TASTE

Fatalist palmistry

2011-03-16T13:52:00.001-04:00

I cannot hear you over the loud music
but I know what you are saying -
"Let's go home."
It makes a lot of sense; this frat is
disgusting, there is a stripper pole
and the girls we came with are
grinding relentlessly with
bro-dudes.

We discuss whether to
go to another party,
maybe it'll be better.
But we both know frat parties
are no place for intellectuals
like us, and we don't know
anyone with an apartment yet.

So what a wonderful surprise it is
to find a bottle of Jameson
from a cocktail party nights earlier,
sitting half-full
or, you dryly put it,
"already half-empty"
in the refrigerator.

Cut to us three shots deep,
singing Say It Ain't So
clinking glasses,
discussing David Lynch,
WHY?, Evelyn Waugh, and
girls that we know and are
tentatively still in love
with.

You spill whiskey on your cardigan
and there's a tense silence while you
examine it, 'til you
wipe it off and pour another drink,
because you only have to
walk across the street to go home and there's no rush.

The others are back;
and you should go anyway;
you've got to study
Spanish. Algo que un día había, también
podia repetirse!

A friendship like nepenthe,
dude. One day
we will get
to forage for more. To form
new marble from old limestone
with acid and rain
and you will still loom
big, sir.

Little Italy on February 5, 2011

2011-02-08T00:15:00.003-05:00

We went up Montgomery

And left on Columbus

To see the light posts painted

Red and green. We decided to have

Some cannolis from Stella’s and buy

A book from City Lights.

I wonder how much a calzone is?

Too much you answer.

The signs on the stores read,

Giordano’s, Café Trieste, Gelato Naia

And the bus rolling by says,

When the moon hits the sky

Like a big pizza pie that’s

Amore. And weary Italians

With hats and sunglasses drink

Coffee and watch people with

Cameras pay $15 for a calzone.

I’ll be back, in some Italian daze

Like out of a Fellini film wanting

A $15 calzone and an aranciata.

IMG got clearer

2011-02-06T00:07:00.004-05:00

. turn me
On. push
my buttons. feel
me pulse. the IMG got
clearer

look at me. I am
sleek like her but
far more practical.
take you
without
wheels or legs

look at me because I am
fLaShInG
you are a dull moth.

you can't leave me
i have seen you.
i've seen you grin
the face of murder. i have seen
your eyes
desperately wet and I only showed you
because
you asked

you can't turn me Off ~
what could be more
than the sizzling
of your neural bzzzts with
my wavy crzzzs
and the buzzing that tingles
between us

indistinct NPCs
distract you,
i know them,
i've seen them yell at and misinterpret
you but I know your
~signals~ and
i'll be whirring
around
anytime you want me

At Work Listening to 98.1 Kiss Fm

2011-01-25T01:41:00.000-05:00

‘I can’t wait (I can’t wait) ‘till you call me on the telephone
I can’t wait till my love walked through the door’
Win tickets to the Valentines Bash by listening in during lunch on Kiss FM.

If the purchase is over $5,000,
Keep it,
If it’s a computer purchase,
Keep it,
But just to make sure, don’t keep the purchase summary okay?

‘Coast to coast, LA to Chicago, western male
Across the north and south, to Key Largo, love for sale.’
It’s the biggest party on the radio, ‘stayin alive, stayin alive,’
You’re listening to Kiss Fm.

I stare at purchase number 50987-13474
A Compaq printer was bought on 3/4/2001
I go through stacks of paper with ease and
Carelessness, telling myself,
“If only I was a curator at the MOMA!”
But for now, listening to Kiss Fm, the bay’s old school.

Feels stereo

2011-01-22T16:07:00.006-05:00

Withered stockings line the cupboards and corridors of
one K.K. Man-child.
They are woven into torn old
harmonies that flit and flutter among
wooden, mid-eastern shelves of
melody.

A room or two over
grassy feelings spread like plastic wrap on the couch
are metal grates for euphemistic
release.
A wind full of playgrounds and early morning
dews kisses the room,
leaving behind a trace of her
incense scent.

Inspiration bursts like
blackberries and accords to the time
a particular significance.
But time is a hesitant
supervisor for the lone poet sewing
threads, and I
dream again and again of
spaces between the
fabric.

Right now I am listening to Feels
and the light piano plinks make me
think of young fervid days
and the pulsing beat swings me around
a great blinking sphere.

It's rising up now and sounding like India,
like tender coriander on spicy Rajma Chawal and
I can't tell the difference
between rustic nostalgia, hazy memory
and soon-to-be-old age.

It feels
like cold window on bare cheek.
It feels like a brisk rainy day when
you play with the ticket in your pocket.
It feels like living in
new times or old times.
I feel like screaming in the backyards
of youthful courage.

It feels like
the few minutes after 3 o'clock
when you get out of
elementary school and you
don't really have anything to do
yet.

In Tangiers

2010-12-25T23:28:00.003-05:00

Woolen sweaters, ticklish and warm, are
clinging to your chest
like covetousness.
Covert lines of sinuous filmy
memory wriggle through your fingers
because nothing is
the same.

O, try as you might, you are
caught up in space, dispossession and
acidic disposition.
Strong and deep is the burden
and the gift
and residual figures of
womanly curvature reside in
minutes and seconds, because
"music is art in time."

Your rusted ligaments still pound
furiously and they are the method
to a literary gladness,
voices shake and whisper in syncopation
as your feature comes to a close.

And what ribbons! What bows we've carved
out of the arms of beginners and enders and what
arrows with which to
melt her heart
and glide with a sigh into her
limpid limbic
nodes.

There are scars
and there are stars,
there's the sea
and there's Tangiers somewhere.
There's Berkeley somewhere else
and there's a place for
you
and I
to speak with knowledge
about the writing of songs.

