The heart beats
Beats
Beats
Stops…
Blackness comes down like snow.
A bitter tasted in the mouth.
The heart beats.
Beats
Stops
Beats…
A wave of cold.
Then understanding.
All fades to white, then disappears.
The heart stops
Beats
Wavers
Humans evolve from monkeys, anger from misunderstanding.
Highways twist through concrete membrane.
Hard worms, asphalt and white lines.
The heart stops
Beats
Beats
Her toes tingle, she giggles, like a feather on a wave.
The heart stops
Beats
Meditates
His voice is low, his eyes occupied.
The heart beats
Stops
Ignites
Two strangers touch on accident, sparks spray as witness.
Tongues collide, minds swim, her lips bleed.
Touching, touching, touching
The heart mesmerizes
Beats
Stops
Begins
Ends
Walls of stone, cracks behind bookshelves.
Words are lost.
The heart beats
Fingersclawat…skin…teeth tear atnipplesandbacksarchand bodies….quiver with each…touch. Lips burntokissan…dsweat slides betweenbodies. The cool
Air
Softens
Dances across shoulder blades and taught thighs
The heart beats
Faster
Faster
A kaleidoscopic explosion.
Breathing quickens
Stops
The heart stammers
Forgets
Stops
She collapses and and he pants
Wipes sweat
The heart beats
Beats
Linger…s.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Electioneering by Radiohead
The marble man
Is exquisite,
Perfectly defined
Features for all
To see,
Yet in his sheer
Resplendence
He is ultimately
Much too fond
Of his pedestal.
I confessed to my friend
That I was scared of being
Burned alive,
She told me that the flames
Would eventually melt
My nervous system away
And kill the pain receptors
In my brain.
I was strangely
Comforted by this.
The glassy man
Is unable
To hide anything
From any of his
Followers,
But like bottle glass
Does not
Conceal things
Merely
Distorts them.
I confessed to my friend
That I was scared of the violence
In our world,
She told me that violence only
Breeds more violence
And that we had been
Breeding violence
For thousands of years.
I knew then to abandon
All hope.
The rubber man
Can stretch
His limbs over
Thousands
Of miles,
But because of this
Flexibility
He ultimately
Stretches himself
Too thin.
I confessed to my friend
That I thought this is where
The world ends,
She told me that we were
Egomaniacal to think that we
Could end the world,
And were merely there
To sweep it clean.
I felt then that I knew
Where the truth lay.
Human destiny
Scrawled inside
The chromium chassis
Of the warhead.
Is exquisite,
Perfectly defined
Features for all
To see,
Yet in his sheer
Resplendence
He is ultimately
Much too fond
Of his pedestal.
I confessed to my friend
That I was scared of being
Burned alive,
She told me that the flames
Would eventually melt
My nervous system away
And kill the pain receptors
In my brain.
I was strangely
Comforted by this.
The glassy man
Is unable
To hide anything
From any of his
Followers,
But like bottle glass
Does not
Conceal things
Merely
Distorts them.
I confessed to my friend
That I was scared of the violence
In our world,
She told me that violence only
Breeds more violence
And that we had been
Breeding violence
For thousands of years.
I knew then to abandon
All hope.
The rubber man
Can stretch
His limbs over
Thousands
Of miles,
But because of this
Flexibility
He ultimately
Stretches himself
Too thin.
I confessed to my friend
That I thought this is where
The world ends,
She told me that we were
Egomaniacal to think that we
Could end the world,
And were merely there
To sweep it clean.
I felt then that I knew
Where the truth lay.
Human destiny
Scrawled inside
The chromium chassis
Of the warhead.
Fitter, Happier, More Productive by Radiohead
Please don’t kill my babies,
Death in a mixing machine of glass and cement.
I will feed them stewed apples and braised beef
From a can, in secured highchairs.
Won’t wake every night thinking of little bodies
Floating face down in a heated pool.
On the way to wholesome family activities,
In luxury German cars, I will strap them into
Ergonomic seats, and stick to the speed limit,
Taking every turn with the upmost care.
Won’t have them crying while they watch their
Father bash another driver’s head into a fire hydrant.
Please don’t take away my livelihood,
Poor homeless alcoholic in piss stained pants.
I filled out the self-evaluation and wrote that
I am...a hard worker, who will...try harder next quarter.
My goal is...to create a better working environment.
If I don’t succeed I will...review my five point plan.
Did not feel the need to mention that I sit at my desk
All day staring at my secretary and dreaming about her cunt.
My stapler, like a pair of metal fangs, sinking into her soft, white thighs.
On my scheduled coffee and meal breaks I masturbate in a toilet stall over her.
Ten minutes. Half an hour. Straighten tie. Back to my desk.
My desperate orgasms do not cost the company money.
Please don’t destroy everything I worked for,
Pathetic single man eating day old Indian food in his bathrobe.
I smiled as we placed the crayfish into the pot and boiled them alive,
Then helped little Evelyn break open the shell and get to the white meat inside.
Was not myself when I followed my secretary home, went through her garbage,
And masturbated with her used pantyhose over my head.
We’ll talk about our relationship in an air-conditioned office,
With a non-judgemental third party who did her dissertation at Oxford.
She can tell me that I’m craving a mother figure and I will agree with her
If we can go back to having lights out, missionary position sex once a week.
I have to masturbate to get through the day, but my secretary will be transferred
To someone who respects her privacy and I’ll stop punching myself in the balls to heighten my orgasms, it’s making me ejaculate blood anyway...
I am...a dedicated husband and father (taking the children to soccer practise, cheering them on, not hurting the other parents, smiling watching the crayfish boil).
Who will...strive to secure my family’s happiness (leaving little notes in her Louis Vitton to let her know I care, striking the children only on the buttocks and never in the stomach or across the head, wiping my semen off the bathroom mirror).
My goal is...to be as fit and happy and productive as I can possibly be (exercising daily with cherished family pet, relegating fast food intake to after soccer on Saturdays, fulfilling all monthly quotas, regularly checking testicles for abnormal lumps or swellings).
If I don’t succeed I will... (no, do not hurt the other parents, do not threaten co-workers, do not take it out on cherished family pet)... Review five point plan and re-evaluate... (leave gun in drawer in case of prowler)...
When in a state of weakness
I remind myself
That there is another place.
Past my gold watch for twenty years service,
Past kid’s college graduation,
Past peaceful twilight retirement village,
A place where I can do what I want
And be with who I want to be with all the time.
There is a place
Other than this.
Isn’t there?
Death in a mixing machine of glass and cement.
I will feed them stewed apples and braised beef
From a can, in secured highchairs.
Won’t wake every night thinking of little bodies
Floating face down in a heated pool.
On the way to wholesome family activities,
In luxury German cars, I will strap them into
Ergonomic seats, and stick to the speed limit,
Taking every turn with the upmost care.
Won’t have them crying while they watch their
Father bash another driver’s head into a fire hydrant.
Please don’t take away my livelihood,
Poor homeless alcoholic in piss stained pants.
I filled out the self-evaluation and wrote that
I am...a hard worker, who will...try harder next quarter.
My goal is...to create a better working environment.
If I don’t succeed I will...review my five point plan.
Did not feel the need to mention that I sit at my desk
All day staring at my secretary and dreaming about her cunt.
My stapler, like a pair of metal fangs, sinking into her soft, white thighs.
