“I was an August day in Paris, on the Quai d’Orleans by the Seine. Hugo kept congratulating himself that this year he had postponed his departure to Deauville: the weather was fine and Magda quite entertaining. He did not like dining with pretty girls; at his age it was better to keep his pleasures separate. For a lunch like this what he needed was a hard-boiled, cynical old American, such as Magda, who appreciated her food and had good taste in wine. She admired him, but that left him indifferent: he had always been admired for his taste, his wealth, his splendid collection of porcelain, his knowledge of ancient Greek writers, his generosity, and his intelligence. He did not need other people’s admiration, yet Magda amused him. It was better, and more unusual to be amused than loved. “Egoist” “A weeping young woman had called him that once. The sensual memory of her tears still touched his heart pleasurably: she had been so young and so beautiful. He had been young then, too. Egoist…he might have replied that in this world of mad, brutal men and their stupid victims, the only harmless people were egoists like him. They did not hurt anyone. All the misery suffered by human beings, thought Hugo, is unleased by those who love others more than themselves and want that love to be acknowledged.” From THE SPECTATOR By Irène Némirovsky
THE GENIUS OF THE CROWD by Charles Bukoski
there is enough treachery, hatred violence absurdity in the average human being to supply any given army on any given day
and the best at murder are those who preach against it and the best at hate are those who preach love and the best at war finally are those who preach peace
those who preach god, need god those who preach peace do not have peace those who preach peace do not have love
beware the preachers beware the knowers beware those who are always reading books beware those who either detest poverty or are proud of it beware those quick to praise for they need praise in return beware those who are quick to censor they are afraid of what they do not know beware those who seek constant crowds for they are nothing alone beware the average man the average woman beware their love, their love is average seeks average
but there is genius in their hatred there is enough genius in their hatred to kill you to kill anybody not wanting solitude not understanding solitude they will attempt to destroy anything that differs from their own not being able to create art they will not understand art they will consider their failure as creators only as a failure of the world not being able to love fully they will believe your love incomplete and then they will hate you and their hatred will be perfect
like a shining diamond like a knife like a mountain like a tiger like hemlock
It must really suck to be a Nazi slave, if you're a duck:
...and lots of good, wholesome, patriotic racism here (though, I did appreciate the nod to Dali near the end):
...and who can ever forget DUCKTATORS!!? I like the "Peace Conference" in this one ("have they forgot 'tis love that's right and naught is gained by show of might"):
Not sure yet if it is a good thing that the wind has scared me inside today on my 47th birthday, but I am panning through odds and ends in the stream that is the internet. Poem For My 43rd Birthday by Charles Bukowski To end up alone in a tomb of a room without cigarettes or wine-- just a lightbulb and a potbelly, grayhaired, and glad to have the room. ...in the morning they're out there making money: judges, carpenters, plumbers, doctors, newsboys, policemen, barbers, carwashers, dentists, florists, waitresses, cooks, cabdrivers... and you turn over to your left side to get the sun on your back and out of your eyes. from "All's Normal Here"
Oh! Ain't it the truth. Bukowski knew the importance of claiming time for yourself. "I don't have time!" they say. Take it! Make it yours!