And we are in a room and
lightly sipping so we can still drive home
and highly anticipating the next few years
with our ribald language while
hoping we don't go bald.

It seems so goddamn far away,
and it seems so hellbent on eluding us,
for the moment we can just talk about it.

But I know that when I am happy, I am with you
and I am fitfully fighting fisticuffs from
every single direction
and you are wrestling the inspiration out
of dutiful life.

Things You Told Me On November 25, 2010

2010-12-20T00:18:00.005-05:00

You haven’t found someone that fits yet.
It’s because you aren’t fun.
In the traditional sense,
Stable isn't fun.
And girls in college can't see past that.
But that’s not a problem at all,
Girls will see it eventually.
You're the guy girls get married to.
You were a good guy too early.

National Parks (November 11, 2010)

2010-12-12T18:07:00.000-05:00

It’s not a national park, its regional
And we continue to climb a hill and a
Stick pokes me in my leg, enough to break the skin.
Blue Moon’s on the top of the second hill we climb,
Ya’ll want a hug, some lady will ask us.
Heading back, in the darkness, the cars passing
Us, lighting the way. Wait up, car!
And we huddle on the side of the road and hope
To god this isn’t another speeding BMW.
Wait, hold up the light, I think we’re supposed to
Go down that way. Once we find the bus stop and the
Bus driver tells us, you guys should’ve taken that route
And points to the other side of the road.
I watch you take a nap on the bus ride back.

August 19, 2010

2010-12-12T16:11:00.003-05:00

I said, “You don’t have to go”
But my bed misses me, she says
“Your bed is new; it hardly knows you”
(And I hardly do too when I say this)
But at least I want to.
She closes her eyes and lays there
I stare at her eyelids
She says she has to go again
And I make up reasons why she shouldn’t
Her hair is in her face and
My arm is underneath me and
I have to budge to get it free and
I’m able to, awkwardly
She gets up again and I wrap my
Arms around her waist and my head
Is listening to her stomach
And I’m so bad
And you keep telling me you should go
And I know you should
Because I can hear the butterflies in your stomach
Slowly coming to a stop

Mad noise

2010-12-10T23:27:00.003-05:00

When I received your number,
my insides lit.
I felt the simmering of novel romance in the pit of my stomach,
and spoke, with
a shimmering fever tongue,
dribbled words, viscous like oozing pus.
Opaque thoughts spread
like instantaneous webbing
and collected in the vague distant corners of
mind's rusty attic.

The night filled up with dense
reincarnations of you, and your heady brethren
and the silver border that runs around
your sinuous lines,
that I can't quite define
with my eyes.

And I saw you,
draped;
soft and velvety curtains fluid over
liquid liquor languor.
Your breast bowing and dipping
with the intake of watery breath,
and your livery
strewn around, mixing with my
material messes.

And I collided you with ribbons of
my life, each a different color.
Green and violet and yellow were my friends,
my responsibilities, and the pavement of
sunstroked nostalgia.
But the one I wanted to wrap around your
selfish skin and the freckles I couldn't sit counting
was red,
and it was my favourite one, rising
and falling with that imaginary chest.

That was my vision,
and that's how it would have worked for me,
a rhythm and a blues,
harmony supplied with mischievous syncopation. But
maybe it's different with a paint brush in your hand
or a magnifying glass in your pocket.

Artistically or high-mindedly,
obsess yourself with taking subtlety to
a new level,
run it off a cliff in a paper cart and
leave it
hanging there
like a disco ball.
My humiliation and frustration will spill out from it
like tremulous beams of light
and they'll melt your wings and I will snigger and weep
in the cold darkness of a
low-lit fluorescent night.

Dog sees goD

2010-11-15T07:41:00.005-05:00

Is it part of my being to be cruel?
Is there a black mark on my permanent record
to proclaim that I'm ruthless?
The fact is that I'm Amanda-less,
and Naomi-less,
and Zoey-less,
but not less for it,
lest I cast the wrong spell here,
and assert acrimonious aspersions.

Inspiration arrives suddenly, like an old
friend you've just been dying to see. But
just as fast, she realizes that she misses her house
and her bed, and
her boyfriend, and that
you were never really that great at it anyway.

Maybe it isn't that bad to be cruel,
when cruelty tends to the frightened inner animal,
like a dog fighting its way up the ranks.

Today, I'm not Olivia-less,
but will my self be one day less full of Olivia?
Those little bits of light that saturate my pores,
the flecks of pink that shiver wildly against ochre skin,
or the strands that swirl around my straightest
lines and coax them to curl?

When one day I am lying in a
hospital bed,
clutching my heart in terror and
my hands to the sheets --
when I am famous
for curious, one-off turns of phrase,
blinking less and less,
will I look back?

Will I be paralyzed by the decisions of the
Olivia-full, and hate myself for being young?
Will the stuff of 19-year old me
litter my body like some unwelcome fast food;
like beer bottles;
like pizza boxes; will my age be prostate to a scale?

The dirt of unknowing and the watery
mess of memory -- they'll coagulate into a muddy
quagmire into which dreams sink.
Maybe, they'll have said, this just wasn't the place to build a foundation.

But I feel every day as heavily as the last --
every moment is just as important as the last,
there's happiness in crisis,
and so maybe my life is more like a sandcastle
strengthened by caulkish nostalgia.

You can't prevent waves of
uncertainty from
crashing
with violence
upon the constructions of the mind.
But the capacity for destruction
goes palm
in sweaty palm
with a penchant to
create.

Is it part of my being to be cruel?

Song craft

2010-11-07T01:01:00.004-04:00

Peacebone,
you fat, diabolical rodent;
sometimes I hate you.
But your little orange cage is
all you know,
and I feel for you.

There are times
during the day when I wish
for a big, bulbous
hand to come into my room and
show me
the panorama world.

Your predicament reminds me of everything
I did today:
I was singing,
eating succulent fruit,
sucking on the sun,
swinging my frowns
up and down a steep hill
and
sluicing the sap from
effortless trees.