On my scheduled coffee and meal breaks I masturbate in a toilet stall over her.
Ten minutes. Half an hour. Straighten tie. Back to my desk.
My desperate orgasms do not cost the company money.
Please don’t destroy everything I worked for,
Pathetic single man eating day old Indian food in his bathrobe.
I smiled as we placed the crayfish into the pot and boiled them alive,
Then helped little Evelyn break open the shell and get to the white meat inside.
Was not myself when I followed my secretary home, went through her garbage,
And masturbated with her used pantyhose over my head.
We’ll talk about our relationship in an air-conditioned office,
With a non-judgemental third party who did her dissertation at Oxford.
She can tell me that I’m craving a mother figure and I will agree with her
If we can go back to having lights out, missionary position sex once a week.
I have to masturbate to get through the day, but my secretary will be transferred
To someone who respects her privacy and I’ll stop punching myself in the balls to heighten my orgasms, it’s making me ejaculate blood anyway...
I am...a dedicated husband and father (taking the children to soccer practise, cheering them on, not hurting the other parents, smiling watching the crayfish boil).
Who will...strive to secure my family’s happiness (leaving little notes in her Louis Vitton to let her know I care, striking the children only on the buttocks and never in the stomach or across the head, wiping my semen off the bathroom mirror).
My goal is...to be as fit and happy and productive as I can possibly be (exercising daily with cherished family pet, relegating fast food intake to after soccer on Saturdays, fulfilling all monthly quotas, regularly checking testicles for abnormal lumps or swellings).
If I don’t succeed I will... (no, do not hurt the other parents, do not threaten co-workers, do not take it out on cherished family pet)... Review five point plan and re-evaluate... (leave gun in drawer in case of prowler)...
When in a state of weakness
I remind myself
That there is another place.
Past my gold watch for twenty years service,
Past kid’s college graduation,
Past peaceful twilight retirement village,
A place where I can do what I want
And be with who I want to be with all the time.
There is a place
Other than this.
Isn’t there?
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Karma Police by Radiohead
Electronics speak through the walls, calling and fighting. A calamity of fuzz and static emotion bleeding into the wall paper.
I can’t take anymore.
My teeth grind through sleep, dust down my throat and shadows behind eyes.
She lies next to me, making a cat’s cradle on the ceiling, her jeans ripped, hair hiding her lips.
The lamp rattles and we hunt for cigarettes amongst the rest of the rubbish on the floor. We’ve lived happier lives, but that was then, and now there is just nothing better to do.
She turns on the backburner to light the last cigarette and says we have some party to go to.
More music, more dancing.
I can handle it, I tell her, scratching at my sleeves. It’s all good.
I feel like a ghost walking through the night streets. My back aches from emptiness, she’s light as a bird on the asphalt.
The party happens. I vomit on the floor not five minutes after our arrival.
I thought I was better.
The music thumped, heavy and hard and wet. The heat was full blast. She kissed me, my fingers ran through her hair, then I fell.
I didn’t think I could get this sick.
She carried me home, dragging me down the black path home. No more vomit, empty stomach. I could feel angel wings of shame sprout and carry my body on the slight pride I had left.
I stayed at the door, sitting on the outside steps, watching the lights blink on and off
On and off
Up and down the road. My fingers ache, my hands shake and I can’t get rid of this ill feeling. I wait for the dawn to cleanse me, here on my roost, burn away the night and leave me pure:
Leave me to give all I have for yet another day.
I can’t take anymore.
My teeth grind through sleep, dust down my throat and shadows behind eyes.
She lies next to me, making a cat’s cradle on the ceiling, her jeans ripped, hair hiding her lips.
The lamp rattles and we hunt for cigarettes amongst the rest of the rubbish on the floor. We’ve lived happier lives, but that was then, and now there is just nothing better to do.
She turns on the backburner to light the last cigarette and says we have some party to go to.
More music, more dancing.
I can handle it, I tell her, scratching at my sleeves. It’s all good.
I feel like a ghost walking through the night streets. My back aches from emptiness, she’s light as a bird on the asphalt.
The party happens. I vomit on the floor not five minutes after our arrival.
I thought I was better.
The music thumped, heavy and hard and wet. The heat was full blast. She kissed me, my fingers ran through her hair, then I fell.
I didn’t think I could get this sick.
She carried me home, dragging me down the black path home. No more vomit, empty stomach. I could feel angel wings of shame sprout and carry my body on the slight pride I had left.
I stayed at the door, sitting on the outside steps, watching the lights blink on and off
On and off
Up and down the road. My fingers ache, my hands shake and I can’t get rid of this ill feeling. I wait for the dawn to cleanse me, here on my roost, burn away the night and leave me pure:
Leave me to give all I have for yet another day.
Let Down by Radiohead
I am curled up in damp sheets,
Listening to the city's heartbeat.
When my throat cries out for water
I get up and suck from the faucet's nozzle.
Mucus binds my eyes.
I go to my computer
And sign in.
My heart flutters
With anticipation.
No new messages.
I close up the machine
And float over to the window,
Telling myself to wait at least an hour
Before checking it again.
I wash the slime of incubation from my skin,
Then dry myself with a towel that feels like a tongue.
Standing in front of the mirror
I reach around and touch my back.
The trench between my shoulders reminds me
That my spine is gone.
I am now a creature in three parts.
Always, there is three.
The father, son, and Holy Spirit.
Head, thorax, and abdomen.
I sit and stare out the window,
Hazed by the mucus from the lips of my cocoon.
The glass is silvered by a supernova on the streets below
And I glimpse myself and the inside of my womb.
Ants swarm over a hill of sugar,
So dense I imagine lifting them off like a shell.
I know that I must go out and buy the latest cleaning
products.
But I'd have to fly to beat the morning traffic.
In my dreams I soar over the city labyrinth.
But when I check my wings in the mirror
I see that they are still unformed.
Rags of skin, coated in protective mucus,
Strung along a gelatinous bone.
I lie in the shower,
Drinking the water as it streams down my face,
Wrapped in my inchoate wings.
I go to my computer
And sign in.
My heart flutters
With anticipation.
A message from you.
As white hot and precise
As the entomologist's blade.
My translucent skin and internal organs
Pour from me like melted wax.
In my womb
Wrapped in mucus
I will never develop
My world skin.
But in this maze
Of eternal traffic
How far is a pair of ragged wings
Expected to take me?
Post. Script.
The first recorded movie is of a woman in a butterfly costume being impaled by a pin. Start as you mean to finish.
Listening to the city's heartbeat.
When my throat cries out for water
I get up and suck from the faucet's nozzle.
Mucus binds my eyes.
I go to my computer
And sign in.
My heart flutters
With anticipation.
No new messages.
I close up the machine
And float over to the window,
Telling myself to wait at least an hour
Before checking it again.
I wash the slime of incubation from my skin,
Then dry myself with a towel that feels like a tongue.
Standing in front of the mirror
I reach around and touch my back.
The trench between my shoulders reminds me
That my spine is gone.
I am now a creature in three parts.
Always, there is three.
The father, son, and Holy Spirit.
Head, thorax, and abdomen.
I sit and stare out the window,
Hazed by the mucus from the lips of my cocoon.
The glass is silvered by a supernova on the streets below
And I glimpse myself and the inside of my womb.
