constantly searching, listening. things have been stagnant and now it's time for life to become the click click clacking of a typewriter writing the poems that start fires.
This piano has made a me out of mockery
There is freedom out there, in all that mystic fog, hidden among the great repose of dreams It hates the rivers, yet loves the railroads in violent fits of irony and steel Follow me, sweet specter tell me everything you know about echoes We shall feast tonight off of the golden plates, at the heart's dark table. The libations will be only of the earth, but the meats shall be of the divine God only blesses the fools and the drunks, so lift your glass and dance on the edge of the cliffs We've waited so long for this famine to end, parched earth and pursed lips, and still no rain Yet the oceans will come, in tiny drops, as dawn stands forth to meet the moon with windy arms As we dance again in the dryness of the desert, the basin that yearns to someday be a sea Our feast of gods and eclipses contort to meet our brittle bones left wanting for a drink God only blesses the fools and the drunks, so leave your blessings to chance that the dice are never loaded
I am not a Throne
I am not the Divine Right of Kings
I am not fire personified into the belief of something that burns slow with the power of the liar, the cannibals picking each other out of there own teeth
Watch the doors get kicked in by the faceless
Painless because the pills are worth it
Painful because the pills aren't working
Who are you, Mighty King?
Who are you princes of madness and volume?
Who are the men that fill the prisons with wishes for starlight?
Stand, my brothers, frenzy in the streets that you have made with no understanding
Frenzy, my friends, frenzy
Eat each other in the Golden Dawn, before the sun divides itself by zero
The sequence deleted, the power personified
and frenzy, my friends, frenzy
Today is a momentous day. It marks the anniversary of the birth of millions of people, possibly billions throughout history, however there are two standouts among them, William Melvin Hicks was born December 16, 1961 in Valdosta, Georgia. He grew up to be one of the last of the philosopher kings. Not a king of country, or of men, but of himself, his life, and his choices. An intellectual armed to the vitriolic teeth with rage and love. Hatred for the blind being led by the blind that he kept balanced with a love for them that drove him to preach and scream at them to pay attention, and it worked. In just my life alone I am surrounded by people, amazing people, artists, musicians, writers, etc, that have been irrevocably changed by Bill Hicks. Would they still be the same 'evolved', intelligent, hilarious people if Bill Hicks had never entered their lives, (typically through the last song on Aenima by Tool whose influence on us has also been huge, possibly equally so)? Would I be? I'd like to think so. I'd like to think that all of that comes from within us, that it is inherent to every one of us and that me and mine were just lucky enough to see through the veil, as it were. Yet, at the same time I think back to all the authors, musicians, artists etc that have influenced me my whole life and I wonder....would my wanderlust be as strong if it wasn't for Jack Kerouac? Would my urge to find the strange in life be the same if it wasn't fo Hunter S. Thompson? Would the sword of anger and disgust I have for the world around me ever have been honed and edged, and the hilt I use to swing that sword be made out of love for the world around me if it wasn't for William Melvin Hicks? I really don't think so. Would I know the exact reasons I despise a system based on whether or not I am economically valid, that tells me that destruction is more cost-effective than creation or would I be stumbling through life, mad at an elusive....something, never knowing exactly what causes the nauseous feeling I get in the face of "life" because an angry Texan by way of my current backyard never screamed at me to "squeegee my third eye". He was a roaming preacher, a stand up comediosopher that used dick and fart jokes to keep the window lickers at attention until he could spin their minds on his fingers with his diatribes about government, God, the benefits of drugs, the awful art of marketing, pop music, and the loss of feeling that every one of us gets as the lull of society causes us to slowly go numb. A man the world needs right now, a man whose every word, even though they were put onto record 20 years ago, is as relevant, if not more relevant, today as they were then. A man who's untimely and tragic death from cancer at the age of 32 left a vacuum that will possibly never be filled. A man whose hilarious rants brought more to our lives, at least my life, philosophically, spiritually, and culturally than all of the scholars of the ages combined.
Bill is not the only visionary that needs to be celebrated today. Throughout history there have been men and women who come into this world with the silver string connecting their spirit to something greater than that which can be found here. They don't need to become enlightened for they can touch pure light with whatever it is they do, whatever act they commit that pushes through any cultural zeitgeist, that trancends the flesh and brain that controls them to become part of, and give the rest of us a glimpse of, the aether, the great beyond. Vision of Paradise.