I stood behind the bar last night with time to think, but not enough time to do much but serve and maximize the income. Stackin' the cheeze. "Why is this not pleasurable?" I thought. Around the bar and in the dining room, seemingly EVERYONE else was cussing and discussing something as I stood momentarily idle. Listening in, I again realized that I did not want to be included in any of their "conversations". Soon enough, I would be free to have my own inner conversations in my own time. You know what though? I never did. I came home to do some administrative work to try to wrestle the St. Louis public from their couches and barstools; their keypads and screens. I escaped for a bit for a brisk walk around the neighborhood and returned to have some drinks with a friend and later hit South Grand for a pint, a couple jiggers and a crazy-good Cuban at the City Diner. A good night. A very good night, all things considered, but I didn't quite free myself. No epiphanies. Oh, the poor, fucking prima donna! Ha! Crashed soon after in the safety of my bed and awoke to send the thickening schedule of the future to various heads. When I finish this bit of jibber-jabber, I will claim my time. A book, a nap, and another walk. If nothing else, the wind today will scare the life back into me. Enough of this existential pseudo-angst. Time for some time time time.... But WAIT! DON'T GO YET!!! Look what's coming up in 2011! All of this at the Schlafly Tap Room:
Paper Dolls http://www.myspace.com/wearethepaperdolls
January 14th:
This City of Takers http://www.thiscityoftakers.com/ The Transatlantic http://www.myspace.com/thetransatlanticmusic The Otto Modest http://www.facebook.com/theottomodest
April 2nd: Dulad http://www.myspace.com/duladsduelinginfinity/friends The Transatlantic http://www.myspace.com/thetransatlanticmusic Barefoot Jones http://www.myspace.com/barefootjonesrocks
April 8th Zevious (from Philadelphia) http://www.cuneiformrecords.com/bandshtml/zevious.html
Spelling Bee http://www.myspace.com/beespellingbee (Joseph Hess and Mabel Suen from KDHX' WRONG DIVISION)
Paper Dolls http://www.thesixtyone.com/#/PaperDollsSTL/
April 30th: Bunnygrunt http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bunnygrunt
THE KYLE SOWASHES (Columbus, Ohio) http://www.myspace.com/kylesowash
Black James http://www.myspace.com/littlejenniandthewaterhead
May 14th: Franklin Felix http://www.myspace.com/7098989
Megafauna http://www.myspace.com/mymegafauna
Tok http://www.myspace.com/tokandroll
As I sit and watch and listen to these acts, I wonder if I am in-FUCKING-sane to expect the public to grasp this array. Maybe I would be more successful if there were more scatter-brained, lazy poets with expendable time and cash to come to these shows. Please tell me I'm wrong...or don't.
Oh, yeah...other folks born on this date: Rainier Maria Rilke Crazy Horse John Cale Jeff Bridges Jay-Z and BIG POKEY!!
People bitch about Burroughs and Bukowski, saying they don't like their writing...some call them hacks. Blah, blah, blah... What I appreciate about them most at times is their outsider's take on the world. They allowed themselves the freedom to think outside of the work-a-day existence. Burroughs work is all about the struggle to unleash creativity from the powers of control. For instance: “words are still the principal instruments of control. Suggestions are words. Persuasions are words. Orders are words. No control machine so far devised can operate without words, and any control machine which attempts to do so relying entirely on external force or entirely on physical control of the mind will soon encounter the limits of control. “ from THE LIMITS OF CONTROL, 1975 “Verbal techniques are now being used to achieve more reliable computer-processed techniques in the direction of opinion control and manipulation, the ‘propoganda war’ it’s called.” THE JOB
“a modern government armed with heavy weapons and prepared for attack could wipe out ninety-five percent of its citizens. But who would do the work, and who would protect them from the soldiers and technicians needed to make and man the weapons?” from THE LIMITS OF CONTROL, 1975 “Americans have a special horror of giving up control, of letting things happen in their own way without interference.” From NAKED LUNCH “The whole of Western psychology has been sidetracked from the way it should have gone. It should have gone along the lines of Pavlov and the conditioned reflex.” From an interview reprinted in BRAINWASHING: THE FICTIONS OF MIND CONTROL: A STUDY OF NOVELS AND FILMS by David Seed "And what does the money machine eat to shit out? It eats youth, spontaneity, life, beauty and above all it eats creativity. It eats quality and shits out quantity." THE JOB "America may well be the hope of the world. It is also the source of such emotional plagues as drug hysteria, racism, Bible belt morality, Protestant capitalist ethic, muscular Christianity that have spread everywhere transforming this planet into an annex of Hell." THE JOB "America is not so much a nightmare as a non-dream. The American non-dream is precisely a move to wipe the dream out of existence. The dream is a spontaneous happening and therefore dangerous to a control system set up by non-dreamers." THE JOB "What I am here to learn is a new way of thinking. There are no lessons and no teachers. There are no books and no work to be done. I do almost nothing. The first step is to stop doing everything you "have to do"...The new way of thinking has nothing to do with logical thought. It is no oceanic organismal subconscious body thinking. It is precisely delineated from what is not. The new way of thinking is the thinking you would do if you didn’t have to think about any of the things you ordinarily think about if you had no work to do nothing to be afraid of no plans to make. Any exercises to achieve this must themselves be set aside. It’s a way you would think if you didn’t have to think up a way of thinking you don’t have to do. We learn to stop words to see and touch words to move and use words like objects." WSB--THE JOB
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Quick Fix By William S. Burroughs
To put the country simple, earth has a lot of things other folks might want...like the whole planet. And maybe these folks would like a few changes made. Like more carbon Dioxide in the atmosphere, and room for their way of life. We've seen this happen before, right in these United States.
