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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.’

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