given up all hope. well, lucky ones, wonder no more! as part of the release of their excellent new album Women as Lovers, the formidable group released a track sans lyrics for the likes of unknown wanna-bes like myself to play with and share with the world. my contribution to this process can be found on my myspace site:

www.myspace.com/callmebibble

please enjoy


leer icks:

when the world is done
and in one explosion
found fun in loneliness
us all "we are one"
and still cynical
of impulses
and human natural resources
they call them the suburbs
my mother lives in one

oh how much nothing there is
in holiness
a simple white sheet
will make you a ghost
i poke two holes in it
and go to goth clubs
exposing my empty cupboards
to share some fullness

or is it foolishness?
i've had such a hard time
telling the difference
between you and me
a hallucination of youth
that always seemed
like a ruse to me
and yet i too still rush
to when i was five
riding my bike around
in new orleans
pretending i was a pilot

i remember the day the light blinded me
while taking family photos at dusk
my father was so cross
and my mother backed him up
i got grounded
and in my room the pilot lost
his wings
and like an angel
started singing
only out his mouth came crazy things
his family was ashamed of

years later, in divorce
he would be called the strange one
fallen
a stranger devil here to corrupt the children
i ran away from this epithet
til i became the prophetic war profiteer
their tvs told them they should worship
out of the mouths of our babies
comes an apocalypse
our ladies lust after them
and validate their words
the whores we hoard
and store in cupboards
in the suburbs

some day the birds will storm the castle
and roost in their forlorn battlements
i hope when that day comes im there to see it
mic the chirping song and put it on a record

Fleur de Lies by ~bibble on deviantART


Asking the tough questions by ~bibble on deviantART


Saddest Bear by ~bibble on deviantART

Hymn to Her as Collage by ~bibble on deviantART

At first there was only the dream of the thing. Little pictures of a little scene, a diorama crawling up and down your spine as you lay curled up, almost fetus-like, but not quite, inside your soup-bowl skull. "The broth is important," you say to yourself, "an effervescent thing." You were always so sensitive to smells. He liked that about you. This delicate ensemble of images, fleeting feelings, inspired flashes and bolder insights - all of it an ever-present threat of cacophony as much as a list of ingredients. Latent calamity lent itself to the possibility that the harmony of the meal could be lost or destroyed at any moment. "You're no cook," the pictures say. And upon closer inspection, you find they are concerned not at all with balance, but speak only volumes of your insatiable need to devour them. You tell them to shut up. Suddenly the images seem to deceive, the steamy mixture already corrupted by the unspeakable. And that scent - you would never put it in your mouth. Never, for the fear of a whisper or kiss to a lover or friend might reveal a whiff of some ominous dream, in which the clown wasn't as sad as he seemed, and the black and white embrace was not yours but the dream's dream, something much stranger and farther away than a plane ticket could take you.

They led you by your nose into the realm of seaweed thoughts and saltwater embraces. Fantasy wrought large as life and lived in too, and loved long and well. Every scent a pleasant blossom, meant something colossal; every sensation, felt as if for the first time, necessitated a hysterically precise yet completely automatic movement through space and time. A chemical reaction merged with a game of chess and a fandango. Somewhere a crowd was cheering. Amidst this tempest a conflagration whirled, tilted and spun you like a gyroscope. And at the center of this, a quivering fleshy mass excited a perfect little pearl, nestled safely in reflections of its own insides. Its nest grew and grew, knowing only the longing for the surface, and past that, the light. Down here, photosynthesis wasn't only a necessity but an urgent fatalism to the point of parody. A joke, dead funny. You hug yourself and finger your necklace. Though clams are rarely mistaken for plants, you are certain that at some distant point in prehistory a common ancestor existed; missing this link chained you to it. Like Prometheus had his fervent desire for feather and fire, the bond was stealing all sense of direction and intent and the gods' punishment was to give it you. It dissolved, but this solved nothing. No sense of self remained, only the ancient, machine-like essence of biology. Like a schematic searching for a builder, fate lacked a will to battle and therefore manifest any destiny. Instead, it sulked and suckled at the tit of the pit and waited for luck.

What emerged was a fuck. Its simple elegance surprises you even now. But in that first moment as it breached the unsuspecting calm, the sunlight reflecting gleaming white triumphant, a nearby whaler, bored, obsessed, mistook it for a long-gone adversary and thrust his harpoon, shattering it into rainbows which he collected in jars formerly full of urine, and before that, drinking water or rum. At port, he sold the jars to a businessman who like the whaler had a penchant for making mistakes; he would take them to the cities and distribute them to children, be hailed as a trendsetter, grow rich and influential. Little did he know, since science had made them so readily available, nobody buys rainbows anymore. The jars ended up in a trash heap; waited to break open one by one so bits of broken light leak out, seep into the dirty ground, find each other, make their way slowly back to the source where upon merging once again with the white they feel only endless relief and joy. Death is not something idle in the distance. Neither is it coming for you but from you, and you from it. Even a newborn has a skeleton lurking beneath its soft baby flesh; its impetus to coo and be cute is merely a ruse that compels you to provide every kind of nourishment. Yet a baby does this without even the slightest notion of power and deceit. One day regardless it will grow large enough to ultimately reject you, and in that moment you might reflect on what you have yourself done to another in another time and by proxy they to everyone and all of us to each other. Bound as we are by our proclivities and ratiocinations, we share something lesser and greater: a fever dream of exploring and explanation, a list of ingredients we stew in and consume, hide away and sell off. Occasionally, we give it away, but not often. "Isn't it gorgeous?" - Cries from the salesman and the lover both. They scoff, turn their backs, and preach to their own audiences. Behind them the clown is juggling. His tears are painted on his cheek. Remember, he liked you for your sensitivity. Because it's such an easy thing to lose.