Ludwig Von Beethoven was born December 16th, 1770 in Bonn, in what is now Germany. I am not going to write about his life, as this is not a book report. I can't name all of his pieces of work, I can recognize when it's Beethoven when I hear him. I recognize the power of Fate knocking when he strikes the keys at the beginning of the 5th, and I know that 'ol Ludwig answered back with all of the defiance he could muster, "YOU BASTARDS WILL NEVER TAKE ME ALIVE!!!". Sonatas that inspire boys to ask Queen Mab herself for the next waltz, that personified love in spring for even the most bitter cuckold. The Moonlight Sonata makes a feeling grow within that trancends the frustration of first year piano students and grows into the knowledge of night embracing you and passing you from star to star in a marriage dance that only ends when the dawn breaks, but not before taking you on a tour of all the sadness and despair that roosts like a murder in the rookeries of the dead of night. He understood that Magick was very much real, but no amount of sacred ritual, or chanted words could conjure a devil or an angel in the way that he alone with his quill and the notes that embraced him could. His mystic symbols were strewn on the bars and measures in front of him, even once he paid the cost for his conjuring with the sense that put him most into contact with the Magick he created, his hearing. One of the great Illuminated, no Heaven or Hall of the Dead is good enough for his spirit, for he already resided amongst them when he was still alive, a man that made the gods quiver, and forced Fate itself to knock on his door, he who was the muse of the muses, he now resides amidst the spheres themselves, outside looking in.
So take time today to honor these Kings amongst the insects, These giants whose mere presence changed and warped the world around them. Know that amidst all the fear that you are instructed to live in by the television people, and the economy you are being buried under by all the marketing people, that there is a pure shining silver spirit of creation that is the true touch of life, that for ever night of despair your murder roosts in, there will be a dawn, and a Queen of Dreams there to take your hand and teach you how to waltz.
[x]-Acknowledge that all life is Art, become my own commerce, letting my own creativity pay the debts of my past deconstructions
[x]-Liberate myself of all possessions not necessary for comfortable survival in the culture I find myself awake in.
[x]-Realign my perception to once again seek truth beyond culture, government, history, facts. Reawaken the quest for a silent mind that does as I will. To spend my time looking for the moments when mind transcends what it sees and becomes energy. When compassion and love wil stop being the goal, and become the habit.
[x]-Find the person with whom to share these freedoms I have, minor though they may be, the person to compliment my existence with their own. The heart to my mind, my heart to their mind.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
That great silver god, Jet Plane, has beckoned me to Odyssean choices, I'm leaving the war to journey to a new forever, an old forever replayed with a more accurate focus on the moment. Giving it all away like alms to the beggars, like rice to the aesetics. Taking me and my eyes to new vision, to agrarian hauntings, the fields of an old war, with old ideas looking for new men to preach to. The new shaman in the old south. The old gun in the old east. I was golden fleeced by the wind and the smell of the fall, hoodwinked by orange and brown, too long has the misty October fog hypnotized me and kept me from the ships and the journeys. So beckon me great and powerful Jet Plane, I will answer the call, raise me from this misty fog, raise me to have vision yet again.
What I learned on my summer vacation: airport hellos are better by far than airport goodbyes. Movie moments are better when you're a little nauseous from the spinning. Blessed with frequent flyer kisses. Moments you always thought were generic till the music plays and you're running to each other's open arms, the concourse theater company taking the tram to terminals across the world, performing it's tales of hearts now granted to waiting lips. Ah, those movie moments are so much better than every tearful, "be careful", "this isn't goodbye", "I'll call when the plane lands" that any dramatist could use to pay his rent in tears. The actors joy emanating from the stage onto the audience, projecting the city wide presence of the oldest thespian, hope. A bird landed to sing it's song in new nests. The first airport minute still so far away from the last airport minute. That final destination as the music turns maudlin. Baggage checked, no time left to stall for, for hastily smoked cigarettes or long lingering hugs, and no smiles left to hide the tears under. None of that has even dawned upon you as the embrace, the lift, the kiss,(no spin) leave their mark forever on the stage, and the audience roars.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
I was killed in a terrible car accident this afternoon, please leave all questions and inquiries with the pale fella in the top hat standing at the door. The last thing that went through my mind, besides shards of the windshield and my own teeth, was whether or not you read the letter I sent, it was written with all of me, my very soul dried up as the ink did, at the same pace. The pale man in the top hat showed up on the scene long before anything with flashing lights on it, almost immediately in fact. Soon as I noticed him I knew him as well as I know myself. He smiled warmly and told me not to worry about anything, that everything was taken care of. I found myself embracing memories for the last time. I don't want them anymore so I took the opportunity to say goodbye. Write them away, leave them on pages for someone else to read and do with as they whimsy. Whimsy and scenes of the future. Singularity life forms over the crash scene. All time gets folded into five dimensions, placed carefully in an envelope addressed to you and to no one. Breaking the fourth wall, audience participation, you can feel the rush and hear the air escaping from my lungs. Unfold time carefully when you open your letter, apply to the watch you don't wear. I'll wave to you through the window.
