~Harder Harder

Hardcore. My core is solid... hard. You can do a lot to the shell... but you can't change the core.

When I left home in '84, my core found a home in West Philly. It became part of a "scene". Around me was music, and community, and love, and ideas, and LIFE. My core was home.

Thing is, the rest of the world doesn't go away. It's still there, doing what it can to protect itself from you. The minions are there, holding your nose to the dirt and your ass up to the Empire. The almighty dollar. Kneel. Worship. Pray. This is your mold, this is what you're going to look like. Shut up and get in.

We try to escape the torture. We try to play the game. We moan and yell, "Fuck me harder! Yes! Yes!" and then we fall and lick the dirt, dissociated from the pain, and then... when they think they've won, and they're just about to blow their load, we rise above, and kick them in the nuts.

I got off "the street" and into the rehab in '85. I took one for the team. In '86 I took my freedom back.

I pissed on the minions, zipped my fly, and took my sore ass home.