Monday, August 31, 2009
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
My band consists of:
apathy on drums
self destruction on guitar
love on bass
and refusal on keys.
I am lead vocals
and sometimes I sing out of key.
Thanks for coming to the show
we had one hell of a time
playing for you.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Saturday, August 22, 2009
I think you’ve mistaken my desire to sit here alone. I am not troubled, I am not waiting on a friend, I am not scanning my surrounding out of boredom. This rooftop is beautiful and I just want to be alone, I want to sip my whisky and coke without the hassle of cordial, meaningless small talk. But now that you are here let us engage in just that. I do not despise people, in truth I love them, but I enjoy keeping to myself. I do not dread our short exchange to be, I am genuinely interested, which is precisely the problem. I can’t be a friend to everyone who needs one. A good, loyal friend is a full-time job, and I already have one of those. A true friend is by your side as oil paints the sky. But a true friend must also be there when the house of cards falls apart, when everything lies on red and the pellet settles uncertainly upon black. I’m already too old to be your acquaintance, so show me you’re worth fighting for… or get the fuck out of my way. I don’t have time for nonsense. I don’t want to waste your time, and I’m running out myself.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
some nights I just want to be a stranger
I’m sorry I’m smoking. I’m sorry I’m smoking. I’m from Australia and we all smoke in Australia. Where are you from? I’m sorry I’m smoking said a short, red-faced drunk woman inside the gas station convenience store. The man she was questioning ignored her every word as I paid for my toilet paper and collected my change. I can’t go to the gas station across the street because I know and like the cashier. I can’t go to the Rite-Aid down the block because the bus stop I pass is black and depressing. Some nights I just want to be a stranger. Some nights I just want to avoid loud, drunk Australian women.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
down the hall
You can remember it like a horse on fire. A flight of narrow wooden stairs painted delicate crayon strokes on the eastern wall of the town synagogue. Doctors of Dissonance dropped from the ceiling and through the woolen carpet onto dead crabs’ claws. Starfish baby cries smell the fruit and flatter the drunken sailors holding vigil. Same-sized brown plastic bottles make a shadow in a handful of hard, dense soil; then a nostril. He conducted with a woven baton, emptying the audience’s stomachs and eclipsing their imagination. Turtles hardly crawled over the horizon lurking with slimy piccolos when googly horns disintegrated the chariot. Falcon eyes hounded my merryoldsoul deep into the native night. Alkaline batteries include our address for the future.
The hotel left a greasy taste of milk in my beaten shoulders. Circular ruins prompt me to fill the mother of truth with a merry bonfire. His habitually placid expression lingered around the water cooler, taunting delicate ankles and mingling with pimply telegraph boys. Hermit was rummaging, trembling through his apologies that brought the first smells of summer out of a sledgehammer delirium. Tenacious wallpaper peacocks waltz on unpleasant evenings such as this. Everything previous to this was mutilated in a field at the Cinerama Dome, encasing a bolt of clarity into a pigeon. At one point Jayne muttered Should we die in a quake, donate my bangs to the Siamese foreigners in apartment 3F. A tremendous pale light paced like a subway imitating marble. And although I cannot be positive, checkerboard insects spring from six-button double-breasted ulcers.
the midnight amnesiac
You’re a reasonable man so get off my case, get off my case before I unleash a side you will regret coaxing into existence. I have hid patiently for decades beneath the crust, laughing occasionally for air. I have driven my car into the dumpster and the dumpster fought back, slinging broken Cuisinarts and ratty bookshelves at my windshield. Society is in its decline and you know it. You can only use your bowling coupons for so long. You’ll come crawling back any day now, knocking on my door in the dead of night gripping a bottle of turpentine and sobbing those gasoline tears of yours. The bug powder took you by the collar and I can’t watch you tumble down the knoll once more, I just can’t do it. We’re all packt like sardines in a crushd tin box and I sit here once again in front of the typewriter dropping the needle and sipping away with droopy eyelids and sweaty armpits. I can’t complain though, I have fourteen cigarettes left and there are flaming lips awaiting my presence next sunset.
I awoke to a man lighting a pair of underwear on fire in my backyard and all I could do was blink heavily and close the curtains with sluggish aggravation.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
...and again I am left alone with the yellow face of the beast of solitude. He is hideous, but sits with unflappable arrogance. He knows my weakness as I know his. He is a creature of immense power and delicious craft, but lacks the belief that vulnerability can be a beautiful thing. It is for this reason he is able to generate such focus, such evil. But I see his vulnerability; it is small and ferocious and it is caged deep in his stomach. Because of this he does not intimidate me, but of course, he believes my vision to be outlandish.
So we sit and we stare, each afraid of such tender things.
Friday, August 7, 2009
Thursday, August 6, 2009
a glimpse of grey
We had no money for breakfast so we ate our cereal in the shower, dying along with the heat. Jazz poured out of the faucet as the whiskers on my suitcase bickered in Italian. It had been nine months of hell. My youthful lust for adventure no longer shimmered and I only felt young amongst the wooden breeze. 17 miles of stairs sung to me out of key as I drove past my future memories. We discussed human bodies and let the rain fall into the open necks of our stolen bottles of wine. August was a shit show.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
For four or five days I walked around and lingered by the train, drinking wine and squeezing ointment out of orangutan thighs. Snowballs whizzed past my face in the Pacific Islands as Brahm’s Second parked in the space reserved for the manager. She wore purple lipstick in jail and blended in with the contour of the wall. Five bucks worth of jizz bet on the eight horse while I bargained with my favorite executioner. Jacob turned to me and said Overalls burn my scalp, let’s get out of here. The old man’s antics offended no one, especially the factory men threading needles and complaining of false chalk wounds. Perfect legs opened the gate and threw me down the tunnel. A dark blue elbow boiled an egg by the window, frowning with pulpy sadness. Take me anywhere, anywhere, I don’t care.