Tuesday, 19 August 2014

Exit IV

Back pack, and the lambs on cold
cut fries and home-made dice
with little smilin teeth bursting through
dirt up to sun
and we back pan the cars, so we've been told
I die, everytime
and I burst in through front-door back
and I whistel blow all train to stop
and the core in my mouth-filled sweat
in the wet napkin dregs
and the cotton stand, and cold fucked smiles
in the stands, and shoe shine stores
and the washing machines and the old departments
and the fire truck man, with his hung out grease
and the just before tomorrows meat
in slick whining breath
and the bread, it fell on my head
to be devoured by Scorpions
as they play magic harmonies, to their fellow
vultures in yesterdays skies
it falls down too perfectly, and too unbeknownst
to the god within, as he plays black-jack and gin
with your sisters, and their wives
through the polkadot tables
untuned the granite village
the army it was too tight, to verse what could have been, and who to be first

Wanna share insanity in a cold-cut spiral tea-cup as cyanide pours in your brain matter
to mix with the bitches grins, and the grits in the teeth pittin up against Hell on Earth
bring all to clock glowing spins
and the third (rotation) always wins
but it was all butterfly after hours
and late night back rooms, where the poets speak to their own fucking lonesome death
and the spark plugs attach to her goddam hair, to pin it to roof
and fuck off with spitting fits, to ground to call the greaseball, by his name
the true cocksucker, the man with golden eyes
the wind is in mind, between the growing fields
to smash the glasses of liberty and honor
to fold under preasure and reassure that all is well if it started the same way
as her hair continues to fry on the back burner of her ashtray mind and cold
coffee burnt to the roof of her mouth, it frizzles and ticks the eyes brow
and pink ribbons and red stocking lace to the ultimate 'outta my fucking house'
as the hammer pins drop on time, every time
to the left great back stabbers and their lake testing Falkner
in the weatherballoon over Dallas, as she sings hyms
of when her eyes were Blue, but now so sour, so darkened and awful
pitched soul, like a tent as it pulls in the deep and rubbed over in your '64 chevy prince
it fell beneath the waves, and we looked to the ripples as we felt the life drain from our lives and exit into the spaces it had at one point in time, only to return to a similar car and a similar city, in 15 months, as the record tune-dial spins back around and calls you on the phone, to hang up over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over again and again and again and again and again and again as the wheels the car stop table and the Earth crash to burn in comet split pipes the splinter in the fucking mouth the teeth the grating of gnashing the winged devils the horsemen and the shark whales and yester fucking shores the ravaged fire and scorched goddam earth as the sky falls and the little chicken ain't lieing it's all over as it falls to the pits and the pits are there only to bring back Sheol and what we knew of it in youth, as we searched that little black book for answers of death and we return again to ask the same questions again, we once did before, stick a label called philosophy, called art and bullshit and the 'who knows' and 'whats been done?' but we fall beneath the collapse of the Universe as it folds in on our little feeble weasel minds, but we can sit in the '64 chevy prince, one final time, radio plays static, and we watch it end.

Monday, 18 August 2014

Ode to a Friend/Goodbye Lou Reed

"Welcome" a smirk, cock back hammer
flash drack the trigger through
with Silver Bullet entailing
through Me from You
"Welcome to the Club of Broken Hearts"
It was love through first sight, but it was more idea
with back stance layers of eyes
and the lies beneath your skies
in grey-cut thunder
Used to want that,
we all do,
the lovers on the lam
but I've seen the Badlands
and it bored me to tears,
I'd rather be home

They could shock your balding head
and your crooked smile, the teeth
and your frozen visor gaze
and paint you on a soup can
and it'd be alright to me
when you came by that night
for the good times of talking
and shooting stars
I used to think, used to think it'd scar
but healing was on the way,
and healing is everywhere
and look at you now, to the braver bolds
it wasn't gonna work, so sweet
and the subway could take my mind
as I'd laugh my insanity
and fuck it, feel it if I wanted
but it wasn't so much better
it's certainly not worse
but it's different
that's all.