Today,
life seemed too large for us to inhabit frivolously,
so we extricated ourselves from the apartment,
and dislocated ourselves from the barres of Flatland city,
we sank into the sky, bailing out of
song craft and eating mountains,
dried grass plateaus
above which Paul found a log-swing held up by
branches.
And the jam is preserved by
our short-lived
respite into collectivity.

Can you hear me?
Sundown is swamped in cloudy
misshape, and I am you for a little while,
held up in some gigantic hand, excited
by the prospect that this is
still-life. That this episode featured me
and that the sense of space
in this one is so exemplary.

Disconnected - still connected -
the whole terrarium lights up.
This isn't grisly, man, it's
not simple man vs, this is
man, via satellite.

Anna Bradley - Pavo

2010-09-22T16:08:00.004-04:00

(artwork courtesy Craig J. Heed of Slothbear)

out on iTunes now!

i am always happy

2010-06-02T17:21:00.001-04:00

i wrote this at the end of senior year, so... it's not really what i'm writing now, but i think it's still pertinent.

i am always happy.

i always tell myself that because it is true. one day, i sat down and talked to myself i said self:

"shut the fuck up. you have

NOTHING

to worry about, really

nothing."

and that was that.

when i entered senior year, i became myself. i was still fat and gross and unpopular but i was totally fine with all of those things. and i could sense these positive changes in my life when i started to accumulate friends and i just started "hanging out" and it was the greatest feeling

this was around the time when i started drinking kind of heavily. i have never really been a badass about it. like

never, but it just seemed to help. a social lubricant indeed, but it did not seem to help my sex life, which was still

stagnant

i wonder why i was still so happy and at peace with myself. this inner contentment had come out of nowhere and just kind of taken hold of my life. it drove my parents nuts. maybe it was apathy, but i always thought of it moreso as an awareness that the universe had a place for me. it was funny, it was like saying in that i was special in the same breath as saying that i fit in perfectly;

because i really did.

but not in society. it always bothered me that people who showed up alone to places became ostracized from society in general. i was (and still am) gregarious and enjoyed other people's company as much as anything else, but i was also pretty happy with being on my own, because it allowed me to really think about things and listen to music

and that was always fun.

i think something that really unnerved people was my attitude towards death. i see all life as working towards death because as camus wrote it is the only absolute (i am paraphrasing a little)

i wonder if at this juncture in my life that these feelings of apocalypse and death exist because of this lack of connection or grounding in the society of my fellow men

is it because i do not have any close connections in my life that i feel so free? and i guess that if something happens that pulls me down that i will care about ADULTHOOD,

that big title thing that everybody seems to be waiting for

waiting for

taxes and insurance and housing mortgages and banks and the economy and medical liabilities and i just want to be healthy until i die

unbearable lightness.

Onitsuka Tiger Ultimate 81s

2010-04-01T10:54:00.012-04:00

The stream burbles like a newborn. I pick my steps quickly but carefully over the softly draining floodwater. I don't really need to look "respectable", but why ruin Ultimate 81s? Feeling the path is only slowing me down, I run through the trees in an effort to buy a few more seconds. I feel a sigh through my hair. I am splashed with the odiferous warmth of summer.

At the apex of the hill I move swiftly between Grecian columns into a wide open courtyard. Stopping to gather my breath, I venture a 360 around my new environment. Rolls of green are punctuated by blotches of orange tile and pink stone. Majesties of stone and marble intersperse with those of wood and leaf all the way down the hill into the bay. I chuckle to myself. The Glade on the Grade. I propel myself out of the yard and pass a verdant field, incandescent with the collective exuberance of rich minds.

Almost there. With only a few yards left, I make a dash through what must be the last bit of genuine swampland west of the Bayou. As my socks soak up the warm liquid that is pooling around my feet, it feels as if they're also absorbing my dignity. The wet stain now coagulating on the spongey surface of my Onitsuka Tigers looks up at me accusingly.

Reviving what is left of my mortified pride, I swing open the door to the stone building closest to me. Accompanied by a friendly squelch, I wade through the hallway and into the room. Without making eye contact with anyone, I slam a stapled stack of paper onto a round desk.

I walk slowly down the steps that lead up to McCone and the whole world is laid out in front of me. My work is done. I take a step toward the path but stop. I look out past the streets laced with buildings and cars and onto the bay, which ripples in the May zephyr. A breeze plays around my already wet feet.

Dream of Me

2010-03-04T16:31:00.013-05:00

Long whispers shape my song,

My message, language, love.

Articulate affections, reflections, sweet attentions.

I know

How your mouth moves.

I show

My teething groves

To you, my audience, listener, lover.

Hover over my neck and breathe.

My eyes close,

Your breath slows,

And goes rhythmic.

My song is rhythmic too.

Shall I sing to you?

Murmurs gush;

You doze;

I hush your silent lips,

As you lie amid my hips.

Listen, sleeping thing,

To my mind’s music.

Melody escapes my head.

I discard my skull like garments,

Shed, already on the floor.

Naked thought sings,

And brings you

Closer.

Dream of me, body.

You’ll know me better if you do.

In true slumber, make your insights mine;

line up the numbers on the dial

And wait a while, heavy one,

For the answer to come.

Be me, body.

See my world with hazel eyes.

Touch it with long fingers.

Know my lies.

See through my guise

From the inside now you know I show you so little

But tonight you see me fully.

So much you never knew-

I am more blowsy,

Lousy with colors,

Lavender, red, blue.

I’m getting drowsy too.

So will I dream of you?

Ships

2010-03-01T18:26:00.007-05:00

With his print-spattered newspaper still open on the vinyl-coated coffee table, Jack picked up the cheque and exited the café. His arms stretched out in the autumn twilight and he took an icy breath. The wind rippled through his brown calfskin jacket as he stared nonchalantly at the street, at the shops, at the cars painted in their bright, rich hues. Jack fingered the coarse paper in his pocket. Cash caressed and slid lithely past his fingers.