part one


Hurt to Him as Collage by ~bibble on deviantART

She said: "You're pretty handsome for an elephant man", and that's how it began. Buddha hatched a swinging plan to utilize the skeleton, and tanly, a ton of wanton, man-handled, beget budding petals that paddled up streaming confessions. Steam in competition came like a steely concession for muddy wallows. His buddy, holy, followed.

But hold up! What about the foggy naughty? Did her egg shake shape the shade shifter of her hollow earth head? Or was it a heathen rock star knocking at her knickers? There's sand in the theory that says violence molts a molten flicker, pictures your boy want-her, body wandering up bodhi trees like a wan one, then wonders where the wand went. Once upon a teasing banter even you had a blander saunter, but then you ran the gauntlet and got your hands wet with breastmilk. Now we're back to the beginning, swimming around in it. And while I've still got no answers, I have a feeling the sea is seething some subset of seeing and hunger is wearing the petulance.

So go around again, pan the planet red if that's a plan. Or maybe it's a planted pet with a lance you only read about in old testaments. Paint pants on the nude all you want, though when you're wood hangs by the pecker's golden old hand. Your dirty digger licks fickle fur that drenches the wretched dancer loose. She's primitive down to her tutu. And what's food for the goof is a do-gooder endangered for fun. Here, take a gander at something even stranger - there's a wench worshiper cantering through back-road cantos while his arranger, compulsive, his black whole, hangs himself out to try and dry his drought. And look! - the young pout, dim and doubtful at those days of oddness. The palace was full of birds then, the king obsessed with wordless wit. He wrote it down like the poet told him.

I have some friends who are pirates; I've panted plenty with gypsies. Flags lip-sink glibly; ambivalence pinks ships peeking in on me. I prefer short works of friction to totems speaking simple statements repeated in different ways. You can make anything out of ones and zeros, but can you get all the color out of gray? It stains, maybe.

Come now, I want all the glory details. Snap my antimony out of its timid tantrum. Derail me and I promise not to scare off your training. Or, well, maybe we'll both order a swell, or own our moaning ponies, and with pulleys lever our age out of hiding. Chords core us in accord with living principles. But monopoly's lonely. North shores another border war; his show is shorter off camera and he snores so they got a stand-in. This year the Pope confessed poor Santa made a list of who had enchantments but then lost it and had to guess. So if he asks, say yes.

Create, or crater? It's a alternate choice close, not a multiple choice question. Does not the egg crate eat the equator and then shun the whodunit? I'm so bored of you sneaking around the borders to never give me a straight answer. I bought a spy satellite from NASA now I'm watching you play for the camera. Are you praying to or for it? I wonder, does prey sing songs about how great food is? Or are they clued in to their cutups glued to it? Aw, you're pooped from the smell of roses. Your No is so cute. Now scoot, scout, I've got world to do. It worked, you're you. And still youthful, so... May your pianos know no detuning. Owe no snake his bite. Man-up kindly, and Kinda many. No planning necessary.

chicmeeksheep by ~bibble on deviantART

i live in a tough neighborhood


can you hear the light? by ~bibble on deviantART


eyeseethrough by ~bibble on deviantART


honestly, a smile by ~bibble on deviantART


om mmm... by ~bibble on deviantART


L, OH EL by ~bibble on deviantART

re: each reach, ache by ~bibble on deviantART


blind bind to the i am minding by ~bibble on deviantART


meant mend to demiends by ~bibble on deviantART


starved start pops the popstar by ~bibble on deviantART

one of my favorite uberindie bands ever and occasional collaborator, owls and elephants, has released their beautiful new EP FOR FREE and you should all probably download it and listen to it and shower them with love:

http://catori-inteus.livejournal.com/40884.html?view=128436#t128436

today callmebibble at gmail was officially murdered by the fascist Google overlords when i was unable to properly able to identify myself as he. we go a ways back, callmebibble and i, and he will be remembered fondly in the form of my old high school english teacher who obsessed over moby dick, and who often confused me for someone who might know me and then ask THAT person how i was doing and why i never came around. he would probably appreciate that today is mlk day, the day louis the 16th was guillotined, and the feast day for saint agnes, patron saint of chastity, gardeners, engaged couples, and rape victims.

did you know Lenin and Orwell died on the SAME DAY? Benny Hill's birthday.

new Hard Touching, now with Nietzsche ^TM
Enjoy. Rend the heavens your goddamned grandfather's monkey brain fabricated.

