Thursday, August 04, 2005
happy horror prescriptions (read the bottle)
DJ carry me home
seeking into the void between spins
rejoice Babylon in pompous decor
a baptism melody, bottomed out pulsate.
Reverberate in a clandestine sonic excursion
god like cultural isotopes (James Dean, Elvis, Dee Dee Ramone)
excess swallowed, puke ridden toilet.
****
Words wasted, soak a broken bottle
clit sores soothe in the lack of ventilation
a whole not in my Black Lung but in my soul.
(Northern Detroit rock opera in drag
the hippest backbeat) Lost on me.
****
I scratched my fingers on the raw table
The sign embroidered on my bleeding ends
Tongues of fire spit out.
Eyes roll back, foam off the pint
exercise (pump it up) the spirit.
Decca dance is on the road to my salvation.
****
Conversations interface crumbles
The shards of evidence were never recovered.
The body of an American the Anchor conveyed pity
on lookers of a digital traffic accident off the I-83.
****
Bar time moves slow, leeches over the second hand
Acceptance is the first step I have been told by others
But questioning our actions often lead to splitting hairs (needle).
The dance was never quite important as the result,
It often ends before it had a start or possible existence
so I took the last train out of town, my thumb was sore.
****
We spoke about Oppen and Kafka, raw emotion of meaning
blue cascade was lost on my bleeding ears (heard enough?).
The city was long gone as I was 100 miles past the glimmering
the lifestyle ate me alive, limp consumption lead to a rotten road.
****
Moss grew around my bed as I slept, I believed in nature
but power (unquenchable) can be dangerous in certain minds
mass production : marketing pitch.
I used to believe in rock n roll but that was long gone
(train tracks grinded to a halt) wakin’ me from shakin’
and the voices we heard when the lights went down.
seeking into the void between spins
rejoice Babylon in pompous decor
a baptism melody, bottomed out pulsate.
Reverberate in a clandestine sonic excursion
god like cultural isotopes (James Dean, Elvis, Dee Dee Ramone)
excess swallowed, puke ridden toilet.
****
Words wasted, soak a broken bottle
clit sores soothe in the lack of ventilation
a whole not in my Black Lung but in my soul.
(Northern Detroit rock opera in drag
the hippest backbeat) Lost on me.
****
I scratched my fingers on the raw table
The sign embroidered on my bleeding ends
Tongues of fire spit out.
Eyes roll back, foam off the pint
exercise (pump it up) the spirit.
Decca dance is on the road to my salvation.
****
Conversations interface crumbles
The shards of evidence were never recovered.
The body of an American the Anchor conveyed pity
on lookers of a digital traffic accident off the I-83.
****
Bar time moves slow, leeches over the second hand
Acceptance is the first step I have been told by others
But questioning our actions often lead to splitting hairs (needle).
The dance was never quite important as the result,
It often ends before it had a start or possible existence
so I took the last train out of town, my thumb was sore.
****
We spoke about Oppen and Kafka, raw emotion of meaning
blue cascade was lost on my bleeding ears (heard enough?).
The city was long gone as I was 100 miles past the glimmering
the lifestyle ate me alive, limp consumption lead to a rotten road.
****
Moss grew around my bed as I slept, I believed in nature
but power (unquenchable) can be dangerous in certain minds
mass production : marketing pitch.
I used to believe in rock n roll but that was long gone
(train tracks grinded to a halt) wakin’ me from shakin’
and the voices we heard when the lights went down.
Monday, August 01, 2005
Getting On with a Point
We motioned for hours around the visible moment TV, an insignificant event not quite here or there I suppose. The words fell off the bar and into the great wide open space empty by all means. A couple shooting pool, dancing to the funk mix cd that was skipping ever 10 seconds or so. I sit there deep in meditation, wondering why I was here (at the bar not some great ominous question of point) pondering like Howlin Wolf jamming on a riff. Details circled around my fingers as I was supposed to be shaking my love on the (dance)floor. I never payed attention to the details I just took the meaning that was my biggest problem. The end result was quissential not the trip but the road arrived to. The destination point not how you got there, did it not just matter if you got there? Some spend lifetimes reviewing the destinations never reached.