I just remember I heard the news
of your demise, it was in the paper
it was on my coffee mug
it was in my mirror
it was in my pale blue eyes
and you still would come by in the rain
or I would to you
as it became the same, and quite ordinary
who needs fireworks anyway?
fireworks are Man's work of Crazy Rainbow
But it is goodbye you want
and it's goodbye you'll get
it's all good, and to be honest
it wasn't a drag, but it coulda been
so have a good one, in the winter plain
I hope it's cool, I hope the pain ain't 'round
It's funny though, you said goodbye with a smile,
and that's just how it is
when you're 25 years old,
you're thinking death is around the corner
in the dollar store, in the fuckin mall
and maybe life is best fast, in dirt deep
but you held your ass up
and you kept pickin' and thinkin'
who would've thought liver disease, be the death of you
how boring is that?

And winter did set, suppose it hovered over
our lives, when met in the slick-street vet
while the circus climbers, and their circus wheelers
laugh and stare, those in the sun
smoking up, and havin' time o' mine
the coffee tasted right
the coffee tasted good
you're eyes were tight, yeah, they were alright
and I'd follow the mood, didn't make to be rude
and flat top hollers
and lawn chair stairs
drawing in the sand
and passing over the kitchen floor
but it was me who was asked to find the door
and I'd walk, and I'd meet yah any time when you beemed through
with your guitar laced brains



I remember the news, it's been awhile, already
thought the dog up and died
Hit me, for first time
your electric guitar
and half gazed-smile
and covered eyes
It was dark
it was inspiring, and cold
I don't mind anymore
I don't mind that you left me
left me all alone
I've found myself some company
I don't mind being alone
one's enough company
I was angry you showed your face
that morning, when it all but blew
I was in mourning
I was in mourning
I'm unsure if you knew
and you, wearing skeleton suit
of a dead-pan man, who hated your soul
it was getting cold
my heart grew old, overnight
when I didn't sleep
my mind aged, and
I forgot what it meant to love, because
it was more the idea
but you're around
in the air I breathe
you're around in the cool sea breeze
and the leaves on the tree
the Sun and the Moon
the stars, the clouds
flashy sports cars
the dust beneath
and the cleanliness
you whisper the wind
and I'm home
and Lou, I love you, man

While I may never see you again
I can justifiably say
with all of tomorrows parties considered
it was fun while it lasted.

Wednesday, 13 August 2014

transmissions of a robot

----
-------
tick tick tick
the message reads, fore those who do the deeds, plant
the seeds for the tree in ground, on Space Station VI
as it forms to the base-root/and set the course
to our distant Suns, and the children of tomorrow
as they rustle the leaves
and rake up grass/it all looks so intuitive
and reckless, in this Cognac cup

[listen, Mr. Sam, listen.
You may not know, you may not know
you may not take the bow down route
you may not take the bow down lousy mouse]

.............Way to New Hell Cite
and the cafe in shop/car in drop chop
.............Way to New Heaven Door
the more you know/less in mind
//less in mind//
less in mind--

EXO-GENERATE-0007253301.2
Air: Plausible
Vacuum Space: Inevitable

We are cleared to land, EG00, cleared to land. Landing gear is
set. Landing gear is funneling through. Langley spoke on telephone
get your ass to London, get back before
---
---
end.

Jesse Brown: Officer Third Nation
Relations Officer to Mektek 4
Transmission
-------------------------------------------
Received received received
word
that Mektek 4, may not appreciate bribery and inopportune opportunity
May not
last
May not
continue in relations on Vic and Hermel, may discontinue
transmission toward Grey Neighbors, and cease and distress
may be in our backyards now, may be
---
---
end.

Tuesday, 12 August 2014

clouds and letters

Welcome back, I'll liken the vase
put to me straight, but don't over turn the
half spiken veil, and the spaken haze-y fast foreward station
take it off the shelf, off the
off the fucking shelf!
take that book, lay down FLAT STAND
and Hell bent on revenge
Hell bent on love
but it doesn't matter what the kitchen fridge thought
it fit like a glove
we open the door of perfect circle
we /slash dance/ to the backward weight
upon my shoulder (The break, the lake)
Have a good time, have a happy smile
stand in the line, before ya walk the mile
fuck a barrel of dove gloves
and jettison off with Jefferson Airplane