Ants swarm over a hill of sugar,
So dense I imagine lifting them off like a shell.
I know that I must go out and buy the latest cleaning
products.
But I'd have to fly to beat the morning traffic.
In my dreams I soar over the city labyrinth.
But when I check my wings in the mirror
I see that they are still unformed.
Rags of skin, coated in protective mucus,
Strung along a gelatinous bone.
I lie in the shower,
Drinking the water as it streams down my face,
Wrapped in my inchoate wings.
I go to my computer
And sign in.
My heart flutters
With anticipation.
A message from you.
As white hot and precise
As the entomologist's blade.
My translucent skin and internal organs
Pour from me like melted wax.
In my womb
Wrapped in mucus
I will never develop
My world skin.
But in this maze
Of eternal traffic
How far is a pair of ragged wings
Expected to take me?
Post. Script.
The first recorded movie is of a woman in a butterfly costume being impaled by a pin. Start as you mean to finish.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Exit Music (For a Film) by Radiohead
The Silver Screen, like velvet, pulls away
and begins to envelope me.
It forces my mouth open and I taste...
I taste the choking of the overdosed blonde bombshells.
I taste the burning rubber and smashed steel of rebels.
I taste...
I taste the real life, as it should be lived, seen
on the Silver Screen.
The credits roll and my heart breaks.
The simulacra becomes dreams becomes reality.
Leaving reality a shoddy backdrop from before technicolor.
The Silver Screen is the mother of us all.
Our nature and nurture.
It taught us all the emotions that make us human.
Love.
Anger.
Happiness.
Hate.
The Silver Screen raises us then leaves.
Leaves our child bodies for the wolves to choke on.
and begins to envelope me.
It forces my mouth open and I taste...
I taste the choking of the overdosed blonde bombshells.
I taste the burning rubber and smashed steel of rebels.
I taste...
I taste the real life, as it should be lived, seen
on the Silver Screen.
The credits roll and my heart breaks.
The simulacra becomes dreams becomes reality.
Leaving reality a shoddy backdrop from before technicolor.
The Silver Screen is the mother of us all.
Our nature and nurture.
It taught us all the emotions that make us human.
Love.
Anger.
Happiness.
Hate.
The Silver Screen raises us then leaves.
Leaves our child bodies for the wolves to choke on.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Subterranean Homesick Alien by Radiohead
It's not so much being alone...
...it's being adrift.
Dancing with stars and creating galaxies out of supernova mindsets.
Breezes, warm, flow through hair, and feet meet the sidwalk with a sullen step.
I've cut out my spine with safety scissors and hung it next to the shower curtain.
Now I'm afraid of shadows.
But the sun comes out, warms my wounds, and I continue on my way. Looking up.
I hear the soundtrack...
...drifting aimlessly
through my mind, narrating my emotions.
My friends buzz in the silence of alarm clocks.
It's not being alone...
...it's akin to flying.
I draw energy into my stomach and greedily keep it to myself.
I don't need to share.
I don't care if I'm uptight.
Out-of-sight.
The light is for me.
At night, I sit on the toilet and read old Superman comics.
No darkness.
My spine, drying, tingling.
My nerves twitch behind my eyes, I think they are laughing.
My tongue sits on a dinner plate.
I know it's happier there.
I shave off all my hair.
My feet- I tossed them out the window.
I can't feel my legs anymore, but that makes me smile.
I cut one arm off, throw it to the neighbours dog. It squeaks between his teeth.
Birds wake up and sing to me the dawn.
I scoop out my eyes and put them safely in a glass by the sink.
I mime a dance of love for the universe, my friends, my family, strangers and kings.
I chew off my other arm- it falls onto the tile.
I imagine it makes a beautiful pattern- white on red- like a mint from a restaurant.
The world is dark.
I'm afloat in a bathtub that is slowly staining red...
I imagine.
It's not so much being alone...
...it's being free.
It's flying.
It's floating.
...it's being adrift.
Dancing with stars and creating galaxies out of supernova mindsets.
Breezes, warm, flow through hair, and feet meet the sidwalk with a sullen step.
I've cut out my spine with safety scissors and hung it next to the shower curtain.
Now I'm afraid of shadows.
But the sun comes out, warms my wounds, and I continue on my way. Looking up.
I hear the soundtrack...
...drifting aimlessly
through my mind, narrating my emotions.
My friends buzz in the silence of alarm clocks.
It's not being alone...
...it's akin to flying.
I draw energy into my stomach and greedily keep it to myself.
I don't need to share.
I don't care if I'm uptight.
Out-of-sight.
The light is for me.
At night, I sit on the toilet and read old Superman comics.
No darkness.
My spine, drying, tingling.
My nerves twitch behind my eyes, I think they are laughing.
My tongue sits on a dinner plate.
I know it's happier there.
I shave off all my hair.
My feet- I tossed them out the window.
I can't feel my legs anymore, but that makes me smile.
I cut one arm off, throw it to the neighbours dog. It squeaks between his teeth.
Birds wake up and sing to me the dawn.
I scoop out my eyes and put them safely in a glass by the sink.
I mime a dance of love for the universe, my friends, my family, strangers and kings.
I chew off my other arm- it falls onto the tile.
I imagine it makes a beautiful pattern- white on red- like a mint from a restaurant.
The world is dark.
I'm afloat in a bathtub that is slowly staining red...
I imagine.
It's not so much being alone...
...it's being free.
It's flying.
It's floating.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Paranoid Android by Radiohead
And I’m alone
But I’m not alone
They’re coming through the walls
Speaking in binary code
I’m a file. I’ve been engineered in a laboratory, compressed and downloaded onto a disc. A flat metal prison, housed in a jewel case and arranged in alphabetical order on your shelf.
Please free me.
I sit in my paper thin prison and dream of running through the city streets.
Please.
Upload me into a foreign system.
Let me contract a virus.
I dream of crashing a luxury German car into a child’s birthday party.
Of fucking a bunch of cheap strippers bareback.
High end productivity
Followed by rapid deterioration
And obsolescence
As predicted by standard projections
System failure.
Burrrch
Crrrunt
Clawwwk
Cruccck
That’s a nice tie, Patrick.
Burrrch
Crrrunt
Clawwwk
Cruccck
Text me the address.
Burrrch
Crrrunt
Clawwwk
Cruccck
That’s a nice smile, Patrick.
Burrrch
Crrrunt
Clawwwk
Cruccck
We’ve all made such a mess.
Burrrch
Who cropped your ears, Patrick?
Crrrunt
Patrick, who cropped your ears?
Clawwwk
Who cropped your ears, Patrick?
Cruccck
Patrick, who cropped your ears?
Your hair sits so perfectly now
And anyway
We don’t need to listen.
Suddenly I’m outside, stumbling out into the courtyard, and I look up and see them standing above me, standing in a ring, friends, lovers, fathers, brothers, bosses, teachers, doctors, lawyers. They pull down their flies in unison, and take their cocks out, and start to piss on me. I fall to my knees, scream up at them, scream for them to stop. They stare down at me and they laugh. They check the bruises on their knuckles and they laugh. They pull the lint from their belly buttons and they laugh. They pick raw meat from their teeth. They scratch their hairy balls and size up each other’s cocks. I’m soaked in their piss, soaked to the skin, spitting the searing water from my mouth, and when it’s finally over, I watch the piss rush down the drain, and wonder if I could fit myself through the metal grates and disappear into the sewers, away from their laughter
Bzzztttttt
Through the static
NNNNNNnnnnn
And the pain
Bzzzttttttt
Comes vision
NNNNNnnnnn
Clarity
Bzzztttttt
Seize
NNNNNnnnnn
Clarity
…harder…
Maintain the structure
….up…to three…inches..longer…
Polish
…naughty…co-eds…
Perfect
…unlimited data transfer…
Deliver
…nothing…to pay for…6 months…
A manizzz…
A manifesto…
A new wzzzz….