He walked through the historic block, circling the roundabout and following the street up to the cobbled bridge. He climbed up the arch which spanned the width of the river, and upon reaching the top, looked out at where the estuary met the ocean. He rested one hand on the storied stone ledge and with the other, took out a pocket watch from his coat pocket. The glass was scratched and the numerals burnt off, but the watch still functioned. The seconds hand moved past the top to change 6:52 into 6:53. Jack looked away from the sea and moved down the arch to reach the other side. Hastily stuffing the watch back into his jacket, he smiled at the figure moving towards him from the pier.

"Kara," he said, when the woman had crossed the street and appeared in front of him. "You're late."

Kara smiled. Grabbing his collar, she leaned towards him and pressed their lips together. "You smell like coffee." She buried her face into his lapel. "It's nice."

"You're late," Jack repeated, sliding his hand into hers. Green light beckoned the two into the street and they walked in sync, steps locking into timeless rhythm as the sound of the sea hummed and mixed with the chirping of people in similar lockstep, shopping and waiting for tables. The couple moved purposefully through the throng of people and soon stopped in front of a large metal door. Jack reached past the money in his pocket to grasp cold, sharp steel. He drew it out and drove it into the lock. After turning it all the way around clockwise, he withdrew his key and beckoned Kara inside the warmly lit home which hid behind the dark façade.

"Hey." Kara smiled tenderly at the man as he busily closed the door. Jack didn't say anything. He removed his jacket, keys and his money onto the counter between the kitchen and the drawing room. He led her to the couch and her lips again met his. Their bodies fell onto the downy fabric. His fingers drew figures, as if in sand, on soft yielding surface.

The two slid off the couch and onto the floor. She held his arms in her hands and he grasped her pale shoulder blades at the point at which they met her neckline. The stirring of the sea from outside scored a shifting scene on the ground. Two ships swirled in the dim light's shadow, almost swallowed up in a wall of Turkish carpet, following each others' movements, dipping and diving.

Then, the dream was over. The wall clock read 8:00. Jack stood near the counter, looking at his pocket watch. His hands shook as he pored over the miniscule numbers. He picked up his money and stuffed it into the pocket of his trousers. He looked over at the girl.

"She won't ever find out. Don't worry," Kara reassured him as she buttoned up her shirt and picked up her jacket. "There's nothing more important to me than your happiness. I love y-"

"Here, let me walk you outside," Jack interrupted.

