Saturday, 20 September 2014

Past Time Pastes My Forehead

around the campfire
so close to radio memories
it's all so funny
but it doesn't want
in the after dusk
it's a jitter bug night
and the messages from break
that don't always make
sense as they bring up life
we exist
that sits in a popper
while the flowers wilt and burn
and it doesn't quite half wit
perhaps to the outside world
in the dust and they lose
their minds in a half-guage apple pie
but the year is a fright
to the telephone pole that the gypsies gaze
the popper brings an eye
but not really, because
and it glue stix the card huts
it doesn't need
we are reflections in the television monitor
and tell those stories again
and the 50s happen to follow
and blow into space
it all can crash my mind if it wants
it's sand paper, baby, it's simple like sand paper
and the later half of it
it's all so cheery
that flying spinner
and tell stories about their laughing wolves
I saw so many eyes

one more for the road
as the great divide
and the stories they also told
the grasshoppers rise
and the king k rools
because when a circus is here
but the hatchers hate
it don't bring much to exemplify
but its cool, to be a fool
stole your eyes and set it to plane
the clowns all go home
and the grandparents knit
to the mirror and their hated other halfs
the granite always brings
it brings much more to lost
and put on their frowny makeup and weep
as it flickers and dances with the elves
and the scorpions bite
when the embers cool
escaped to dusk
and the blue jeans all hop
the gymnasium sits at my house
the frogs love
as the people we were all jest
in the countryside, we found the banana horde

Wednesday, 17 September 2014

She's All My Major Vices

I awaken from my slumber
with my arms wrapped around her
and she’s a cold hearted demon
pulling back, when you lean in
I’d go wherever
just to be beside her
but she’s all my major vices
blown out brain with her niceness
she got me hooked on nicotine
making sure I’m never sober
she fills my blood with acid
and I hate the smell of plastic
my mouth is filled with ashes
she’s cool, and sarcastic
but it doesn’t even matter
be a fool, try and have her

It seems like no problem
it’s the sign in a column
I lost my job
lost my dog
on the train
the morning fog
but it doesn’t even matter
be a fool, try and have her

She makes me feel ashamed
make me sick
make me lame
I vomit her hair
and catch that glare
she hates me to no end
and I hate the way she bends
with her blocked off eyes
I’ll be happy when I die
lower down, never cry

Yeah, she’s a cold hearted demon
never prays, she’s a heathen
sacrifice straight to Satan
pulling back, when you lean in
and she’ll burn you at the stake
and she’ll drown you in the lake
when she smiles, it’s always fake
listen to her breathing
feel her pulse, always fleeting
sighing soft, all so sweetly
always laughs while she’s dreaming
and awakens from her slumber
different city
different number
and she can’t take the time to care
and the car always crashes
and she always plays with matches

When the sun falls out
hope to God she leaves
if she stays
it’s always for days
and you claw at mind
and she got you in the bind
but it doesn’t even matter
be a fool, try and have her
when there’s places that you’d rather
never talk, never bother
resist the urge to call her
make you sad, make you crazy
make you mad, make you lazy

And she’s all my major vices
and it doesn’t even matter

Tuesday, 16 September 2014

Went Down 34th Street

The lamp shade, bit-tip the lip, that sips a cup of molten lava. Rock on through exteriole wave, and verify the existence of pulse. Granite. Charcoal. Mix-limousine your left eye is fucked. It twitch twitch twitch, the lambat. Heathen, Heather, "Tell me, how's the weather?"

So on this corner, in mid September, as the echoes of emission, the souls fleet through the down below streets, in soft harmony. The rain bats, and the leaves turn. And they do turn. Flop down, fish and catch. How bout that record spinner, and it's scratches? I know that 34th Street is nice, this time of year, as the people return to their roofs to overlook the old picture shows, and the mice and rats, and the dancers of rain. Tell me quick, if things quite the same. The watchtower fell, and the dissents. Disidents.
Don't mark-break the limp lands, but the barren sky and the split tamborine cherries in the cloudy mist.

I made my way to Pretty Flamingos, and talked with Two-Grass Jon and Fifty-List Sally, and they drop jaw shut, Jon say
as Sally speak of "What is this sweep? Chimney, cha roo, achoo, to you and you and you"
the curtains called, the curtains fell, but the tick tack, and the rock and roll music died, in a crash-boom-bang, in below the waves.