Your way of life destroyed the Indian's way of life. The Indian reservation is extinction. But I offer this distinction. I'm with the invaders, no use trying to hide that. And at the same, I disagree with some of the things they are doing. Oh were not united anymore than you are Oh we're not united anymore than you are. Conservative factions is set on nuclear war as a solution to the Indian personality. Others disagree Others disagree I don't claim that my methods are one hundred percent humane, but I do say, if we can't think of anything quieter, and tidier than that... We are all not that much better than new earth aches. There is no place else to go The theater is closed There is no place else to go The theater is closed Cut word lines Cut music lines Smash the control images Smash the control machine.
Bukowski was a cruder sort. Did not have the academic background that Burroughs did. He took chances, though, and he certainly understood the importance of freeing ones self from the reins in order to get the important living done...and down.
POLITICS IS LIKE TRYING TO SCREW A CAT IN THE ASS
"Dear Mr. Bukowski: Why don't you ever write about politics or world affairs?" M.K.
"Dear M.K.: What for? Like, what's new? --- everybody knows the bacon is burning."
our raving takes place quite quietly while we are staring down at the hairs of a rug --- wondering what the shit went wrong when they blew up the trolley full of jellybeans with the poster of Popeye the Sailor stuck on the side. that's all that matters: the good dream gone, and when that's gone it's all gone. the rest is horseshit games for the Generals and money-makers, speaking of which --- I see where another U.S. bomber full of H-bombs fell out of the sky again --- THIS time into the sea while SUPPOSEDLY protecting my life. the State Dept. says the H-bombs were "unarmed," whatever that means. then we continue to read where one of the H-bombs (lost) had split open and was spreading radioactive shit everywhere while supposedly protecting me WHILE I hadn't even asked for protection. the difference between a Democracy and a Dictatorship is that you don't have to waste your time voting. getting back to the H-bomb dropout --- a little while back the same thing happened off the coast of SPAIN. (we are everywhere, protecting me.) again the bombs get lost --- careless little toys. it took them 3 months --- if I remember properly --- to find and lift that last bomb out of there. it may have been 3 weeks but to the people in that coast town it must have seemed 3 years. that last bomb --- the god damned thing had gotten itself wedged on the edge of a sandhill far down in the sea. and everytime they tried to hook the thing, so tenderly, it would shake loose and roll a little further down the hill. meanwhile, all the poor people in that coast town were tossing in their beds at night wondering if they'd be blown to hell, courtesy of the Stars and Stripes. of course, the U.S. State Dept. issued a state ment saying the H-bomb had no detonation fuse, but meanwhile the rich had left for other parts and the American sailors and townspeople looked very nervous. (after all, it the things couldn't blow up what were they flying them around for? might as well carry 2-ton salamis. fuse means "spark" or "trigger," and "spark" can come from any where, and "trigger" means "jolt" or any similar action that will set off the firing mechanism. NOW the terminology is "unarmed," which sounds safer but is the same thing.) anyhow, they hooked at the bomb but as the saying goes, the thing seemed to have a mind of its own. then a few undersea storms came about and our lovely little bomb rolled further and further down its hill. the sea is very deep, much deeper than our leadership. finally, special equipment was designed just to haul bomb-ass and the thing was pulled from the sea. Palomares. yes, that's where it happened: Palomares. and you know what they did next? --- the American Navy had a BAND CONCERT in the town park in celebration of finding the bomb - if the thing wasn't dangerous they were really cutting loose. yes, and the sailors played the music together, one big sexual and spiritual release. whatever happened to the bomb they pulled out of the sea, I don't know, nobody (except the few) knows, and the band played on. while 1,000 tons of radio- active Spanish topsoil was shipped to Aiken, S.C. in sealed containers. I'll be the rent is cheap in Aiken, S.C. so now our bombs are swimming and sinking, chilled and "un- armed" about Iceland. so what do you do when you've got the people's minds on something not so good? easy, you get their minds on something else. they can only think about one thing at a time. like, all right, head line of Jan. 23, 1968: B-52 CRASHES OFF GREENLAND WITH H-BOMBS; DANES IRKED. Danes irked? oh, mother! anyhow, suddenly, Jan. 