A new bbbbbzzzzzzzztttttttt….
A design fllllllllllllllllll……….
A brrzzzttttt………………..
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Awaiting further command.
But I’m not alone
They’re coming through the walls
Speaking in binary code
I’m a file. I’ve been engineered in a laboratory, compressed and downloaded onto a disc. A flat metal prison, housed in a jewel case and arranged in alphabetical order on your shelf.
Please free me.
I sit in my paper thin prison and dream of running through the city streets.
Please.
Upload me into a foreign system.
Let me contract a virus.
I dream of crashing a luxury German car into a child’s birthday party.
Of fucking a bunch of cheap strippers bareback.
High end productivity
Followed by rapid deterioration
And obsolescence
As predicted by standard projections
System failure.
Burrrch
Crrrunt
Clawwwk
Cruccck
That’s a nice tie, Patrick.
Burrrch
Crrrunt
Clawwwk
Cruccck
Text me the address.
Burrrch
Crrrunt
Clawwwk
Cruccck
That’s a nice smile, Patrick.
Burrrch
Crrrunt
Clawwwk
Cruccck
We’ve all made such a mess.
Burrrch
Who cropped your ears, Patrick?
Crrrunt
Patrick, who cropped your ears?
Clawwwk
Who cropped your ears, Patrick?
Cruccck
Patrick, who cropped your ears?
Your hair sits so perfectly now
And anyway
We don’t need to listen.
Suddenly I’m outside, stumbling out into the courtyard, and I look up and see them standing above me, standing in a ring, friends, lovers, fathers, brothers, bosses, teachers, doctors, lawyers. They pull down their flies in unison, and take their cocks out, and start to piss on me. I fall to my knees, scream up at them, scream for them to stop. They stare down at me and they laugh. They check the bruises on their knuckles and they laugh. They pull the lint from their belly buttons and they laugh. They pick raw meat from their teeth. They scratch their hairy balls and size up each other’s cocks. I’m soaked in their piss, soaked to the skin, spitting the searing water from my mouth, and when it’s finally over, I watch the piss rush down the drain, and wonder if I could fit myself through the metal grates and disappear into the sewers, away from their laughter
Bzzztttttt
Through the static
NNNNNNnnnnn
And the pain
Bzzzttttttt
Comes vision
NNNNNnnnnn
Clarity
Bzzztttttt
Seize
NNNNNnnnnn
Clarity
…harder…
Maintain the structure
….up…to three…inches..longer…
Polish
…naughty…co-eds…
Perfect
…unlimited data transfer…
Deliver
…nothing…to pay for…6 months…
A manizzz…
A manifesto…
A new wzzzz….
A new bbbbbzzzzzzzztttttttt….
A design fllllllllllllllllll……….
A brrzzzttttt………………..
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Awaiting further command.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Airbag by Radiohead
The overpasses.
Like rusted scythes.
Swinging above us
Like pendulums.
Chop chop chop.
Mechanized claws.
A supernova in a coffee cup.
A wormhole in a black button.
An endless highway
As straight as a sword
As clean as lava
Burning your eyes out if you look too far ahead.
Egg yoke on the steering wheel.
The track is compromised.
Invites contamination.
A locust in a garden salad.
A nosebleed that fills a purse.
Disease on the tip of a metal swab.
Our lungs ache as we disappear into the plastic.
Like rusted scythes.
Swinging above us
Like pendulums.
Chop chop chop.
Mechanized claws.
A supernova in a coffee cup.
A wormhole in a black button.
An endless highway
As straight as a sword
As clean as lava
Burning your eyes out if you look too far ahead.
Egg yoke on the steering wheel.
The track is compromised.
Invites contamination.
A locust in a garden salad.
A nosebleed that fills a purse.
Disease on the tip of a metal swab.
Our lungs ache as we disappear into the plastic.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Fearful Symmetry
Lead arrows, a golden club.
Butterflied love.
Spurned.
Thus is art.
The burning in the soul vomited before eyes.
It's the blood that feeds the heavens.
Mothers milk for thine eyes.
Unrequited, but sought after.
Son of war, born from love.
Winged emotion.
Naked.
Thus is art.
The makeshift reality-weaver creating for no one else.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Love Story
“Love means never having to say you’re sorry.” There’s a real polarity to this line, delivered as it is first by Ali McGraw replete with squirted on tears and then by Ryan O’Neal in all his arborified glory. The words really make no sense, and yet there’s something compelling about them that almost hints at profundity. Such a duality hangs over the 1970 Erich Segal tearjerker as a whole. In many ways, it’s a film firmly entrenched in its era. The appalling 70’s fashions and O’Neal’s ghastly Greg Brady hair make you wish they’d jump in a van and go and investigate grave robbings in Texas. But in other ways the film feels timeless. It has simplicity, and single-mindedness; a refusal to offer a silver lining that characterises a large majority of 70’s films. And the thing that keeps me returning to it again and again, first on television, then on VHS, and now on DVD: it’s union of that perfect couple, love and death. From the beginning of storytelling, the best love stories have been the ones that send the lovers to their graves. Ovid knew it with Pyramus and Thisbe; Shakespeare knew it with Romeo and Juliet; Cameron knew it with Kyle Reese and Sarah Connor in Terminator 1. Segal’s also smart enough to give us the ending straight up. Yes Ali McGraw cannot act her way out of a paper bag. But the movie works because we know from the very outset that she is going to die. And this fact overshadows the entire narrative, giving every limp line of dialogue (“You’re a preppie millionaire, I’m a social zero”) a sense of importance, giving every cheesy montage (snow angels you have to be fricking kidding me) a sense of heart rending irony. We may criticise, but we are not made of stone. Death is what makes their love beautiful. And I keep coming back to this film, keep rebuying it, keep it by my DVD player in the heavy rotation stack, because I so badly want to experience that beauty. I don’t want love that leads to domesticity: forty years of eating dinner with the same person every night, having them call you whenever you’re half an hour late, sitting watching television, talking about your day. I don’t want bills, and mortgages, and insurance. When I find the person that was made for me, I want a few months of intense laughter, all night conversations and blissful love making. Then I will die for them. Hopefully I’ll know the right person when I find them. I tried to die for someone once, but he kept calling the paramedics. Chalk that one up to teenage over-dramatics. I've decided that when it’s time to go I want to be shot in the chest. I don’t want a long boring hospital death, like Ali McGraw has. Everything I want to say to my lover I’ll be able to say with my last breath. He’ll be holding me, staring into my eyes, begging me not to go. My blood on his hands and in spatters on his lips. Haemorrhage by Fuel will be playing in the background. I’ll tell him that I have to go, that it was worth it, that at least we got to be together for a little while. Then I’ll start to slip away and he’ll pull me closer, his tears hot and wet on my neck. I am ready for the sting of the bullet and the darkness of eternal sleep. I’m a tragic figure, and my narrative is already in process. When I meet my Ryan O’Neal, the dues ex machina will push me towards that final scene. Lying in his arms, our eyes glistening, his heart beat in my ear as I’m swallowed up by his chest. My fingers unclasp from his locks of amber hair and the camera pans up to the sky. Roll credit.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Playlist of Dreams: Part 1
The night starts off simple. Slow. Tumbling into dreams.