Syncope

2010-02-24T23:14:00.019-05:00

n. (medical); a sudden, usually temporary loss of consciousness generally caused by insufficient oxygen in the brain.

~~~~~~~~

Though it was Cane who began the conversation, it was Sun who saw her getting off the train - looming far above the arc of his vision - not so much tall as cloudy. Autumn was kind - a lounge of sunshine, snow, a washing wind for each colour of the trees. New York State, blanched in blood and pearl and leaf, saw them curling back onto themselves until they fell. Sun beamed a ray, kissing cold and holding his fingers up. The East Coast.

Sun rose from the bench as Cane walked over, busily fishing something out of her backpack. Then, clutching a book in her hand, she pulled Sun into an energetic embrace. Sun's face pulsed with surprise, then softened. Cane took the book and stuffed it into Sun's hands. "Thank you," she finally said, "for the great read. I loved it." 

"Well, I'm glad you enjoyed it. It's one of my favourites. How was your trip?"

 Cane moved her hair from her face and looked down, replying only-

 "Hey Sun, you wanna light up?"

****

He fixed his eyes on the glass chamber, which glinted menacingly in the reflection of the railing, and flicked the cruel metal serration on the flimsy plastic nozzle. Holding it out, he leaned it over the pipe and lit the ewer. The flame licked hotly at his right thumb while his left tapped the hole at the bottom of the glass concavity. Facing downward, he took a deep breath and inhaled pungently into his body. Keeping the distillation in his lungs until he couldn't hold it anymore, he bent forward and coughed vigorously. The smoke whispered up into ozone.

"Fuck, Sun. When did you last get high?" Cane tried to hide obvious laughter. She moved from where she was standing at the railing and patted Sun on the back. With a last embarrassed cough, he passed the pipe back to her.

"So tell me." Sun regained his composure. "What's wrong?"

Cane straightened awkwardly. "This might sound strange." She drew a long, staggered breath and exhaled. "A few weeks ago, I lost my way. I don't mean physically. Honestly, nothing really initiated this change. If anything, I'd been feeling really good. One night I went to bed warm, content, spiritually sound, and then the next day I woke up feeling a mental exhaustion, as if I was just sick of everything and everyone I'd ever thought of as mine."

"Hmmm." Sun looked out to the traffic islands, the building buoys, the taxicab sharks, the salty road, feeling himself adrift. A dread all too familiar and tied up with the nebulae of smoke was creeping up to him. "But you're okay," he said out loud, still looking away from Cane, "you're just feeling what everyone feels. It is easy to become lost like this." Sun could already anticipate the minute of abject terror approaching his body. A heady summation, perhaps, of all that Cane was feeling. He breathed faster, releasing air as a visible hazy stream filling a sky that was growing smaller.

Sun lifted his head up and brought it down again. The nausea that was building in his body warped the dimensions of his sight. His mind became a drop-down menu upon which all the buttons had suddenly been pressed. Popups flitted past the firewalls so carefully fitted into place and his consciousness was surrounded by signs that all read *(NO) DIRECTION*. His eyes closed.

****

*Whiteness. Brilliant and shining whiteness. Then, the grey of floor, the tired pink of knees. Where am I? Who am I? What is this? Who are you? You're beautiful. Do I know you? Are you my friend? Are we close? Did we fuck? I'm on the ground, it's a little cold. September? October? Are you talking to me? I need some water. Water water water water water water water water water water water water water water water water water. The sun is going down. Yes, my name is Sun. I was just sitting here and I was talking and you were talking and I was talking. Did I miss the part where we fucked?*

"Sun," Cane repeated, "Are you okay?" Rifling through her bag again, she lifted out a metallic bottle, which she placed at Sun's lips. Sun shook his head and took hold of the reflective silver aluminum. He tilted his head back all the way so that the water filtered down through the rubber nozzle into his mouth and drained into his stomach. His eyes were still unfocused and glazed over and he looked past her as he gave her back the vessel.

"Don't worry about it, I'm fine."

"You fell on the ground. I… nobody has ever had that sort of reaction to weed in front of me before. You looked like you were having a fucking seizure!"

Sun finally looked at Cane. "It's happened before. I guess I haven't been hydrating myself enough. It's fine, though. To tell you the truth …I kind of enjoy it."

Cane still looked upset. She looked concernedly at Sun, as if trying to coax some sort of better answer from him. Sun shifted his weight on the ground and crawled closer to Cane before beginning to speak.

"Well, it's like… I guess I've been feeling the same way you have. I mean, I guess I never gave you an answer to your problem. At least not a proper one."

The wind blowing through Cane's hair framed her against twilit cyan. Sun started again. "I like people, I love having friends, I like the idea of having direction. But a lot of the time I just can't stand any of it. When pot fucks me up, it's like… After a minute of terrifying, overwhelming thought, I get 15 seconds of complete and utter dissolution of memory."

His face cracked into a slight smile. "I have no idea who anybody is when I'm in this state. I'm a newborn. I think it's worth a minute of fear to experience such a joy. It's like sleep. It's like a wonderful dream. It's the only way to live. Don't think about anybody. Don't do anything. Paint your room white. Get a cat."

Cane looked down at Sun, and then up at the sky where darkness was gathering.

On Love and Trust

2010-02-17T23:09:00.006-05:00

Lush Tongue, though warm wintry whims
mold legs and hands and limb,
into a knotty oak,
distant comfort keeps Bright Eyes
from losing tender glow.

Tart lips, however,
creamy coated clams, whisper volumes of
dogmatic golden velvet verse.

Susurrations, full of phosphor,
on the seething, blinding,
raw
igniting light of moonstruck love,
and imprudent trust.

Meringue blanket,
framing art and soul - scarring self
to cut attachment to
a larger whole.

Niche fed, loving
fine alt-country chic, sartorial extravagance and
nice, transcendent,
he.

A Memory of Physical Beauty

2010-02-10T21:36:00.002-05:00

The image,

overwhelmed by the need to use the basest of the senses,

of the two pretty specks

on the creamy canvas of perfect skin and

thousands of strings of silk

at once and

the equine potion

of bone and muscle

commanded actions like

a white and cherubian newborn.

I've Never Had A Job Because I've Never Wanted One

2010-02-08T02:26:00.002-05:00

poetry pretentious,
the sun radiating a golden breeze
rays arc down past
warm and sweet and swift