Weeks before I had seen the city and every time I pass the interstate coming in I often stare in amazement at the blinking lights and billboards that wear away in age. The night sky had just reached over hanging over a cool breeze and the clouds created the perfect shade of a night sky. The tower that blinked red caught my eye as I pondered ever leaving here. Years I have spent in this place somewhere else would be alien but I spoke about it hours later. In a mumble wondering if I could retreat in a mountain shack with a typewriter and a bottle of tequila. I was in search of no great American novel or dream those had all been found by better people than I. Words and music had filled me with passion my whole life. The painstaking details of art where the final product is part of the process. A keen eye of the result with attention to the finer points. The composition of a process was not stylistically aesthetic but the result and what it made you feel was key.
Some would say a perfect combination Pineapple and cheap vodka with week old fruit. The taste was sour and made my face pucker and revolt at the taste. My lips dried off in a moment that took me out of here. Lately after a couple drinks my head begins to hurt. Torturing myself over details often better left not even thought. I had no attention for the moment I was caught up living someone else’s life. My friend tells me he wishes we he was 16 again. The time of our lives he recalls. Living a lifestyle with no cares in the world. I think if I did it again I would be more constructive. Regretting the time wasted analyzing painstakingly. James Brown grunts in the background.
Conversations hide true feelings. The girl behind the bar smiles only to get a tip, sincerity is often forced. I feel often like I have lived 10 lives by the time I was twenty. I hid behind the spectacle briefly displayed on the screen. I prefer to be passive instead of aggressive. I keep telling myself I want to freefall just for a moment’s time and then come back refreshed from being out in the open. Art imitating life or the latter. Preoccupied diagnosis by the doctor to return to the pages of fantasy. The life of great men or women had gaps and I think I am in one of those gaps right now. Often being in between times are a good reason to keep pushing and maybe the right thing may come out. I lament hours later in a stupor of tom foolery as I spoke to myself with the key in the car and my headlights off. I often pictured myself capturing the moment in the right tone but tonight I feel cut off from who I really am. I take that with a grain of salt, and I wander off in some other tangent.
Weeks before I had seen the city and every time I pass the interstate coming in I often stare in amazement at the blinking lights and billboards that wear away in age. The night sky had just reached over hanging over a cool breeze and the clouds created the perfect shade of a night sky. The tower that blinked red caught my eye as I pondered ever leaving here. Years I have spent in this place somewhere else would be alien but I spoke about it hours later. In a mumble wondering if I could retreat in a mountain shack with a typewriter and a bottle of tequila. I was in search of no great American novel or dream those had all been found by better people than I. Words and music had filled me with passion my whole life. The painstaking details of art where the final product is part of the process. A keen eye of the result with attention to the finer points. The composition of a process was not stylistically aesthetic but the result and what it made you feel was key.
Some would say a perfect combination Pineapple and cheap vodka with week old fruit. The taste was sour and made my face pucker and revolt at the taste. My lips dried off in a moment that took me out of here. Lately after a couple drinks my head begins to hurt. Torturing myself over details often better left not even thought. I had no attention for the moment I was caught up living someone else’s life. My friend tells me he wishes we he was 16 again. The time of our lives he recalls. Living a lifestyle with no cares in the world. I think if I did it again I would be more constructive. Regretting the time wasted analyzing painstakingly. James Brown grunts in the background.
Conversations hide true feelings. The girl behind the bar smiles only to get a tip, sincerity is often forced. I feel often like I have lived 10 lives by the time I was twenty. I hid behind the spectacle briefly displayed on the screen. I prefer to be passive instead of aggressive. I keep telling myself I want to freefall just for a moment’s time and then come back refreshed from being out in the open. Art imitating life or the latter. Preoccupied diagnosis by the doctor to return to the pages of fantasy. The life of great men or women had gaps and I think I am in one of those gaps right now. Often being in between times are a good reason to keep pushing and maybe the right thing may come out. I lament hours later in a stupor of tom foolery as I spoke to myself with the key in the car and my headlights off. I often pictured myself capturing the moment in the right tone but tonight I feel cut off from who I really am. I take that with a grain of salt, and I wander off in some other tangent.