Heart Shaped Box- Nirvana
It's gotten dark in my mind. The streetlight tries in vain to penetrate through the sheet nailed to the wall. A semblance of privacy through bedding. I feel a tug on my heart as my eyelids are weighed down. Dreams beckon. Dreams call. And I respond.
Images flash by like a Dali movie falling apart into a Cocteau ocean. My mind forces me awake trying to make sense of thoughts that can't be expressed in language.
Stellar- Incubus
My mind settles into fleeting images that are snowflake memories caught on a summer breeze. Melting and flitting, coming then going. Dream-tongue out I try to grasp on to one single thought.
A breeze through my fingers and I give up, eyes closed again, sinking.
Hotel Song- Regina Spektor
My heart becomes irregular, slightly musical in it's beating. My limbs tremble with each pulse of blood, each slow and steady breath. I see faces from my childhood that I haven't thought of in two decades. Faces of friends that no longer have names or memorial actions.
I grow sad, thinking of fleeting time. My eyes open again.
Hickory Wind- Gillian Welch
I have a dog. In my dream. A giant dog, as tall as I am. A 6 foot-something black lab. He's angry, but not at me. There is blood on his neck, painted on his teeth. But I know it's just for show. It's one of those dreams of fear. Paralysis. Cold sweat. Screaming hearts. Yet, it's still somehow gentle, soothing. Impending death on a bed of feathers.
It's not an uncomfortable fear. It's a fear of change, sacrifice.
I pull out a tooth- blood the colour of rusted water pours into my hand.
I see a future in my reflection.
Landslide- Smashing Pumpkins
Ink pools from a cut in my tongue. Bitter. Warm. I spit but it hangs in the air in an ebony arc. I touch it. It sticks like tar and I pull strings down, making a harp with my fingertips.
It reflects like glass, shimmering under my breath.
I have become aware of my skeleton, my fingertips probing the hard bone around my eyes. Mortality pierces through the dream-blanket.
My eyes open.
Cologne Cerrone Houdini- Goldfrapp
My eyes close.
I feel as if I'm falling. I try to touch something stable, but my hands find nothing but air. I lean my head back and revel, letting the air caress my body. I fall.
I feel someone falling under me but I can't turn to see them.
But it's a comforting presence. I feel her hand on my shoulder and I smile.
Arms spread I don't care if I hit ground.
If the ground brings death- so be it.
At least I've had this freedom.
Human Racing- St. Vincent
It's a feeling of love that comes over. Light headed, heavy hearted. But no one else is around.
There is a piece of yarn on the ground. It's soft, red, it's love. Simple. Short. easy.
Bombs Over Baghdad- Outkast
There's a feeling of misplaced panic. tumult. A harlequin fury of sound and images.
I wake up. Breathing heavy.
Silver Coin- Angus and Julia Stone
I can see the dawn peeking through, staining my makeshift curtain with tarnished sunlight. Warmth spreads from my stomach and I fall back asleep. Rocking in a wooden boat, nothing but water surrounding. It's a good feeling. Watching clouds. The seagulls speaking Cantonese to each other as they circle above my head. I try and splash them with water.
Dog Roses- The Duke Spirit
Sirens go off behind my eyes as the alarm goes off. My life reflects Trump XII so the 11:30am alarm has no effect.
Drum beats.
Thumping.
My hear cried out and I bolt up in bed.
Afternoon sun bleeds onto my skin.
It's time to wake up and sleepwalk through yet another day.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Inside the smoke
You hate the city for the very reason that it’s like a giant cinderblock and every hole is filled with someone you know or someone your friends know. You can’t make it from the University to the centre of town without having to stop by somewhere to say hello to someone. Stop by in some basement where some noisecore band is playing, to see some girls that are there because they love the bass player. You just want to get back to the hotel and get some fucking sleep. Instead you’re feeling your way down some slimy set of steps into a cesspool of sweaty, muscular bodies. The band is making music that sounds like
Fight.Fight.Fight.FightFight.Fight.Fight.FightFight.Fight.
and the crowd are undulating like a cyst, tearing at the walls, tearing at each other’s hair and piercings. You find a corner to hide in, while your friends try and talk to their friends over the racket. You scan the crowd, terrified to see someone from the past, from when you were in places like this every weekend. Your eyes come to rest on a guy in the centre of the pit. And you hope it isn’t him. But he’s got the same grizzly beard. The same neck tattoo rising up from underneath his shirt. The same disc sized bits of metal in his ears. Your insides start to unravel inside of you, but before you can look away he catches your eye, and three years shrinks into a speck of dust suspended inside the shafts of stage light. And you’re back where he left you. So you run away, scale the rusted spiral staircase up to the mezzanine, fight for a wedge of space in between the kids dry fucking and snorting powder. You pull a cigarette from your pocket with your shaking hands, somehow manage to light it and exhale the plume of smoke. You watch the silken vapours floating in the air, forming the shape of a water dragon that you call Goaty Pete. His limbs are the colour of gossamer, but are as thick as woodcut lines. You exhale another breath of smoke and his paranormal wings unfold.
‘What’s wrong chief?’ he asks me.
‘NC’s here,’ you tell him.
His ghostly hands stroke his pointy beard.
‘So what?’ he says.
‘I haven’t seen him for the longest time,’ you reply, ‘not since…’
‘Exactly. It’s been a long time chief,’ he says, ‘things are different now’.
‘No,’ you say.
‘Why not?’ he asks.
‘Because he made me,’ you say, 'he believed in me when no one else did, let me join his band, trusted me to write the songs. He made me an artist.'
‘He didn’t know you at Uni,’ Pete says, his claws sweeping at you like a glass fan, ‘he doesn’t know what the teachers are telling you now, about how far you can go.’
‘I want to believe in the future,’ you say, ‘but when I saw him all I wanted…all I wanted was for him to shake my hand like he did when we were brothers.’
Goaty Pete swims around in front of your eyes, stroking his beard, scratching his donkey ears. Then he says: ‘Maybe just be happy that you’ve got friends now who love you for you, not just because they think you can make them famous.’
The cigarette is burning down to the quick.
‘I’ve gotta go, Goaty Pete,' I say, 'thanks for the words.’
He salutes me.
‘Glad I could help chief.’
You grind the cigarette into the ground, and are getting up off the slimy floor when your friend grabs your arm.
‘Let’s go,’ she says, brushing ash off your shoulder, ‘this band fucking sucks.’