love unattached,
the word just a word.
so much less spiritual,
my life is blossoming once and for all
like a harmony of sixths
fourths,
a second or two
past and i hope it remains like this forever
what a great conversation
a real metamorphosis
a clean scene break.
don't look back they say
but i'll do it,
the past is a vessel for my thoughts
history contains the beauty of feeling
wonderment gone past,
nostalgia that can't be held in
pretentious poetry.

Gil Kentrain Theogiam

2010-02-05T06:37:00.007-05:00

slashing voyeurs in the back corners of the movie theaters, for crimes they didn't mean to commit, the fan is honing his skill to masticate his victims more cleanly. he owns a machine with a sinister blade built-to-purpose and through-composed for a more even cut. jade and unusual, the suspect in a four forty seven down on ashby, right on the border with oakland, gil is plagued with a name straight out of the annals of english culture - 'bert just won't tear it anymore, especially because of comic books and country bumpkins and their huberts and their wilhelminas almost catching up with this ventilator in his terrifying celebrity car. half-asleep, girl afraid all the time, though now filled with a strange confidence to take over bodies that never belonged to him before. the blades of his name are fickly traveling in a circular fashion - the late origami king.

You Can't Live Forever

2009-12-27T15:18:00.003-05:00

Heaven is a sleep
that you can't dream of.
Heaven is asleep.

Drawing I

2009-12-14T22:02:00.007-05:00

Early morning flight into the studio, slopping coffee
Wishing I could use my plastic portfolio as a pair of wings.
Go forth into the unknown arts!
But no, stay here, you are first a student and then a lover.
The hot wax for the wings drips to the ground mid-pour
As the new model, young, quaking, sheds his robe. (I look to the polished concrete walls to defuse my anxiety, this is a space, an art space)
Beethoven music seems to be playing, the tempo rising with the beads of sweat on our foreheads forming. Change pose! Change!
My eyes rove appropriately. He is an Eakins, a little knock-kneed.
These drawings suck, they're like dance on paper.
As the autumn leaves change we grow better and wiser.
We argue over music choices. The model falls asleep during the long poses.
We have Pavlovian responses in our art and we
eat bananas while we are told what to do.
Natalie rubs Sasha's doughy, pimpled back when we are critiquing.
Breaktimes I see Sasha nuzzle Natalie's fleshy neck
On the walls of the girls' bathroom I see the phrase "One day the carrot, freshly observed, will spark a revolution."
But maybe that just means we'll spin our wheels a little harder.

reading lists and whatnot

2009-12-14T07:01:00.007-05:00

A Charlie Brown Christmas soundtrack playing through the last week/probably until Christmas, Existentialism paper due tomorrow (procrastinating like this!), English final on Tuesday, History of Hollywood paper due at the final on Thursday.

I find myself missing places I barely went to.

I want to go to Battery Park. I want to be on the bridge on the Pond, Snow Falling On Cedars beside me (The experience, not the book. Though I probably should read the book at some point soon.)

I'm going to read!:

Lolita
Gravity's Rainbow
Everything Is Illuminated
Tender Is the Night (finally!)
Sometimes a Great Notion
and whatever else comes my way.

I'm going to go sledding uptown. I'm going to Williamsburg where all the hipsters will have their scarves out...

I'm going to see all my friends...

organisms

2009-12-12T17:20:00.005-05:00

Someone told me yesterday
that there are organisms in the clouds,
and I listened intently,
but in my mind all I could see
was a ghost, trapped inside a pillow of
water vapour,
never to escape.

Then that night I dreamt
I was on a balcony with someone unfamiliar,
someone who doesn't really exist,
feeling it given back to me,
and once received,
this odd sensibility never left.

And now I don't feel anymore like
a poor defenseless creature
with wings caught inside a
lovely soft tempered cage.
Now it is a temporary bed,
a snug hold for innervation while I'm out
learning what I can about
organisms in the clouds.

sumatran rabbit (from faults in the ground, we broke ground together)

2009-11-29T03:22:00.002-05:00

come home now, please. this morning…
this morning has made you a martyr and I’m not sure
I quite understand what you’ve become. I considered you
my God for a second, there,
and I want you to come home now, please.
I don’t want science to eat you alive
because I don’t like it when you’re sad,
I don’t want anything to break you, please.

please.

this was bargained for. we came out from the shrubbery together,
do you remember that? nothing was perfect.
the human quality walked all over me, and the human qualification stared
“are you empty? are you empty yet? because they let me drive this angel here
and I’m not leaving until I get what I want.
to be close with politicians is one thing, but
I’m fucking working with heaven.”

I want to see you become whole again,
I quite understand what you’ve become but I’m not sure of the human element.
I want to see you,
become so whole again
but I’m comfortable where I am.
I'm so comfortable where I am.

anna bradley (single)

2009-11-24T06:04:00.014-05:00

anna bradley - single.

download it from tamur records!

who caress

2009-11-21T00:58:00.003-05:00

when you are my siamese twin of safety for the night and i turn to the left and it's you and somehow it's as if we had always been together this way and somehow i forget your name

who caress

when with no human words for each other, only the glow of the splendor in the smoked grass, when i look upon your dewy lamb's face and not see you tall but see both our spirits so small in this big place

who caress

when we make strange on the sheets (it's called ostranenie in russian but my gyno won't tell me that) and we fail to notice skin against skin and the most intimate time is seeing your eyelashes flutter in your sleep

who caress
it's your guess

Sins

2009-11-09T21:27:00.004-05:00

I lost the sins to a cycle
to a city, to an indistinct
body of holy water.
You can love anything.
You can drown in anything.
Pounds of pressure for the eyes.
Floating down
slowly and presently.
The vapors of history
making clouds above
the water above my head,
obscuring the heavens and
flooding future rivers.
With an olive branch
to feel my way
around the ocean floor
looking for peace.

chicken slaughter

2009-11-08T02:57:00.006-05:00

Look at yoooou, little chicken.
My sweet honey pie
Best lay-er of the co'
I'd hug and squeeze you close to me
But it's time for you to go.

I clamped your silky feathers to the ground
As I gave you a taste of the sweet knife.
Blood and iron mix, the air is wet, permeated.
The shudder snuffs out your life.

The petticoats of feathers stick to skin, gummy and thin
As if removing them was not meant to be.
Long neck a slithering member