24, headline: NORTH KOREANS SEIZE U.S. NAVY SHIP. oh boy, patriotism is back! why, those dirty bastards! I thought THAT war was over! ah ha, I see --- the REDS! Korean puppets! it says under the A.P. wirephoto, something like this --- the U.S. intelligence shop Pueblo --- formerly an army cargo ship, now converted into one of the Navy's secret spy ships equipped with electric monitoring gear and oceanographic equipment was forced into Wonsan Harbor off the coast of North Korea. those dirty Red bastards, always fucking around! but I DID notice that the lost H-bomb story got shoved into a small space: "Radiation Detected at B-52 Crash Site; Split Bomb hinted." we are told that the president was awakened between 2 a.m. and 2:30 a.m. and told of the capture of the Pueblo. I presume he went back to sleep. the U.S. says the Pueblo was in international waters; the Koreans say the shop was in territorial waters. one country is lying, one is not. then one wonders, what good is a spy ship in international waters? it's like wearing a raincoat on a sunny day. the closer you can get on in, the better your instruments pick up. headline: Jan. 26, 1968: U.S. CALLS UP 14,700 AIR RESERVISTS. the lost H-bombs off Iceland have completely disappeared from print as if it had never happened. meanwhile: Sen. John C. Stennis (D.-Miss.) said Mr. Johnson's decision (the call- up of Air Reserves_ was "necessary and justified" and added, "I hope he will not hesitate to mobilize ground reserve components as well." Senate minority leader, Richard B. Russell (D.-Ga.): "In the last analysis, this country must get the return of that ship and the men that were seized. after all, great wars have started from much less serious incidents than this." House Speaker John W. McCormack (D.-Mass.): "The American people have to wake up to the realization that communism is still bent on world domination. there is too much apathy about it." I think that if Adolph Hitler were around now he would pretty much enjoy the present scene. what's there to say about politics and world affairs? the Berlin Crisis, the Cuban crisis, spy planes, spy ships, Vietnam, Korea, lost H- bombs, riots in American cities, starvation in India, purge in Red China? are there good guys and bad guys? some that always lie, some that never lie? are there good governments and bad governments? no, there are only bad governments and worse governments. will there be a flash of light and heat that rips us apart one night while we are screwing or crapping or reading the comic strips or pasting blue-chip stamps into a book? instant death is nothing new, nor is mass instant death new. but we've improved the product; we've had these centuries of knowledge and culture and discovery to work with; the libraries are fat and crawling and overcrowded with books; great paintings sell for hundreds of thousands of dollars; medical science is transplanting the human heart; you can't tell a madman from a sane one upon the streets, and suddenly we find our lives, again, in the hands of the idiots. the bombs may never drop; the bombs might drop. eeney, meeney, miney, mo- now if you'll forgive me, dear readers, I'll get back to the whores and the horses and the booze, while there's time. if these contain death, then, to me, it seems far less offensive to be responsible for your own death than the other kind which is brough to you fringed with phrases of Freedom and Democracy and Humanity and/or any of all that Bullshit. first post, 12:30. first drink, now. and the whores will always be around. Clara, Penny, Alice, Jo- eeny, meeney, miney, mo- from THE MOST BEAUTIFUL WOMAN IN TOWN & other stories by Charles Bukowski
...and there's this from NOTES OF A DIRTY OLD MAN:
"I don't want to get as holy about being active and involved with mankind as Camus did (see his essays) because basically most of mankind sickens me and the only saving that can be done is a whole new concept of Universal Education-Vibration understanding of happiness, reality and flow, and that's for the little children who ain't murdered yet, but they will be, I'll lay you twenty-five to one, for no new concept will be allowed--it would be too destructive to the power gang. no, I'm no Camus, but, sweetheart, it bothers me to see the Klankheads making hay out of Tragedy. Gov. Reagan's statement, in part: "The average man, decent law-abiding, God-fearing, is as disturbed and worried as you and I about what happened. "He, and all of us, are the victims of an attitude that has been growing in our land for nearly a decade---an attitude that says a man can choose the laws he must obey, that he can take the law into his own hands for a cause, that crime does not necessarily mean punishment. "This attitude has been spurred by demagogic and irresponsible words of so-called leaders in and out of office."