We are ghosts. We always were, and we tell ghost stories, and fear aliens, but it is all us, and nothing exterior of mind, so that for once in our life, we can look at ourselves, dead-set eye-gaze in the mirror, and not fear whom is looking back. As when you look away from your own eyes, and return to that dead-lock, you realize the mirror self does not sway, to never look away, it's constant. It's so constant, and so you musn't break the look, the glass walls, it must be a out-last until that bastard on the other side gets up and leaves. But nobody leaves. Nobody stays. It's a fun-house, and we, the carnival seekers, and the dream-light in the summers glow night, and the masters of terror, and the singers of joyous wonder, and the men behind sun glass, and the women too, and all them without, and all those with, and the ship is christened at dawn, as it's always a fear to say goodbye in passing, to any sort of addiction, and realize it was the final straw, and not have any big deal been made, to make all that built up spine, and the funnel in he desk, all crash into a mix of passer-bys, and it was all goin' there, but no moment any more to mark the days on the wall by, in our made up calenders, because where we exist, there is no time, no day, no night, only the everlasting simple conclusion that we are a dust partical in a vaccum that keeps going, forever and will never need to bring it'self back to the plant, planet, the robot cabinet, and the cleaners, the dreamers, the light city schemers, with their chariot and their hoze nose, and the hob nob gobble gobble the eggs weggs, the jibber jabber, the helter skelter that brings it half way down to a pixy spell cast on those that once existed, but always do, through song and dance, and mimes, and the times we used to look in distance, and shooting star, with the top down car, and radio fled, on the train as we all swirl round and round and end up in the same area, or another, at the same point the pin point light, it drops and it jests at you, but remember, it wasnt this, or that, everything is nothing and nothing is everything. we continue, we fall on down, and swirl, but we could never have once dreamt to clear, a day, where the cold is welcomed.

Saturday, 13 September 2014

it all goes on

Because the outer-gained shitheads unite
it's 1991, am I feelin alright
with the spool in my brow and the
fall down stair in a plexy
Tex Ritches meets me half way
in a sewer fan as falled
to wander without any direction in miserable
Loser-Ville, USA
to out stretch the maker in a dual of thumbs
we pro-wrestlers, we know how to fall
don't hog the chips, don't eat em all
because, if you recall, the cow eats desert, and exits down hall
of a out bound, basketball of catch and stare
don't look to me, do not look to repair
the fence was all bent on it's turn
and the count speaks as math exit and RETURN
The -- yes and -- otherwise, inbetween
halfway hell
got in that damn car and drove to the shit sands
and the fishing hole, of lesser man
we can't react to the draft bats
in a half-hammer-down mexican subway
it was in those little nooks, where I suddenly found how the
city was layed all out, and about, it was always a jumble jungle
jenga table bitches
but it all started in on maps and form through seas and the
man who asks, is the same who receives
but I talked to Louie, and his Martian hat
I talked to bubble buddy, and his orange toque
as he sat in cold, and complaint
all over mexican border
where he once blong and ask for the effect of a latter day saint
I was in that town. Did it sound to me? Or I to it?
Well, fuck, it's all down through the gutter
and mixed on my face, to face the man to take his
last breath and speak it to the world
share his dieing visions
share them, because they are fleeting,
like all of us
and gone
I was here in the morning
but I'm already far down the road
and I ain't lookin back to that little shed
in the desert of the sweet demise, I once held dear
tell me, dear, why the hell would I?

Thursday, 4 September 2014


You're my cigar store
Indian Chevy/Route '66
Coller tipped leather
Cheap turkey breath with
lipstained sausage
and the outer edge all cut / dried
through the limousine service and
the tail coat caught
in a rain storm flash
and the hot table buttons
Hot topic running Major
and the hard liquor eyes
in a hammer-danced focus
the grease heaven lash in beat the last ash-trays fast
gone limp, through left
half rain and salt water medications
and the healing illuminance of midnight summer frustrations
in a cold pull over and sweaty scarf
scoff on mint and garbage light your hair to dusk
in the half and full of a grunting puppy eye
and the fallen soldiers with ripped flea stature
in a gather of derailed habberdash in fishing the mast to
our ever hostile munti-pit flairs and the thick butter bat
down in jar and lit to flame to blast out right through 23
and a third too fast as the cast arrow stones and
car top down, bumpy road ticks in a service chicken roasting
on grass as pump filled limpnits gather out and in
gat load out, in the summers after-oven left over crates of the southern melting

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.