Art as politics and economic saviour? Probably not, but it's a nice thought. Check these guys out anndlike them on facebook here
Saturday, October 16, 2010
"Metaphor is one of a group of problem-solving medicines known as figures of speech which are normally used to treat literal thinking and other diseases. Metaphor combines two or more seemingly unrelated concepts in a way that stimulates lateral thought processes and creativity. Patients using The Filth are required to participate in the generation of significant content by interpreting text and images which have been delibritely loaded with multiple, overlapping meanings and scales."
-Grant Morrison, The Filth introduction/warning
Never ask an escapist for advice. The widows will always take care of their own problems.
the ghost that gives voice to love will always surrender.
you can read his will off the back of a letter signed, "goodbye"
A treaty blessed in the light of double crosses, the curve and the breath of you as you stand in the light, the conclusions have already been drawn, your lips parting like you are about to break a promise.
find the primitive side of love
mark all your territories
embrace the name for the face
sing songs of harvest for pennies
while walking walking walking
if you hitch rides to ghost towns
only ride in haunted cars
We protect our fallout from all the sunny days. Every child is being born with a lead spoon in their mouth, every family is fat off the flesh of the dead. So it is written, scrawled on the charred, cracked surface of the old roads, the concrete tells the saga of auctioneers and human cargo. It was a harsh winter, but now the land has been razed and we shall take our harvest from the rubble of empires. Our new hymns are of unused carbon blown in on winds from the west.
Angel, I feel like we're dying
and for what?
Just two-bits a gander?
Succumbing to the pokes and prods of
every scavenger
Attracting all the best parts of neurosis
Pick your favorite noose
The platform will drop just as soon as
the clock is punched
Angel, remember when we burned down the tenament?
And for what?
To raise the dead to be upstanding citizens,
respectable residents of their cozy upstanding boxes?
We were imperfect, for certain,
but our intentions were pure.
Our destiny is tied up with that of the village idiot's.
We share our outlook with smoldering cigarettes,
I've smoked one for every time it's seemed like
we'd fail.
Angel, make my tongue pure again?
And for what?
So you have the silver you need for all the payoffs?
The secret deals held behing hidden tombs
I'd rather gild a tongue than a cage.
Especially since the canary was poisoned
We'll use these last few nails to build a new fortress
Then we will poison the wells, and lay in for
the siege
Clownish, happiest when balancing on your hands, feet to the sky and moon-skulled. Have I drank too much from your cup? You're such a pale, gone child, born from the night sounds. Always weeping for the self-inflicted tortures of the windowpanes (never allowing themselves to blink or come into focus.) Always yelling unsolvable riddles at ravens in lieu of building scarecrows (who are never talkative, and you warm yourself at speech-fueled fires) She is the lunatic that lives in the sun baked electrical towers. Guarding the secret geometry of the old road, whispering the answers to unsolvable riddles in the language of Midnight Ghosts
I gave my love an apple
She took a bite to be just as a worm
Just to bite the seeds out of their juicy repose
And the apple remains the meat of the kingdom
There are Agents at the door banging out suicide notes
In some sort of primitive morse code.
Our defenses fell apart, and they burned the orchards to the ground.
The screams echoed of the weeping trees.
The smell lingered for weeks.
What would it take to find an appropriate nemesis?
Maybe just this useless appleseed and a fertile plot?
Perhaps an assassination attempt and some sterile gloves?
Or maybe just a core of rot and worms?
This Grove makes a lousy battleground,
But as far as rookeries go it's a real gem.
Murders gather like generals to the highest point.