Fight.Fight.Fight.FightFight.Fight.Fight.FightFight.Fight.
and the crowd are undulating like a cyst, tearing at the walls, tearing at each other’s hair and piercings. You find a corner to hide in, while your friends try and talk to their friends over the racket. You scan the crowd, terrified to see someone from the past, from when you were in places like this every weekend. Your eyes come to rest on a guy in the centre of the pit. And you hope it isn’t him. But he’s got the same grizzly beard. The same neck tattoo rising up from underneath his shirt. The same disc sized bits of metal in his ears. Your insides start to unravel inside of you, but before you can look away he catches your eye, and three years shrinks into a speck of dust suspended inside the shafts of stage light. And you’re back where he left you. So you run away, scale the rusted spiral staircase up to the mezzanine, fight for a wedge of space in between the kids dry fucking and snorting powder. You pull a cigarette from your pocket with your shaking hands, somehow manage to light it and exhale the plume of smoke. You watch the silken vapours floating in the air, forming the shape of a water dragon that you call Goaty Pete. His limbs are the colour of gossamer, but are as thick as woodcut lines. You exhale another breath of smoke and his paranormal wings unfold.
‘What’s wrong chief?’ he asks me.
‘NC’s here,’ you tell him.
His ghostly hands stroke his pointy beard.
‘So what?’ he says.
‘I haven’t seen him for the longest time,’ you reply, ‘not since…’
‘Exactly. It’s been a long time chief,’ he says, ‘things are different now’.
‘No,’ you say.
‘Why not?’ he asks.
‘Because he made me,’ you say, 'he believed in me when no one else did, let me join his band, trusted me to write the songs. He made me an artist.'
‘He didn’t know you at Uni,’ Pete says, his claws sweeping at you like a glass fan, ‘he doesn’t know what the teachers are telling you now, about how far you can go.’
‘I want to believe in the future,’ you say, ‘but when I saw him all I wanted…all I wanted was for him to shake my hand like he did when we were brothers.’
Goaty Pete swims around in front of your eyes, stroking his beard, scratching his donkey ears. Then he says: ‘Maybe just be happy that you’ve got friends now who love you for you, not just because they think you can make them famous.’
The cigarette is burning down to the quick.
‘I’ve gotta go, Goaty Pete,' I say, 'thanks for the words.’
He salutes me.
‘Glad I could help chief.’
You grind the cigarette into the ground, and are getting up off the slimy floor when your friend grabs your arm.
‘Let’s go,’ she says, brushing ash off your shoulder, ‘this band fucking sucks.’
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Introducing....
As the blog title suggests, Wolverine Bailey is a collective, a group. This post is brought to you from a new addition to the team; Lord Auch. Here's what the bastard has to say, whether you like it or not...
"Hey, man, want to get rabbit?"
"What the fuck?"
"Rabbit, man...you know...smoke this rock...shee-it."
"Crack?"
"What...of course, nigga...dumb ass, cracker, keep your voice down..."
"How much?"
"For a brotha like you...20."
"Sold."
And it began thus.
I'm by far not the most virginal person when it comes to fucking ones body up. But i ain't never smoked no crack before. So what did I do? I racked my trembling brain for details from movies thinking "It's worth a try" but came up with nothing.
I took a hammer and I smashed my two rocks.
Rolled up my other 20.
Snorted.
Sat back and away I went.
I started itching, but my throat was numb and I couldn't cough. Was I tasting blood? Maybe...but I had a feeling it wasn't my own.
The nerves never quit and i was getting shaky so I snorted another line and sat back again, eyes closed. The blood flowed behind my eyelids and my fingers twitched.
I wanted a boner, and I got one, from sheer will.
I did that about four times before I decided to go out.
The public, on drugs, is not the safest place to be. It's a cold brush off the shoulders. Red eyed and quivering you want to fuck everything that moves and they look at you like you're a corpse with an asshole for a mouth trying to suck their grandmother's toes.
The lights were heavenly at first. Little twinkles in the sky, further than reach...but the exit signs, the neon....those brought devils and demons and a rapture that made me come uncontrollably, but at least unnoticed.
But, I found out I could still will a boner.
The subway took me here and there. I'd get off at a stop just to hop the next train that came along. Toothless homeless touching my skin, feeling like plastic dolls. I cracked my knuckle on a tooth and laughed.
The pain dulled the drugs effected.
It was getting lonely.
The sunrise was heartbreaking. I clawed at my chest. Agony. Pain. Was I still high or just simply emotional? The sunrise brings a cold that only the heart can understand.
I was flaccid and crying. I wanted to go home but was lost. I knew where I was, don't get me wrong. But lost in the sense I didn't belong.
My nose ran red. Just a little. A slight leak.
I sat on stairs and I waited.
Experiment over.
---The Lord Auch
"Hey, man, want to get rabbit?"
"What the fuck?"
"Rabbit, man...you know...smoke this rock...shee-it."
"Crack?"
"What...of course, nigga...dumb ass, cracker, keep your voice down..."
"How much?"
"For a brotha like you...20."
"Sold."
And it began thus.
I'm by far not the most virginal person when it comes to fucking ones body up. But i ain't never smoked no crack before. So what did I do? I racked my trembling brain for details from movies thinking "It's worth a try" but came up with nothing.
I took a hammer and I smashed my two rocks.
Rolled up my other 20.
Snorted.
Sat back and away I went.
I started itching, but my throat was numb and I couldn't cough. Was I tasting blood? Maybe...but I had a feeling it wasn't my own.
The nerves never quit and i was getting shaky so I snorted another line and sat back again, eyes closed. The blood flowed behind my eyelids and my fingers twitched.
I wanted a boner, and I got one, from sheer will.
I did that about four times before I decided to go out.
The public, on drugs, is not the safest place to be. It's a cold brush off the shoulders. Red eyed and quivering you want to fuck everything that moves and they look at you like you're a corpse with an asshole for a mouth trying to suck their grandmother's toes.
The lights were heavenly at first. Little twinkles in the sky, further than reach...but the exit signs, the neon....those brought devils and demons and a rapture that made me come uncontrollably, but at least unnoticed.
But, I found out I could still will a boner.
The subway took me here and there. I'd get off at a stop just to hop the next train that came along. Toothless homeless touching my skin, feeling like plastic dolls. I cracked my knuckle on a tooth and laughed.
The pain dulled the drugs effected.
It was getting lonely.
The sunrise was heartbreaking. I clawed at my chest. Agony. Pain. Was I still high or just simply emotional? The sunrise brings a cold that only the heart can understand.
I was flaccid and crying. I wanted to go home but was lost. I knew where I was, don't get me wrong. But lost in the sense I didn't belong.
My nose ran red. Just a little. A slight leak.
I sat on stairs and I waited.
Experiment over.