but, God, I can't go on. it's so dreary. the Father-Image with ye old razor strop to whip our ass. now the good governor is going to take away our toys and put us to bed without dinner. lord, lord. I didn't murder Kennedy, either one of them. or King. or Malcolm X. or the rest. but it's fairly obvious to me that the Left Wing Liberal forces are being picked off one by one--whatever the reason (a suspect who once worked in a health food store and hated Jews)--whatever the reason, the left-wingers are being murdered and put into graves while the right-wingers don't even get grass-stains upon their pantscuffs, and weren't Roosevelt and Truman also shot at? Democrats. how very odd. that the assassins are sick, I will admit. I'm also told by the God-fearing that I have "sinned" because I was born a human being and once upon a time human beings did something to one Jesus Christ. I neither killed Christ or Kennedy and neither did Gov. Reagan. that makes us even, not one up. I see no reason to love any judicial or spiritual freedoms, small as they may be now. who is bullshitting who? if a man dies in bed while fucking, must the rest of us stop copulating? if one non-citizen is a madman must all citizens be treated as madmen? if somebody killed God, did I want to kill God? if somebody wanted to kill Kennedy did I want to kill Kennedy? what makes the governor, himself, so right and the rest of us so wrong? speech-writers, and not very good ones at that...what they won't tell us is that our madmen, our assassins do spring from out present mode of life, our good old All-American way of living and dying. Christ, that we are all not outwardly raving, that's the miracle! and since we have been rather sombre here, let's end it on the light fantastic, speaking, as we are, about madness."
Alone but not lonely in a rich, dark room, filled with familiar furniture. Thinking June and July thoughts in the cold of February. Sitting in the almost dark of a quiet neighborhood (birds silent, cars parked) using time to think. Touching the buttons of the stereo like he would the spots on that lover, he used his fingers for effect, trying to bring about an emotion or coax a sound to drip around and seal the thoughts of a moment in music. Quietly sitting, he tried to move now, silently to get some water or a cigarette, no more noisily than a sleek black cat across carpeted floors, or the hum of a light in warm sedate household. Just wanting everything to be right. Manageable. Listening for a pulse, but not trying too much for fear that the rage and anxiety of the past nights would return. Barefoot across slowly creaking boards, trying to let the world sleep so that he could recite his feeling onto paper before the top began spinning again, blurring the colors and leaving those dark comfortable moments behind never again to be captured. Like a comfortable head on a down pillow, like a comfortable limp, soft cock nestled in the warm crevice of her curves. Not penetrating, not invading, just content to be there lengthwise against her. Avoiding the erection and rigidity by lying still, savoring the contact, afraid to move and change the arrangement—afraid to awaken the beasts within them both. Not wanting her to move and instigate arousal and something more complicated and writhing, something requiring more effort, more precision. Not wanting. Sunk into cool sheets, his arms draped around her torso, feeling the outlines of her plump breasts’ skin. His chest hairs tingling upon her back. His cheek sunk in to one pillow next to hers. His nose amidst the sweet but salty aroma that lingered in her long, normally clean, but now sweat-smelling hair and scalp. His breath enveloping the moment as it seeps from his lips and nostrils through the strands and around the nape of her neck, making her dream state unhurried, warm and rich, at least from outward appearances. Moving his head out of its resting place (only barely, but still a risk) to slowly take a cool, refreshing drink from a straw in a glass on a nightstand that would lend itself to the middle-of-the-night thirst of the prone, weary lovers. The ticking of the clock, unheard. The smell of their sexual oozings in the sheets. A leaf blowing across the sidewalk outside the window, scraping, paper-like as the gentle breeze moves it with the delicacy that a lonely song moves a black convertible on a moonlit, desert highway. Only less directed. That water upon his lips, past his teeth, onto his tongue to his jowls. It