So, this cloud, this cloud came down
from heaven, it spoke in foreign tongue, in foreign exchange
she say to me "Meilleur durer les moyens, prendre une cigarette et
mettre votre cerveau sur vide
"
I didn't know, so I walked bend down
picked up my rum
and scraped my head open with telephone pole
up the darts
and out the second hand hearts
hand me downs
and Guzzel the Bell
would jest and joke, would look to stroke
below waves and yesterdays aids
injest some vicodin
grope the hammer felt/swing down
and the tire it trees, the bee's knees

A WORD FROM OUR RELATIVES

Dear Dead,

I am concerned, for you, yours and all that has. Please pick up a telephone and look in my hall, some day. It won't hurt, just be a little sting. And please, don't book me anymore flights to China. We're taking a goddam slow boat, and that's all there is to it. I think I left my dog over there... let him out, feed him... Please, just, fucking let him know someone loves him. He's a goddam dog, but he needs love.

To your father, tell him I never missed him, not a day in my time away. Tell him it doesn't matter how much hash he does, I don't want him to piss on my lawn anymore. He can go to Hell, with the helicopters he keeps on about.

To my son, my daughter. You guys are picture frames. You become whatever I put in you, and I'm happy to say I put the right stuff in there. Moving along well, and saying 'No' to having a job. You guys wreak more havoc than I ever did. Join a band, make a pass stance.

To the Metaphysical. Thank you for me. Thank you for you. Thank you for the sea. And thanks I grew.

We're growing old, in appearance, but we're just a bunch of kids. Excited to wake up and greet the dawn... I remember... I woke up, before the sun, for the first time. And it made me so fucking sad, I had to stay for the whole thing. Watch it, before school. Feel the tears... I don't know what that's all about, but I'll carry it with me.

With much love & gratitude,
yours.

Thursday, 7 August 2014

Speak to my Transit Desires

The light flak spark in an after hall'd dark room, develop feeling, through ink and water. Remember the caller, as a soft voice over lines. yesterday's dead, and tomorrow's stuck in labor, with the Sun looking down, tear covered eyes, the clouds rolling in, to softly conceal you lies, is the darkened world of fire work flair. Come on down, to the evening fair, if dared. Rock yourself to dreams, and snap yourself sober. Catch the planes, to the lake they fly over. The cow eats a spoon, and jumps over the:
coat tail rack
the hammer
the jive bunny
jitterbug, ain't it funny
when the lines equate code
and the dimes change are cold
like me and my aching heart
Was there a rain, was there a reason, for the long handed stares, and the closeness, was it treason? To open up your mind, and make your mouth like snails, I never had a boat, never learned to sail, but if you were in prison, I might catch your bail, but it'd have to lump sum, some coffee through your veil, and locked in the box, made into mail, you never knew Gilligan didn't know McHale, like a rat and a sponge, we found ourselves rail, up to the heavens, and a down to Earth fail, that picks up your feathers stuck to your tail, and sort out to see, the Moby Dick, the whale, that speaks unto me, there is no more Gail, or lumped cotton tea, or biscuts for sale, as the morning can be so cold, so stale, but it can only really be an old forgotten tale, that mix it and flee the bastards named Dale, and the lock and the key are all but derailed, at the station with me, it doesn't mean much, except the rocket jet plane, crashed into the dust, I thought there was rain, but there was no reason, fore long handed stares, and the closeness was treason.

Wednesday, 6 August 2014

Trivial Meanderings

All is nothing, All is not Lost.
Nothing means anything, because everything means something.


There are unlimited trivializations in life, with life being, in and of itself, one of them.
Wake up, get dressed, drink some god damn coffee.
Our entire existence can be summed up in the fact that by all tangible means to the Universe, we do not exist. We are less than nothing, in such vast space. The only way we do exist, is that we witness the body we inhabit. Other than that: Dust particles.
We comb our hair, brush our teeth and smoke a pack of fucking cigarettes.
We write words no one will read,
compose music no one will hear,
and make films no one will watch.

We hope our memory lives on, but it doesn't. It can't, because we are the only ones that it'd make a difference to, in the first place.

