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Bub Affourtit / Bio


I'm heading off to palm trees and cigarette smoke LA. Hollywood cornered on a 16 by 9 aspect ratio. The sun don't shine it listens. The american dream, bussom shoved smooth sleek silouette, draped in oragutan fur. It's proud but its weary, and heavy upon its thrusting fingers, laid acutely on timelines smudged and even swirled by uppers and downers. Fingerpaint still wet creased upon its center, symbol of the afterlife - what does it mean to you?
Next I'll rise tides with northern blues, curved like ribbons following a great smokey river. Gray and ancient, trimmed with neon bubbles anew.
San Franscisco with its glazed eyed nakedness. It's mouth blue and foaming with jazz, symbols clashing, and make it splashy. Start it out on a C, and watch it evolve into a color. No, I never have. Electric cool-aid acid tests, Neal Cassidy and the Grateful Dead. Bucket shield and warpaint fighing your reaction. Fuck you America and your atom bombs! Where beasts are born and the greatest minds demise run down by the lies to spinning madness. And where sweet streamlined serenity is only 40 oz away. Where two dollars doesn't mean what you think, staring at midnight orange lantern shells.
What next?
USC with it's sweet sweet reds. A chick I almost forgot, amphetamines and books, newspapers, booze. Musicians gather in dark corners, everyones addicted to something.
San Diego with calm azul comfort. Blue glow and Bud Light. Faces I forgot to remember swirls array of faces, and places, man its like a maze. Pokers and prodders, high class shot callers - gathering round the yellow fire swinging proud laughing loud, no piano crying tonight.
Back to Fairfax, wow - what's going on? A plate of food to eat, and green falling short of envy. Green: numb with thousands of needles rainbowed but gray. We always settle, or at least they all do. What is the worth?

Upon the rusting rails in dimly lit solace. Mumbling softly scattered thoughts on a red wine tilt. I sit up; back against her memory. The crazy buzzing city street of last night and its regret drowned out by the spattering rain shines yellow over icy blades of grass. I stumble through grace and its diversion, pondering backlight yellow signs piled on this highway's abyss. I'm standing in a town lost in a room full of mirrors, reflected to the depths of infinity - surrounded by itself. I'm Lost in America. 7-Elevens, street signs, Starbucks coffee shrines and dark black overcoats. Cars drive in circles. Everyone's two eyes rest on tomorrow, glowing a glory gold. It seems hope's a frisbee that people mistake for a boomerang. Blue lips and shuddering I find my escape, I close my eyes and they shatter beneath the weight of creativity. I close my eyes and a dream it awakes me.

Pity fall on the man running naked in the rain, jabbering truths with electricity. Falling back on the curved scale of wrong and right, to me seems indistinguishable now. Meanwhile, a stranger dies in a distant dark, but could it have been intentional? Black barreled rifles cry out in anger across a mirror, and war gods in their strife defeat themselves on its opposing sides. I placed religion on the ground and it crumbled in obsoletion. A great book of fiction taken a bit too seriously. I rip the tablecloth from under inexorable truths like sacrafice and order, but stand upright they still on ancient mahogany. Swaying gently over the vanilla fire of anarchy. My mind a room once with a breeze - now caked with rising smoke, all the windows bolted shut. What once were the answers became the questions. I awake, my mind fills my body again like fluid rushing into a plastic bag: opaque with the label "Made in the United States" stamped on it in bold red ink. I awake to sarcasm planting a garden; emrald with denial. What once was my divine satire has become my complacence, and with a shrug I spit out the seeds of the fruit of knowledge onto sizzling concrete. Dawn drips over the horizon like an egg poured into a glass of skim milk. The sky white with disbelief. I'm standing in a town centered in a room full of mirrors. What is the worth? Where is the door out?
I fall back onto the road.
Visit UVA, see friends, watch them follow intently as Doctor You reads - with great authority- the invisible ink upon his pages.
Thoughts once incandescent on starless nights, now lie sundried upon exasperated sand, crumbling to deep red dust.
Doggedly, southward I gamble.
Florida orange lemonade haste, quiet and changing. Cement beaches Miami, skyscrapers and that same old blue sky. Through my oval shaped world view economy class window; the Atlantic, east, west, up, down, it don't mean nothing no more.
Bahamma mammas, life sure is good. Travelers gather like punch drips spiked with a flavor kick. No neon greens, no hot chatruse. Swayin' fruits wind burns heavy against. And they're still here, man I hate tourists (allthough I wish I was one at the moment, damn.)
Jamaica with gang wars across the river. Fresh munch right off the mango tree with velvet haste. Donkeys walking is centripital strides through motel lobbys. Lay down here. Close my eyes. Relax.
As the shadows of airplanes corrupt the green womb of our true home, it's surface glistening like a plate of diamonds under a beady eyed, bewildered sun.

General Info

Band Members
Artist Name
Bub Affourtit
Home Page
Active Since
Indie / Folk/HipHop/Breaks/Jazz / RnB/Indie/Soul/Alternative/Dance

Contact Info

Oakland, CA

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