will all be over soon, the stillness of the night and her attention, so he tries to forget that he is immersed in time as soon as he remembers, but the now apparent clock ticks on. Soon she will shudder awake from an inevitable nightmare because she is not happy. She is not sedate. She is not able to linger, through and through. Her pleasure is flighty and on the surface, not spread out like stubborn butter on hot absorbent toast, but scattered crumpled cash next to a mound of credit-card bills. She is unable to let him sink to her core and envelope him, because she hungers form more, different beds, not those moments of detail that she sleeps through now. He understands, calling his allowance of her wandering—generosity. So, he feels his mind drift through his past to the faces of former kittens who could purrrrr in recognition of his affection, some longer than others, but would then wriggle free, finicky and unsure of their desire or his. Sometimes all it took was a touch. The CD would skip. And then, the sheets would grow cold with the heat having been removed from him and the water glass would no longer be a reservoir of relief but another liquid temperature drop toward the loneliness that apes death for those who call themselves alive. So at times like this, when he had shirked those longings for close skin and kind words, for mutual breath in unison, he would await the next encounter and promise himself that he would savor its every second, letting it trickle through leaving only memories of blonde, belly down and gentle curves disappearing into musty, moist pink darkness of delight. Dire, damp, then disappearing. He would take another sip, the last sip, and fall off to sleep with the remnants of her aroma still on his pillow. Lingering. Taunting. Like a song that never lasted long enough to relinquish real truth, its echoes fading to a quiet room, carpeted, warm, lonely, but never sufficient. Telling himself that it was part of a circle, he wanted it to be wide and expansive. Girls like her tightened it around him like a constricting boa of strangulation. “Don’t please. DON’T,” he would whisper as if gasping in his dreams, but she was gone. They were gone. Leaving only those memories, somewhat satisfying, but never forever. Cigarettes and ashes not willing to be lit again. It wasn’t a crime to play them over. Did he want more, or were they enough? Slowly rolling from horizon to treeless horizon and disappearing into thin air, wispy. Where do they go? Never mind. Here’s another. Look at it. Feel it breeze by. It will soon be no more but a filter in a tray. She will die or form a head like many bad ideas bottle up, butting against one another. Stop the wind. Pull the sheet over the head, but they will inevitable wake up and sneak out quietly through that door that you couldn’t bear to lock. For if you did, they would settle into their mold; into your mold, an no longer would they be able to seep across your pulsing heart; like piranha on heroine, towards the heart of another. So, let them slip away. Don’t bat an eye. Leaving cold sheets and hope that another comes along before the cool night overtakes the small amounts of warmth left from the last hot, coastal hint of pleasurable steam. Savor the last flickering flames before the melting wax comes back to drown you, leaving only a smoking wick and the smell of what had bee. Fire, mesmerizing, stupefying fire. And when you awake from your refreshing and piercing dreams, get up and wash your fucking sheets lest you die in the smell of that last hour. Too languid to go get a cup of coffee and hunger for another cloud.
from LICK MY SQUAGGLE NOOSE, CLAM TICK #1 reprinted in THE SUBTERRANEAN QUARTLERLY May, 1994 Brett Lars Underwood
I had a real fine time performing at the Hearding Cats Collective production DAEDALUS CACOPHONUS on Friday evening under an eerie sky in the beautiful, Old Post Office Plaza to the accompaniment of saxophonist Joe McPhee. A friend shot video of it, which you can see here. Laurent Torno III was there with a much better camera than the Canon Powershot that my friend used for this video. I hope to see his footage soon. See the script below.
READY FOR LIFT OFF
Crawl outta your skin and grow wings, Kid Crawl outta your skin and grow wings
Crawl outta your skin and grow wings, Kid Crawl outta your skin and grow wings
Crawl outta your skin and grow wings, Kid Crawl outta your skin and grow wings
Take your wait off Strap your wings on Gravity is a crutch!