But contrary to popular belief, and "sometimes a cigar, is just a cigar", we look to Trivialism to define meaning and worth. We call it philosophy, artistry, and living a full life. Looking to the stars, we feel a part of something, and looking in the mirror, we feel we are something. I once found God, by looking out the window, and seeing clouds. Simply because I needed a reason to believe. But of course God exists. And of course God doesn't exist. There is Everything. There is Nothing. We get out of the world, whatever we put in, and like to think we know, when it's all just shooting the breeze. We're on a train, and it never stops, but we've reached the destination long ago. Either we wade, or we enter the forest.

We try and find a reason to live. How could we find a reason to live? There's nothing after, so just up and die? There is eternal life, same still: Up and die.
Why would we ever try and make the world a better place? After we're gone, what the Hell is the point? We'd all hope there's something more, and there is, just like there isn't. That's the whole point, to bullshit our way through it, and hope there's something else, because if there isn't, we'd send a big "Fuck You" to future generations. But, no, we are plagued with thought, and so we unwind the clock, and try to find how the gears work. Rather than simply watching it tick.

Perhaps as hopelessness brings comfort, fore there is nothing left, and no reason to try. Meaninglessness puts us back in the Kings Court and Land of Interpretive Poets, leaving you room to make mistakes, that don't amount to anything, and fill in the blanks with your own ill-fated ideas, before you return to the True Dust, and vanish.

Monday, 28 July 2014

Tuesday Nights & Wednsday Mornings

She falls in love with dishonest machinery
it's so safe and free
but no sage, no visions
will give 'er what she needs

The quiet clocks of Party Town
have all gone to bed
I always wander, look around
but, everything seems so dead

It doesn't matter, the hurt you had
she hates you like a son
it's never good, never bad
I hope you're having fun

Now, been a week or so
there wasn't any warning
when you said it was time to go
from Tuesday night to Wednesday morning

I remember she said she'd been sober
and it's how she likes to feel
but different turnings and it was over
I guess it all seemed too real

I wish I knew her in the 90s
or when she smoked
it don't matter, thank you kindly
now I wish that we still spoke

and the hermits in the cellar
and the indians in the cupboard
it was about Helen Keller
and the people in an uproar

So please, make like the wind
and go
I never knew it was a sin
a sin, just to know

The exit to this highway
leaves me high and soaring
I'd hope to do it my way
for a Tuesday night and Wednesday morning

We didn't speak in over a year
when she was brought out in the rain
she made sure not to stand too near
but thought not of your pain

The star my drains
in late september
she'd tell I'm insane
but I was just being honest

When the lights dim
the black eyes stare
and it's out in Texas
but it's not as if you care

The seldom walls are glowing
they mix a bag of hats
and the juggler, he sits
in a pile of dead rats

The savees are so peaceful
and the dawn is awful
but please, hold on the longings
for Tuesday nights and Wednesday mornings

Perhaps silence can over-take
on the porch to watch death-lightning
making love through sign language
and wonder where we were

and when the lighting does strike
I want to crawl in your bed
never really works
maybe something I said

and your life, it's on standby
through the halls you cry
if there ever was a man who knew
I'm sure you'd take his side

But I am aimless
an incompetent bastard
your dreggs are shameless
and I want your eyes to hide
ask me the time
ask me my name
for my father, I am mourning
this Tuesday night and Wednesday morning

I found Patti, like I found God
in a book of naked pictures
inside the Apartment of Rob
and, still, she's singing and cold

I never knew, or could tell
the lighthouse watchers, and I
are headed to Hell
please take with you
the light parade
and a raft for weathered water
I can't take time
I can't see
but pour it down, coke and rye

I always wanted someone
be depressed as me
but the light hounds are singing
"Who then, did he see?"
and the mind is dumb
but it eats away

Talked to Elston Gunnn today
he's pissed I stole his song
at least it's not the title
now that, would just be wrong

Same goes for Zimmerman
watch him suck the cigarette
mutter "God, you're gettin' horny
and your mouth gettin' thin"

When it came time for Dylan
He just hid beneath his glass
and smiled with cohesion, and malice
that His death would be solemn,
and his death would be right
if he died in the obituary column
it would move him to tears
now he says with a smirk
"Listen to me,
you come by again
I'll kill ya without warning
a Tuesday night or Wednesday morning."