With photographs haunting their eyes.
[[[[there are things moving just beyond the light of the fire predators with a different motive echoing from every word monsters and devils coming to terms with who they are, chewing inappropriate flakes of skins and leaves]]]]
Evidence of the slaughter.
I gave my love the Heart of the World Tree.
She chewed her way to Ragnarok.
And burned a million crows searching for the murder.
Now my love no longer hungers.
No longer does this soil want for war.
No more do the dead feed the blossom.
No more does the apple feed the dead
A few songs off his latest record, pink moon, which I highly recommend
If you don't know who Alex Gray is...well, just find out.
THE VAST EXPANSE
I acknowledge the privilege of being alive in a human body at this moment, endowed with senses, memories, emotions, thoughts, and the space of mind in its wisdom aspect.
It is the prayer of my innermost being to realize my supreme identity in the liberated play of consciousness, the Vast Expanse. Now is the moment, Here is the place of Liberation.
Witness the contents of mind, the visions and sounds, the thoughts, as clouds passing through the vast expanse - the sky-like nature of mind. The rootedness of Being is in emptiness, clarity and awareness: unborn, unspoilt, stainlessly pure.
The infinite vibratory levels, the dimensions of interconnectedness are without end. There is nothing independent. All beings and things are residents in your awareness.
I subject my awareness to the perfection of being, the perfection of wisdom and perfection of love, all of these being co-present in the Vast Expanse. I share this panorama of Being and appreciate all I can share it with...the seamless interweaving of consciousness with each moment.
Create perfection wherever you go with your awareness. That is why this teaching is admired by artists--they sense the correctness of the response to life as creative. Life is infinite creative play. Enjoyment and participation in this creative play is the artists profound joy. We co-author every moment with universal creativity.
To bare our souls is all we ask, to give all we have to life and the beings surrounding us. Here the nature spirits are intense and we appreciate them, make offerings to them--these nature spirits who call us here--sealing our fate with each other, celebrating our love.
I am an intersecting kaleidoscope of Being in a rainbow refractive wave pattern: a corpuscle of light on the ocean...the transparency of my body with the rocks...sometimes the only way to summarize my feelings is to draw--to collapse the frenzy in my limbs enough to make a mark out of profound appreciation for my existence.
Share your presence with others, no boundaries, completely openly lovingly. Love is what makes us alive, that is why we feel so alive when we love. Service is being available to love. Life is the combustion of love. That we love ourselves here, that is the true magnificence in the mountains of being. We are constantly drawing the line between love and not love--enter into the Non-duality Zone, and all judgements dissolve in the Vast Expanse.
It's as though we are co-conspirators of consciousness--everyone, everywhere, everywhen, mixing up our openable minds. It's as though we could gather clouds in the sky and people into our lives. Like an eruption of consciousness, we discover the most important force is love. Experience yourself as the Source and appreciate every moment as perfection. Sunrise--Sunset. Thank you, Thank you, Creator, profound unstoppable connectedness of all beings, pattern to everything, most radical no-thing, the Vast Expanse.
Bucky Fuller was a man who literally was standing on the edge of a bridge, preparing to leap to his own death, instead decided he was going to dedicate his life to educating himself and creating new ways to use and expand science to benefit every human being living on what he refered to as Spaceship Earth.
Comprehensive Anticipatory Design Science
For the first time in history it is now possible to take care of everybody at a higher standard of living than any have ever known.
Only ten years ago the more with less technology reached the point where this could be done. All humanity now has the option to become enduringly successful.
R. Buckminster Fuller, 1980
I do know that technologically humanity now has the opportunity, for the first time in its history, to operate our planet in such a manner as to support and accommodate all humanity at a substantially more advanced standard of living than any humans have ever experienced.
- from Grunch of Giants 1983
There is no energy crisis food crisis or environmental crisis. There is a crisis of ignorance.
"I am enthusiastic over humanitys extraordinary and sometimes very timely ingenuities. If you are in a shipwreck and all the boats are gone, a piano top buoyant enough to keep you afloat that comes along makes a fortuitous life preserver. But this is not to say that the best way to design a life preserver is in the form of a piano top. I think that we are clinging to a great many piano tops in accepting yesterdays fortuitous contrivings as constituting the only means for solving a given problem."