I reach in and tear out this visceral animal.

Skinny and pink now, shaking a little in death
You're strange and disgusting to me (that face, beak silenced, caked in blood)
I throw you on the heap with the rest of them
Pale pink, stiff, plump and protrusive.
And all the while little Nikita cries.

angora rabbit (from the sounds we make the sounds we make when millions)

2009-11-07T23:10:00.002-05:00

these children of God will work and play tonight, and sleep in beams, work in
droves, the way that you used to; and my silver hands, like functioning junctions
of arms will rust and fold over, the only way that I’m used to;
they told me when you grew up you’d,
be a forest fire, like it hadn’t been enough to tell me that when you grew up,
you’d run my soul to the ground, like that wasn’t enough.
wouldn’t it have been okay wouldn’t it have been enough wouldn’t
it have been okay?

dayenu.

all it takes is a second of silence wouldn’t it have been
enough to just quiet for a moment?
a second is enough, wouldn’t it have been okay;
wouldn’t it have been enough?
they told me you would be okay, like it hadn’t been enough
when you decided you’d be okay on your own.

qué fragilidad.

when you watch the mechanics of an aircraft
you see the sheer miracle in its consistency.
they say politicians should be consistent, firm, and educated
but all I want is balance.

Toxins

2009-11-06T01:16:00.005-05:00

Bongsmoke, an acquired taste, I says to Samuel I says. Before you know it the water's cooled and the horizon's inverted into mourning. Coffee grounds now, heaped and quartered, a bitter American dream I've so maturely resigned myself to, practically scowling as I toss that painful Nicaraguan day-heat down my throat. The paraphenalia of our lives becomes dirty and internal as we age. With the skunk-thick smoke back, your plume drifted luridly past, I looked up and said hello.

"i love LA"

2009-11-05T23:37:00.004-05:00

Warped cold wood,
Stinging breeze, flowing past for no reason -
A butterfly was shot down with a wingspan of 6-ft 5
A big problem, you could say.
Watch as i lounge - altar time,
to free one's self from the grip of the girl who doesn't
recognize your brilliance - Jude,
get the fuck out of there! She's going
to kill you - she's going to leave home, she does not
love you, whispering
"I love Los Angeles" while you decipher its creepy secrets,
you are ready for it to close up. Talking on the phone, crying
for the people that she has not really lost but are
really waiting for you, darkest night
of infinite resignation.
Fated, you resign,
indefinitely.

2009-11-03T18:56:00.000-05:00

best new music

2009-10-28T16:41:00.006-04:00

The sun does not shine on; in Berkeley there is no sunrise.

Standing on rocks, in your basketball shoes,
whisper in a foreign air,
take off your country veil,
and drip your words in my ears.

Pop music is sad, and i love it so much.
I'm your Billboard bottom bilge
a 5.0, not
a 0.9 even.

I have a hard time believing this is
all for nothing. I've been
walking up and down hills forever
searching for the sunrise.

In Oakland, when we emerged from the trash heaps your
face was alighted on the freeways of the area
and I threw a tennis ball down between the high
ways,
the weirdest sex life on earth would not take back
all the right moves I've made towards you.

When drunk I close my eyes and try to get the world
not to shake, the one star visible from my room,
the south star. what star is this? star me, kitten. i feel better almost already,
this building devoid of the kind of soft feline presence of Mexico.

January Twelve, Two Thousand and Eight

2009-10-28T02:34:00.003-04:00

life/death

2009-10-28T02:29:00.001-04:00

aak

2009-10-25T15:39:00.001-04:00

and the northern tropic was where the day began; “at noon it happens; the sun appears directly overhead. June solstice.” a wan grin betrays an austere chuckle, you still look a little like God. I’ve stilled mastery; the powers of human containment. (in all technicality, we are lying in tangents to people of power. to the tune of 23° 26’ 22” north of the equator) in all technicality I consider myself its sibling. yr understanding of perfection falls chiplessly but leaves a seemingly randomized dancetté; I am lizard tough skin. I am saw-teeth on a half-breed canvas. the tropic of Cancer, the northernmost point, has no manner of insulting what’s below. Capricorn’s a friend when it can be said/I embody perfection. infidelity. one day we can build a mechanical sun/one day my eyes will reflect you, and you still look a little like God. I suppose we can be similar; I am saw-teeth on a half-breed canvas with no flaws.

Sophisticated Problem

2009-10-19T17:17:00.002-04:00

"lighters tend to walk away
with people, Alex."

there is a pause

"let's say our name at the
end of every sentence
when we speak, Alex."
-I'll try, Alex.

we have the same
name. she likes that.
it is her hook into my skull.
it is smoky chess and tug of war.
strength. strategy.
we must know each other
conquer each other

it is hard to see that when you are
stoned.
harder to see when you are
not.
we all hook each other to play
social.

there are people
strangers and friends
on mushrooms, on ecstasy,
of course on THC
and on other chemicals,
the lingo of which
will date too quickly
to immortalize
in ink.
they're a part of society. this
society. tin bomb shelters
from the conquest.

despite extensive small talk, I
really can’t tell how high they are.
or who's winning. or if anyone
wins.

in general, the room is
lighter-spark yellow.
my lighter
stolen, I figure,
maybe lost to the clutter-décor.
cavemen did not have this problem
upon domestication of fire:
“who has a lighter?”
what a sophisticated problem.

Alex and her friend
go outside to smoke
cigarettes, and some people
smoke inside anyway.
move on,
on to new people.
heavy and empty,
their talk is
cage-like
lead.

"how are you"
"I haven't heard a word out of you."
"how are you"
“how are you”

I can't tell
how I am
nor anything else.

but Bridget says,
based on seconds of nothing,
"you're a really nice person."

Rastaman tells me, though
I don’t believe him about the first part,
"she's a lesbian for sure." and
"there's too much dick in here."

I remember being in my
often empty backyard
of my rarely empty house
sucking off cigarettes and
brown-gray coffee
like teenagers do,
looking for inspiration
on who I ought
to be.

how did I end up
here with the street-hip
socialites of this building,
where trendy books,
semi-exotic candles,
strings of sky light
on the wall, and
my new lighter
all bear silent witness
to silent parties?

an announcement:
"you guys can
drink
the
beer.
that's what it's there for."

a rumble through the door
from the porch.

the hook
hooks deeper

Eric is here
dressed, inexplicably,
in a suit. He
does not know why
either, but he believes in it’s
cool unique (attention-hungry)
virtue.
"would I be a martyr
if I die?"
-you mean when you die
...you would be a martyr

for suits
for the 40s
for blue Christmas lights
for matches on the coffee table