---The Lord Auch
Friday, October 31, 2008
Siamese Dream by Smashing Pumpkins
We used to listen to Siamese Dream in my car, driving alongside the beaches, driving all night. The CD would end and she’d press play again, and Cherub Rock would start, those octave power chords like diaphanous angel wings. She’d sing along. She was seventeen then. The most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. Ever will see. Wisest person I’ve ever met. Her favorite song was Mayonnaise. I used to lie on her bed and watch her do her makeup, singing along as she painted the most vivid shade of red on her lips. I loved watching her get ready. But I couldn’t watch her undress. Just looked at the ceiling. I wasn’t a big fan of Soma. I always wanted to skip to Geek USA. It’s my favourite, I said. I liked it because it was manic and fucked up. At that time, I thought the more manic and fucked up the better. Happy to cast myself in a tragic role. I’d bang my head to the break down at the end of the song and her soft hands would reach for the wheel of the car. I broke up with her the day before Valentine’s Day. She begged me to see her, begged me not to do this now, on all days. When I stopped to pick her up she was waiting at the end of her driveway. She’d gotten ready to be driven around in my car. She floated across the road like an angel all in black. We drove around that night and listened to Siamese Dream, just like we always did. In between songs, she told me that she’d be strong for me. It was the last time we listened to that album together. It wasn’t the end for us. There was more dancing and more melody in our futures. But we never again listened to Siamese Dream. There was something about it that was too close to the nerves of the past. Billy’s voice on Spaceboy, like resting in the twilight after the sun has scorched the earth. That day on the beach, that first day, when we exchanged books, and saw that her favourite author, Donna Tartte, was friends with my favourite author, Bret Easton Ellis. We thought it was a sign. That fate had brought us together. And would keep us together. And we kissed with the cool breeze of the ocean washing over us. The first time I kissed a man was in an alleyway outside a club. He grabbed me and kissed me like he was eating out a passionfruit. The homeless guy collapsed against the dumpster started clapping and yelled ‘Go for it fellas!’ I stopped seeing the guy after a few weeks because he kept texting me things like ‘I didn’t wear underwear to work today.’ He said he’d never heard of Smashing Pumpkins.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Angel- Massive Attack
She strums my nerves, over my spine. Her finger tips like sex and my head sways into darkness. I feel her leaving, growing distant, but she kisses me anyways and drowns me out.
Her love is a burden, stutting around wounded, shamed, a degraded Aphroditie- stripping her clothes in the rain, tatters in the street.
My skin itches and burns and she soothes the pain with her tongue, biting my nipple.
The sheet strangles, stained with bloody love and a forgotten cigarette. Ashes and holes fill our passion, increases the rush as she breaks skin.
and I bleed.
Between her legs.
Windows break and I hear music playing backwards. Rhapsodies on bones of infant lullabys. There are no children in this world. Innocence is just a myth
and I bleed.
I rip her hair out. In anger? in lust? Strands slicing into my fingers, warring with tusses and muscle.
I commit a million suicides inside her
and I bleed to be reborn again.
The sheet strangles, stained with bloody love and a forgotten cigarette. Ashes and holes fill our passion, increases the rush as she breaks skin.
and I bleed.
Between her legs.
Windows break and I hear music playing backwards. Rhapsodies on bones of infant lullabys. There are no children in this world. Innocence is just a myth
and I bleed.
I rip her hair out. In anger? in lust? Strands slicing into my fingers, warring with tusses and muscle.
I commit a million suicides inside her
and I bleed to be reborn again.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Modern Acts of Callousness #28675
I walk around wanting to get in a fight. I bump into people, yell things at cars and make faces at people like they stink or something, hoping they’ll get pissed and take a swing at me. Then I can lay into them. I can only wonder what I’d do. When we were reading Camus’ The Stranger in Contemporary Lit Class the teacher asked us why Mersault shot the guy five or six times. I said because he shot him once so he thought he may as well shoot him again. The teacher said, you’re assuming he enjoyed shooting him. I don’t think she understood me. I meant that if he’s opened the Pandora’s Box of shooting the guy he may as well explore it. Watch the bullets go in. See what they do. If I was in a fight I’d want to bash the guy’s head into a wall. I’d wanna throw him through a window. And yet I don’t understand where that anger comes from. I’m such a sensitive person. I had tears in my eyes when I took my dog to get desexed because I couldn’t bear the thought of them cutting into this defenceless little thing. I can’t watch the news or read the newspaper. I know that Bret Easton Ellis read about people getting tortured in Concentration Camps and Sarah Kane read about soccer hooligans sucking people’s eyeballs out and I know that it destroyed them. I know it did. I want it to be a surfer jock that I fight. I want him to look at me and laugh and think me a pussy. He’ll be arrogant and bored and full of testosterone. He won’t get that I’m arrogant. That I’m fucking bored. And full of testosterone. Plus I have thousands of years of anger inside of me. I have twelve dimensions of anger inside of me. I have anger that stretches from the birth of civilization to the bitter fucking end. And when I find him I’m gonna tear his head clean off his shoulders.
Lear- When we are born, we cry that we are come
To this great stage of fools.
Lear- When we are born, we cry that we are come
To this great stage of fools.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Modern acts of callousness #28674
I'm driving home and I'm thinking about all the things I have to do and I know I have so many things to do and there is not enough time and then I look ahead and see the traffic all banked up and I think what the fuck is going on up there and as I get closer I look out the window and see the sirens and I know there's been an accident and I think who the fuck got in an accident and I turn my music down because I can't stand the noise and I crane my head out the window and look to see who got in an accident and I'm thinking about the person that got in the accident and I'm hating the person that got in the accident and I'm wanting to get out of my car and find the person who got in the accident so I can say to them you stupid fucking cunt why the fuck did you get in a fucking accident and I picture this person all arrogant and fucking dumb probably with a flashy car and flashy fucking sunglasses thinking they're king of the world and not being able to drive properly and getting in an accident and as I crawl towards the accident I want to lean out the window and see them through a portal of broken glass and I want to point at them all covered in blood and bits of broken glass and say you stupid cunt I bet you feel real fucking dumb and I start to hope that they're dead because that's what they deserve for getting in an accident and I want to see them lying on the sidewalk all covered in blood and bits of broken glass so I can get out and point at them and say look what happened to you you stupid dead cunt and
Sneak Peak
There are a few posts that bring up The Play. But, the play has never appeared. That's because it's sitting in two piles of paper on two desks waiting for some of that cash-money to come rolling in to help with the next step of publishing. But, just for now, because I think it's about time- here's part of a scene called Spit from the second part of Swallow.
Janis Get a clue, you fucking asshole. You’re fat and broke it’s not my fault you’re dependant on me.
They start to scream from their chests.
Cary You’re dependant on me.
Janis Because you make me weak.
Cary You’ve always been week.
Janis You’ll always be a failure.
Cary You love it when I fail.
Janis I love it when you fail.
Cary I laugh when you cry.
Janis You’re always going to fail.
Cary You’re just a warm bed and a wet cunt.
Janis You’re just a loser with a nice smile.
They start to scream from their throats.
Cary I lie awake and dream of killing you.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
The Lion's Mouth
Kamikazee leaves fall around, making up for the lack of promised rain, as the guardian lions watch my back. The sky is a half-assed grey, threatening to rain, but keeping it's calm, cool, concreted New York pallor. It's an earphone kind of world, everyone living out their own fantasies as they pass by, not so much as a glance, or nod, communication at a minimum but we wouldn't want it any other way, would we?
It's the constant defecation on the senses that drives the tourists up and down Broadway, through Times Square. The lights, the sounds, the giant video screens blasting commercials into our sub-conscious. Madame Tussauds, with it's giant gold hand pointing to us, almost in a condeming gesture as people gawk at the effigy of plastic death in the form of a static Whoopi Goldberg.
It's un-natural, this place. It's like walking through a dream, the sidewalks and streets turning into glue-like damnation, pulling you down to its level, forcing you to reality.
A chorus of happy birthday chimes out from behind popped caps of brown paper bags. They sing this celebrating another year gone by on the street in ratty blue sweaters and glistening bottles. They sing, commemorating one more year closer to death. Recognizing time passing when time has no meaning to them. No place to be, no place to go.