Buckminster Fuller Operating Manual for Spaceship Earth
"The function of what I call design science is to solve problems by introducing into the environment new artifacts, the availability of which will induce their spontaneous employment by humans and thus, coincidentally, cause humans to abandon their previous problem-producing behaviors and devices. For example, when humans have a vital need to cross the roaring rapids of a river, as a design scientist I would design them a bridge, causing them, I am sure, to abandon spontaneously and forever the risking of their lives by trying to swim to the other shore."
R. Buckminster Fuller from Cosmography
"I am certain that none of the world's problems which we are all perforce thinking about today have any hope of solution except through all of world around society's individuals becoming thoroughly and comprehensively self-educated. Only thereby will society be able to identify and inter-communicate the vital problems of total world society. Only thereafter may humanity effectively sort out and put those problems into order of importance for solution in respect to the most fundamental principles governing man's survival and enjoyment of life on Earth."
we earned our memories on the berth where trees are born
on the hill where you told me you were a feather
where i learned i was a hero
a hero preparing to fail
i told you i would find you there, in your own self-worth
where the lakes were on fire
we met in the endless summer and listened to the ghosts tell stories about the most wonderful things
while the autumn was fixin to attack the leaves
like cancer attacking hope
i'll be the ghost for you. the ghost of a failing hero
these feelings make me spin
in meadows.
knowing i'm the villian in the breaking heart
the eavesdropping clouds make me wanna spit about what i've heard from you're mind.
we build our battlements on this hill, prepare for the autumn's siege
and sing funeral songs about love
as i paint your portrait onto gravestones
i want to feel unrequited. in the shadow of the troubador's forest
you float there, feather.
it's good enough just to watch you.
sometimes i cringe when my name tastes like your lips
and i can't bring myself to face east
sometimes i hear your voice in the cold wind that scouts for General Winter
and sometimes i know i'm alive when the sun colors me in joy
and the argent notes become gilded tongues
and the words mean anything you want.
Just disappears so fast, a rabbit in the hat. Snatched from rolling farmlands, a country mousetrap. Into the fumbling hands of a magician who thinks he is as deft as they come. So much up his sleeves. Some good, like shimmering ballons waiting to take the shape of a giraffe, or puppy, or at least the shape of a way out of here. Or the kisses on the heart he uses to wow audiences into ignoring his fumbling hands. Some bad, like dreams of inescapable boxes, dreams of forgetting to hide the key in one of the pockets he's carved into his own flesh, dreams of your way out.
That lovely world inside the hat no longer holds an opportunity or the smiles of audiences across the land, it's just not cool enough in there, stifling. The magician laments the loss of his long-eared partner, his magic companion now left to it's own devices has begun to forget the stage and the routines of the show. The rabbit's sleeves are also full, but they are full of mystery, silence, and it's own lucky feet. Surrounded by worms and parasites, a mundane cocoon, no magic can touch the pupa. The gold hidden beneath the magician's heart peels away, the prestige, the big reveal, is the cold, rusted iron underneath
When will I write again? When will the pen jump the fence between inanimate soliliquist to that hyperactive lightning bolt destined to constantly best swords across the lands in arm wrestling contests and barrel throws. The ink well Zeus in the fingers of so many yearning to be the next fool worthy enough to control the thunderous ramblings hidden underneath the scratchings of chickens. The mighty check-signer finally allowed to unleash it's pent up fiscal boredom on the shining bleach white quads of college ruled notebooks. The assassin of dissertations, fighting it's own obsoletion in the Olympian hands of the traditionalists. The scarlet correctors finding their ways into spelling tests across the land, the heavy black always shading the wing-tips of bats in drawings of belfies. Pen pals of the world unite!! Hold in highest regards your quills and your Bics, ball-point, and clicky top. Poets give thanks to the squid's first sacrifice. Those tiny magic wands filled with whatever you may need. Bringer of peace, declarer of war. No digital signature could replace the solid imprint you leave on reality when your pen translates your true name. The devil ain't accepting your soul in an email. The pen is the clock by which my time progresses, the alarm that awakens my mind and my hand. It is for the pen that I am constantly waiting, waiting for the pen to start, waiting for the pen to stop, the clock by which the words are set.
(the images in this post are by Lawrence Wang http://www.suckatlife.com/ , go there and check him out, leave some love, buy some stuff, and maybe he won't mind I used his amazing pictures without asking)
Jehova Himself sitting nervously in the waiting room. not sure what He is going to talk about...