Gotta get away from you Cretins! Flying higher and higher
While faceless slaves feed the beast grow, slaughter, cook and serve the feast
sew the walkabout threads stripped from wheels spin willy-nilly wobbly heels shuffle feet scuttle butt talking the talk walking the walk clod-kickin’ nomads riddling clichés in piecemeal-economic class majority of days knotting and tangling screaming and steaming angels falling in teams coaxing hope from men and children suffering guilt and schemes
for flavored vodka to put out the flames.
Faceless in frenzied crowds not their piglets for a tit sweet silk web of perks splinters in their lips
it’s a wooden cow eating the genius grass of now leisurely-gone-mechanical madness habit horses clip-clopping through the sky, hot on the trail of a giant carrot, bobbing on the end of a string tied to a stick unseen. Burning spear becomes the sun.
Sorry. Pardon me. Sodomy crying in reality steeping in normality buttheads are bound to butt heads that buy shit, bite shits bytes hit and heights hit won’t give the satisfaction of the real tail hit.
You chop down peasant trees if you can’t get no pleasantries,
You a pissant? Pissed-off, beaten-down? Disinegratefully muttering, “Icarus is sick of us clowns”
and the sin of Pomegranate Sultans of Homer Keeping her down under while up top behemoth violent women with bushels and bushels of rags and frenetic mongrels dropped from hot snatches to scamper about floors of life ‘cause they were lonely. Heel scream bitch moan
retort cranked to 9
The locked-down boom box blares soft-rock soma static statistician death equation of chaos avoidance.
See its nonsense?
Others anguish? sitting in the John Wilkes Booth with the Donner Party
Sorry utters ranting of wishwash blather of too much peroxide silicone and the glide and the kind of salvation they sell on late-night television. faces cracked and exploding, but you tip a little extra so the waitress can shoot it between her toes tonight.
Gotta get high tonight Outta sight Set a course for the midnight light Window-pained souls squeegee a play of rage turn to stone in its chemical cage jaws yawning uncertainty future doom cult in dreads circle spirits their wagons around teepees
snap and rage against bludgeoning the right clothes tumble in the drier thoughts fall in sync
Scattered and disconnected, but all feeling the same heat.
STOP THE CAR! I’M GETTING’ OUT I CAN’T TAKE IT! Hey look out There’s somebody comin’ And there’s nothing you can do about it!!!!
That’s ok He ain’t got long to go! So we’ll forgive him.
Something spontaneous Possibly dangerous Something precarious Probably not legal Something fun Eventually lethal But we probably won’t be out That long.
Ride it on a glide like that Let it prove its groove Slow down ancient mellow day And play it to the moon
And now we hurtle through the stars The President says we goin’ to Mars! Just to get away from this rubbish heap! Flying higher and higher Until we drown in melted glaciers. …another failed attempt at escape from Cretins and their addiction to the glug glug.
Crawl out of your skin takes time Crawl out of your skin takes time
Crawl out of your skin takes time Crawl out of your skin takes time
Crawl outta your skin and grow wings, Kid Crawl outta your skin and grow wings
Crawl outta your skin and grow wings, Kid Crawl outta your skin and grow wings
Crawl outta your skin and grow wings, Kid Crawl outta your skin and grow wings
Brett Lars Underwood, 2010
The chants at beginning and end can be attributed to the late, great Welsh band, Mclusky, and their song ICARUS IS SICK OF US.
Would that I were the performer that they are/were.
I have never met the man, but I have spent many "religious" moments at the late, great Bohemian National Home and I know the magic ideology of the forgotten parts of the world...Detroit being one of those places.
Spend some time listening to him:
...are there any words you have for would-be revolutionaries?
"Well, yeah: Figure out what you wanna do and then figure out how to do it...and then get some people who wanna do the same thing and look at it the same way. You just have to do things...there's no formula; there's no template."
"He's got a lot of irons in the fire", she whispered, several feet away from the bar not knowing that he hears everything.
Everything!
It is quite maddening sometimes. Or atleast it used to be. Now he can weave mariachi with chainsaws; bowed cymbals with bees buzzing; bird calls with babbling seamen and jingling trinkets.
He doesn't mind at all, you see.
It just the music of his city.
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