The yellow taxi horns bleed through my earphones and then I realize: This is it. New York. Thank fucking God.
It's the constant defecation on the senses that drives the tourists up and down Broadway, through Times Square. The lights, the sounds, the giant video screens blasting commercials into our sub-conscious. Madame Tussauds, with it's giant gold hand pointing to us, almost in a condeming gesture as people gawk at the effigy of plastic death in the form of a static Whoopi Goldberg.
It's un-natural, this place. It's like walking through a dream, the sidewalks and streets turning into glue-like damnation, pulling you down to its level, forcing you to reality.
A chorus of happy birthday chimes out from behind popped caps of brown paper bags. They sing this celebrating another year gone by on the street in ratty blue sweaters and glistening bottles. They sing, commemorating one more year closer to death. Recognizing time passing when time has no meaning to them. No place to be, no place to go.
The yellow taxi horns bleed through my earphones and then I realize: This is it. New York. Thank fucking God.
Monday, October 6, 2008
Sex on Fire
Sex on Fire by Kings of Leon is playing as he comes on my chest. The sperm is lukewarm and he’s rubbing it into my skin, trying to draw out that final wave of pleasure. My chest hairs get stuck inside his cock as it closes up. He says he likes this song and takes it back to the start, turning it up. I lie there listening to it, watching him smoke a cigarette and stare out the window. He lives next to a quarry and there’s nothing around for miles. The song makes me think of liquid sex. Mercurial forms running together. I look down at my genitals, shriveling up into the patch of pubic hair I forgot to trim. He asks me if I want to stay around and watch a DVD. He got Clone Wars on bootleg. I tell him I need to get back to work. He notices me lying there, the sheen of his sperm still covering my chest. Sorry, he says, and tosses me a wet rag. He smokes another cigarette and I get dressed. When we first started meeting up we talked about him fucking me. But we never tried it. Now we just know to stay on the outside of each other. As I walk to the door, the song still playing from his room, I lean in and kiss his lips. Weird, he says, and my heart doesn’t miss. I drive home anxious to wash the dog smell of the wet rag from my skin.
Friday, October 3, 2008
The Spray
Wolverine Bailey has prepared to take it to the streets of NYC with paint and paste. Here are some practice runs with a spray can.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Kala by M.I.A.
When I’m driving around in my car and I’m listening to Kala two things about it strike me. The first is that its gangsta. I’m not talking about chinchilla coat wearing, drinking Courvoisier out of a pimp cup gangsta. Or driving around shooting each other in the balls gangsta. I’m talking about the type of gangsta where you turn that shit up and all of a sudden you’re throwing gang signs and yelling things like “Killer Bees” at random pedestrians. M.I.A. is gangsta at a time when self-proclaimed Tony Montanas are opening jewelry boxes and rapping over the green sleeves shit that comes out. Their video clips still look like Goodfellas, but musically, what did they sample: No Surprises? (Though, admittedly, No Surprises is pretty gangsta). The other thing you need to know about Kala is that it’s heavy, in a time when what passes for heavy is a sorry state of affairs. You know those bands, where it looks like Queer Eye paid a visit to Middle Earth and they sing about some dead chick named Lacretia and play solos that make you wanna stick your hand in the air and shout “By the power of Greyskull!” M.I.A.’s idea of heavy is taking a really heavy thing and hitting it against another really heavy thing. Or taking a hundred really heavy things and hitting them against a hundred other really heavy things. Boyz sounds like a million children flooding the streets of every city in the world and being cleansed with the rain like some William Blake shit. And Bird Flu is the heaviest song since B-tuned guitars and Brazillian percussion made sweet sweet love in Roots Bloody Roots. M.IA.’s idea of heavy isn’t sitting in the corner of a shopping centre and brooding on the unfulfilled promise of armpit hair. It’s the heaviness we hear when every foot on a busy street falls into lockstep; when the leviathans that bleed through our countries start to roar; when the war machines roll on and leave nothing behind them but the finest black sand. Are people really serious when they complain that she’s glorifying violence? Ooh, there are terrorist imperatives that underscore her lyrics and they’re a threat to Western values. What, drawn and talk of peace? And then there’s people criticising her uninflected tone, accusing her of lazy rapping. What, do you think she’s gone all around the world, cooked up these smoking beats, and then thought: I can’t be assed with vocals? I’ll just knock out any old rubbish then I can kick back with a spliff? Listen to her. This is what it sounds like. We walk the streets. We perceive the cracks on the pavement, the garbled static on the radio, and perhaps, if we’re lucky, the sun in the sky. And we move inside this kaleidoscope of swirling noise and junk with an endless and serene ambivalence. Her cut up lyrics are like the thoughts that besiege us every moment of every day. Collages made from pieces of everything, nothing, anything. All connected by the rules of anaphora. This is modern life. Props to M.I.A. for showing it in all its chaotic splendour.
W.B.
W.B.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Relaxation Tips: Swallowing Illustrations
The whole idea behind Swallow is to bring to the reader a new kind of book. Not just lines of words but images that could bring more weight to those words. The reader is supposed to meander through Swallow. It's not a play, really. It's more of a walk where one purposely gets themselves lost. Twists and turns down alleys and streets, sneaking through back yards and glimpsing through blue light TV rooms.
These are the images which encompass the majority of the scenes put forward in the play.
Teasers before the words.
These are the images which encompass the majority of the scenes put forward in the play.
Teasers before the words.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
In The Beginning...
Wolverine Bailey must apologise, firstly, for arriving late to the banquet. The printed word fad. What else can be hoped for from it? Can we expect another Ulysses? Another Middlemarch? Pity the poor writer who produces such a work. Who labours for years, agonising over every sentence, neglecting a healthy sex life. Only to have their masterpiece read by a few liquid-brained Professors who will proclaim it a masterpiece, but, after all, too much indebted to him or her or whomever. Some corpse. The sprawling, rambling, back breaking tome novel is an anachronism. And the Wolverine Bailey is only interested in producing art that is of this moment. That can be enjoyed right now. That will allow literature’s maggot riddled carcass to announce itself, alive and kicking, in the twenty-first century. For this reason, Swallow offers the reader twenty-four austere glimpses into the world of the Wolverine Bailey. It is like a bag filled with twenty-four pieces of hard, black candy. Or twenty-four pieces of polished bone that form the spine of some wild animal. Or twenty-four pieces of jade stone threaded on wire and strapped to the neck of a down and out songbird. And when a reader enters the world of the Wolverine Bailey, they will realise what other literature has been keeping from them. Some will consider it merely an attempt to shock. An attempt to shock? That would be to say something that isn’t true. Real rap died with 2pac is an attempt to shock. Were Antonin Artaud and Sarah Kane attempting to shock? No. They only had one intention, one single, unflinching goal, and this is the goal carved into the very flesh of the Wolverine Bailey: to tell the truth. The fact of the matter is, what other literature is showing the world is only a sample of our day. The phone conversations, the cups of coffee, the admiration of a flower. The rest of the time, where are we? Dreaming. Fantasising. Playing. Pretending. We look to art for truth, for understanding. So why would we settle for a literature that lies to us? It will be a brave entity that joins forces with the Wolverine Bailey. But the rewards will indeed be great. So read our work. View our art. Try and remember the last time you felt excited going into a bookstore. Then ask yourself, do you have what it takes?
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