"She's supposed to be the best. I looked into it, Where should I start? My unresolved sexual frustration that have manifested themselves in fire raining from the sky onto a helpless but fun-loving Sodom and Gammorah? My unashamed misanthropy which led to me drowning every living thing in the world except for the two people I sorta liked and some animals? The set-ups, deceptions, blatant ignorance, the fact that I am too prideful to work out a simple argument with my closest aide...nay, friend. Ugh I need to work out, who has the time? You invent it and then spend the rest of eternity trying to find some extra lying around. Just goes with the whole 'perfect and divine being' role. As if THAT isn't enough pressure alone. I guess I could talk about the kid, about how I forgave the sins of everyone in the world, but in order to do that he had to suffer in terrible ways till he was dead, AFTER showing up, turning his calm, peaceful life upside down, told him I was his father even though I hadn't been there once for him,total absentee, and now he had to go do My work, and no he didn't have a choice, Real 'Cat's in the Cradle' moment THAT was. Man, and he's really just one aspect of me, so I was really doing all that to myself!!! Self-loathing narcissism anyone!? Well, she really is the best, and I have some pretty reputable sources. To say the least. Still, how do I even open this conversation, 'well, on the first day I created light, the heavens, and the earth, on the second day I was very conflicted about it'. That'll go over like a fart in church (which really, I don't mind that so much). 'I don't know how i feel about all the wars that have been and still are fought in my name, but it's a little disconcerting that 'satisfied' is the first word that comes to mind..I really am a more just and loving God then I come across, but still, I do enjoy the powertrip. Even after all these years.' Ughhh c'mon, Yahweh, Just be you, Let her ask the questions, get the ball rolling....I hope I can smoke in there, Terrible habit....for people hehehe. Ugh i should just go, this is my last chance to sneak ou.."
this isn't about you. as i zipped up your dress my stomach knotted like a noose. i hated to think that when you turned around i would be looking into the face of a ghost, some old victim of wars or famines[][][][][][][][][0][0][0][][] this is about the day my dream dripped down my arm, leaving pictures in it's wake as it dripped slowly off the tips of my trembling fingers
this isn't about death. this is about symbols. this about what's left of me as i hang from those thirteen perfectly tied knots in my stomach
this is not about suicide. this is about myth, about something greater than God or dreams, or dreams about gods. faces pressed against the windows of buses leaving for the coast. this is about oceans. about stealing the wind from the sails of sinking ships.
this isn't about despair. this is about how destiny is a farce. and about your zipper catching my finger and my blood staining your perfect white dress. the drops in perfect symmetry to the size of my pupils as they dilate and i fume...............................................................................................................................................
................................................................................................................ this isn't about rage. this is not about Grendal standing over the eviscerated corpses of mangy, rotten goats.///////////////////////////////////////////
/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
this is not about heroes. yours or mine. this is about sunsets and beggars riding away on gross mares. what do they beg for? pennies to place on their own dead eyes? this is about life, about how alive i can feel watching my blood seep into the fibers of your evening wear. ''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
this is not about sleep. it's about waking up from dreams about apples peeling themselves for me. as the trees performed mournful string concertos. "there is no problem, darlin'. i cut myself on the zipper is all...nope. no blood on your dress....yes, you look perfect."______________________this is not about lies. this is about burying yourself in the sound of words. how they roll from tongue to tongue, delivering messages, infuriating the minds of teeth
this isn't about me. it's really not. it's about empty spaces and drawing them into myself.
this was inspired by this amazing book. if you haven't read it you should check it out. very strange, dreamlike book. makes you feel like everything around you is a dream as you read it.
There it is! That old music. ramblin, rambunctious disaster waiting to happen. Always at the precipice of total collapse...oh wait..maybe that's me I'm thinking of? There it is!! That old music lining itself up in bars to fill it's cup and slake it's awful thirst, leaving behind notes for you to read, clues that lead you to believe that you might catch up. Yet you will always be chasing it right to the end. Oh, that's you I'm thinking of isn't it? Ah. There it is for sure this time, that old music, starting and stopping and starting over and over again to the point of madness. rising to quick crescendos then plummeting again into the valleys of silence in which it nests. Waaait..that's us I'm thinking of. Damn it.