Most words per cubic quantity of time so far.

God is an Exit


jeerix:

god exists because god is dead
and death exists outside my head
so my death's head's
just god's wedding, bedded
and his daughter's the shedding wife
justesse
please come right inside,
just like i do
"la chaleur du brandon venus!"
like vesuvius soothed us when it blew
while the white soot of the eruption
stains our blackened skin to the roots
proof looked like two soothsaying individuals
adorned with unusual roofs
and in addition to that
they went to all the way to neptune
to tune to noon blue cartoon tombs
like two apple-cart time-bomb twins
so don't ruin it with wishes!

i didn't know what else to do
so i thought i was lava

a stellar roar scores the rolled-up orbit
all hot and born to it,
swords swallow the burn of it
every glory blur of detail
every male merging with the female
the celestial orb fits right in
no tears here where brightness runs wild,
or fear of buzzing beheading
for we are furious with the torn shredding
of a child lost in wedding
we want only to shrug off, like we aught
without offending,
and so's to find the teeth love rent us with,
and smile with them

allure ran molten down the sides
of the chalice that day
lured by the scent of warming polar ice
pleasant little alice finally reigned in her parade
of zombies and mind-controlled sex slaves
and this time she stayed in wonderland, headless
with the masked man she baked in it for ages
in the rage of that towering oven
"the very excess and violence of the fault
"will be its excuse," they said
and out it bled
hot and red
frightful, like life is death
and right there's the high, hidden sign
that says simply:
MY GOD IS AN EXIT
and we're wild
golden
i mean open WIDE
then here comes the penitence
and the chance to end all the catholicism
for which we all seemed to have such a penchant
we see the vengeance hidden in her glance
so we take a chance and cheat:
accept with the same trojan sincerity
with which she offered that troop-full horse
that the truth of our fool custom is to burn it

and since we honor your gift
you must honor our wish
that's why when we say:
"heat of the torch: come!"
it always does
and when it does, we always love it

"and, my god, mister mystery-springer,
"to accept the misty story of THIS door -",
(sprach sore nietzsche, like it was a chore)
"the ardor'll reach ya for sure!"
so like zarathustra through the future,
we find spare truths without ritual
and adore them
two soothsaying individuals,
adorned with unusual roots
twisted indivisible (and visibly so)
and rooting for liberty's free justice
for awe of tree rings that lust
while all the other library forests
dance the thrust of their feral thirst
that macabre fandango that dangles them
without the trusting they want written down
over the abyss that shares back
while they wish that it didn't

trying to show what some of the stuff ive made since moving to philly is like

pretty much the same as usual

hope you enjoy

first one's a colab between aaron mega and myself


baby be carrier by ~bibble on deviantART


swoop in and out by ~bibble on deviantART


don me now our riggsolution by ~bibble on deviantART


depth fight or love make? by ~bibble on deviantART

so much tension
intention much more
intimate in the dark
than
the "thank god you didn't jinx it"
of a breathless word
lost inanimate
that i imitated in the parked carpet
to intimidate the cremation process
into leaving me alone

so much suspension
intention much more
wicked, sparked, mated
than
the material gain
they said was shameless
but buy the same token a drink!
my same's the blame
of my existence
so i claimed it
as normal elation
bent the benediction
round the annuls of anus-lovers
and reneged on the renegade spoils
before it split up the soul-shifting soil
pick-up line

which said:
"that ain't no plain ticket you've got there
"it's a spain spigot
"a lose-your-mind-from-the-joyful-pain-of-it
"watch that time, the explained flow
"of the out-and-around process
"as it pounces, expanded,
"low, glandular ring-around-the-mosey-slowly
"wait for it - look! the rose is glowing!"

so much has been said
about the old robe-y blemish -
a pope hat to pop the pop's head off-
it's selfish, mopey, roped off in faux velvet
a show only for the crust of the uppercut
but i held mine with hemp crop and shell wishes
to pretend the shelf life didn't extend too far and rip
pretense understood that two tutus make freedom
and three's the lost key predilection to tree genius
titus looked mean in those levis
but didn't have the genes to say "i see you!"
because he didn't see you or me
but i saw you see me see-saw
and even the sea that saw between us
couldn't stop the dream's inevitability
and now every silly worry turns to piss in the wind
and now every single story warms my heat into wings
and very little of this is remotely normal
but a hard heart beats drum circles
and your word speaks soft dragon slayers
and i wouldn't have you any other way

some of you may have noticed i havent been on gchat in a while. i got hacked last week and knee-jerked a report to google before i talked the hacker into giving me my account back. i got it back from him and two days later google suspended my account. thanks google. now i can't get ahold of a real person from google, just automated responses that are completely useless. until this gets resolved you can catch me at hardtouching at gmail.

love
b