Where is that Old Mystic, music? That shaman that hides in the shadows of animalistic, cavemen pounding on the stretched skins of their dinner urges? The inner feeling that G, C, D, E can instill in the most simple progressions, and the most complex of structures. Is that where to find it? Or can I find it in this? In you, in me, in all of us. It's moved like a symphony since we started, Is this the tragic end? Or does the reprisal begin soon, and the chorus ascend to the sky? And where the hell is that old music!?
Is it in the rundown hallways of Heartbreak Hotel? In the Lizard King dancing for the starlight on top of the cars in the streets that stole it from him? In the cool black specter of Death blowing his trumpet to signal the end is very very nigh? Or does that old music elude them too? Are they just following the notes left on bars, clues to finding out that the end that is the greatest secret ruse? well, you are my trumpet. baby, and the end is very fucking
nigh
your hand pulled me through the tear gas. your mask was my beacon through the screaming destruction of love's riot. the wonderful mass of decaying humility. coalescing into a fist to smash the cities of the faceless. to make the lips tremble at the sound of the people beating trash can lids against their resolve. the cancerous cell in the veins of your streets. the freedom of the riot exploding against every wall, and always your mask is the beacon in the juggernaut scream of love's riot. the music is the sound of our heads exploding, of excellence embodied as one mass of organisms working in concert, a virus unified against the control systems, working in concert to shout down the naysayers of their viral freedoms. to tear every kiss out of their mouth and eyes. to rip them up and throw them to memory. this is our riot, our fabulous mob mentality. this is how we demand recognition from each other.
I paid two dollars extra for the view
Money feels like water in the eyes of
a windy day.
Black forest river bottom, crumpled dimes
in the hidden pockets of Magic.
Hidden like gold in the heart of a haystack
Grown men and their grown men speeches
stitched into their suits like names
Complications when choosing a nurse to suffer.
Death beds dried out at autumn's table of ash
and orange.
She never made the corners right. She always
made the tears come.
She always made the food dance, she always made the bed
Weep
This view, like the two dollars that paid for it,
will be my last.
The vessel returns to the mud, the fire returns to the
trees.
This piano has made a me out of mockery
she made the bed....weep.
This is how you ruin an otherwise lovely evening. Equal parts entropy and conversation. Let simmer with absolutely no communication in the mixture.It's all right there in the recipe. I look great in this suit made of glass, with all my armor stripped and weapons primed. Evaluate, consume, leave whatever is left for the ghouls. They are out there, beyond the edges of the fire, the ghouls and the fiends, drooling for the scraps of this.
how do i get home from here? send your heart as scout. a pathfinder. i need real answers. this is no time for poetics, you're right. this is the time for destruction. this is the time when the clock stops, when your own riddles get answered, although you won't like the answers. when skyscrapers become the pillars of dreams. when the home that is calling moves elusively from place to place. listen to me, girlie!!
She move like yadda yadda yadda She is every something something smomething ....she really is something.... Here we are on the balcony, our glasses imbibed with good cheer, the monsters screaming up at us from the rancid streets below. their streets You are the angel in their mutant nativity, their haunted manger in their glass deserts. Gazing from this dream pillar down upon your loyal subjects.
And here I am, the King of the Monsters, atheist to your faithful, bringer to your light.
Observe as I let the monsters starve. That was my destiny, to watch them writhe with hunger,
yet I am but a monster with a crown, a glutton with a pang, a glutton with a pang, a glutton with a pang
a glutton with a pang, a glutton with a pang.
A girl named Saturday gave me tickets
to the fair
The fair burnt down last year on a
weekday
A girl named Mary told me where to
find salvation
But progress had already paved over
the Temple
So I found a girl named Evening, who
pointed me towards the sun
When I finally got there, it was merely
the Devil,
lighting his black cigarettes
How do I walk amongst all these
strange girls
when my shoes compel me to dance?
The hands of one of these very strange
girls
will soon be mine to take.
Three days had gone by and I still held
myself desperate
and slept on the ashes of the fair
The charred bones of laughter still
rang in my ears
echoing off the old holy highway
The sun never came, it was shunned in
this place
and the smoke was from black
cigarettes
How did I get here? The trains
have stopped running.
I was singing, but I wished I was dancing
How do I sleep when all these strange
girls
are dreaming the sweetest of dreams?
The eyes of all these very strange girls
are painted like portraits of iron.