for unread books
for smoking on the porch
for "fuck it - I'll smoke where I want."
for a simple mess on the floor
for the artistry of pipe and bong glasswork
it all has worth.

Everything in her
apartment, number seven,
a result of so many
nothings.

a television turns on
it says:

nevertheless
most of the mass
in an atom
is in the nucleus.
the electrons are,
by comparison,
just bits
of
fluff.
atoms are mainly
empty space.
matter is composed
chiefly
of
nothing.

last night i dreamt i killed a bee

2009-10-16T16:28:00.010-04:00

All my favourite poets are American,
that is to say,
brash, wild, reckless (you count).
I don't like to Kill either, so,
perhaps,
I should embark on that Most american of journeys and become
a Vegetarian.
But I'd
hate to miss out on anything.

pop music is sad

2009-10-08T07:06:00.005-04:00

Don't Worry Baby - The Beach Boys
Let's Get Out Of This Country - Camera Obscura
That Joke Isn't Funny Anymore - The Smiths
No Children - The Mountain Goats
Mine's Not A High Horse - The Shins
Canada - Themselves & WHY?
Skinny Love - Bon Iver
Walkabout (ft. Noah Lennox) - Atlas Sound
Beach Comber - Real Estate
The Book Of Right-On - Joanna Newsom
Motion Picture Soundtrack - Radiohead

Semotics

2009-10-01T01:54:00.004-04:00

Grace was a woman politicized
You could see it as she flew on by.
Everything she wore or displayed
Had a meaning beyond its humble frame.
Aqua eyeliner to the eyes – cosmeticism
Putting aside childish things – adultism
Baseball card clipped to the bike wheel – her nostalgia-ism
But there was a boy named Max with green eyes
He could build worlds with his lovelorn sighs
Grace had tattoos on her thighs and he loved them.

Tang

2009-09-27T21:48:00.007-04:00

My eyes alight upon semi-permeable skin
in a lovely diary -
I'm trying to find
New York in her eyes
(in her eyes).

Washing down my skin and my sins,
in a foam container, lifted up
in pot smoke -
cupped inside
a lemon vial.

I've got more to say,
don't leave me alone.
I'm sore, and sure, today,
that I'll always measure you in rags.

Cold shore breathing,
In 'N Out on the banks of a dark Pacific wave.
Cut up sleeping,
In the dank basement of an old American store,
where they found the bones.

At the age of eighteen,
in a national park,
the bear took him in both paws,
and lay him down.

Kaleidoscopic in the back of my mind,
we started walking home,
we both smelled just like before,
the piercing tang
of petrichor.

Things

2009-09-02T04:07:00.003-04:00

Aluminum foil, pen, half gram of tar
and travel-sized Listerine.
From the park bench he yelled
I've been living fuckloads today
and then laid his body down over the rails
meant to prevent the bums from sleeping
and to keep hookers on their heels.
For the next hour and a half
unable to tell if he slept well or at all
itching on denim to check his pockets
for his shit, Leland
of East Jesus Inland Empire waited for
some literary salvation.

A few games with the boys;
company's promotional frisbee;
Drew's hacky sac.
All punctuated by cigarette breaks.
Adam had a 32oz in a pure brown bag.
Thomas had an orange sneak-a-toke too.
And you and them and I
won’t know what to experience
until we’ve lived fuckloads.

Recycling Song

2009-08-22T18:15:00.007-04:00

Distant horcrux of the viscount. Pontiacs with their strange and noble names crumpled mashed and compacted into Pepsi cans. The brains of a king pass through the guts of a nobler man. Roasting some chestnuts wrapped in tinfoil, he subconsciously participates in the breakdown of the Bad Old Soul. You can do a song and dance about this without even realizing the subversion of your extraversion. How now, brown cow? How now, machine gun bailout? There's an artillery in our movements these days that I find exciting. But eventually we will become the same as the last thing.

4:35 AM

2009-08-22T05:20:00.008-04:00

On a damp, sweaty day, I wake,
staring at the ceiling.
Save for the gentle roars of hollow noise erupting
from somewhere distant,
though that could turn out to just be in my head,
I can feel a pulse exude from the air
through me, and
into the floor.

This sound fills my legs,
and arms,
and fingers,
and bone marrow.

It is a deep, rumbling,
bubbling up from the most dire catastrophe;
and a simple melody sitting above
the quagmire
is the soft "thwack" of my cats' tails
as they trawl through the vast landfill
that pools around my body.

My nakedness hides nothing but my gross obesity,
and I house a mad thought of explosion,
before it disappears.
Just another
residue of a fermented dream.

a contemplative youth

2009-08-08T02:20:00.000-04:00

Shaking Hand - Women
In Limbo - Radiohead
The Face Of The Earth - The Dismemberment Plan
Gentle Moon - Sun Kil Moon
Almost Crimes - Broken Social Scene
Disconnect the Dots - Of Montreal
Like Dylan In The Movies - Belle & Sebastian
Primitive Painters - Felt
The Sound of Settling - Death Cab for Cutie
William, It Was Really Nothing - The Smiths
Sovereignty - Japandroids

to eloquence!

2009-08-08T02:16:00.004-04:00

Get Me Away From Here, I'm Dying - Belle & Sebastian
Fatalist Palmistry - Why?
Death To Los Campesinos! - Los Campesinos!
Shoplifters Of The World Unite - The Smiths
Someone Great - LCD Soundsystem
You Should All Be Murdered - Another Sunny Day
Don't Let The Fire Fool! - Lily Konigsberg
Our Change Into Rain Is No Change At All (Talkin' 'Bout Us) - A Sunny Day In Glasgow
The Jitters - The Dismemberment Plan

nervous

2009-08-04T12:18:00.015-04:00

DOWNLOAD IT HERE.

Artwork by Kipling & Raith Penney.

Mastering by Joe Plourde of tamur records.

Special thanks to Misha Harminov, Alex Kehr, Will Bennett, Nick Jenkins, Jess Schiff.

All songs written by Kipling.

to all the groovy hepcats

2009-07-23T03:04:00.002-04:00

A Phobia

2009-07-17T01:21:00.004-04:00

My biggest fear as a child, for some reason, was that a mouse was going to crawl into my bed and bite me.
What a surprise, then, when my grandmother decided it was time to show me the secret of her eternal youth when I was at her house the weekend before July 4th.
She led me into her bedroom, past the peeling wallpaper and whirligigs,
and whipped back the wilting sheets
underneath were millions of squealing mice
weirdly I did not recoil.
"My enemies keep me fighting and young," she said proudly.
I guess my phobia is hereditary then.

The Dealer

2009-07-17T01:10:00.007-04:00

Mario Romero is a drug dealer
he sells ersatz nostalgia,
for fifty dollars a pop.

tell him yr pleasure:

midnightwalks.

rolling over in your sleep...

(fiery thoughts of incest)

he does not claim to ruin anybody's life,
and if anybody asks,

he isn't home.

The Dealer

2009-07-17T00:59:00.005-04:00

George Kerrey is an art dealer
he deals specifically in the human predicament.
his favorite piece is entitled "untitled"
the materials are a copy of the National Inquirer from June 25, 2009 and the artist's boogers
he also boasts to owning a bottle of baby oil squeezed from 25,000 live succulent babies
he's off to auction at Christie's in August
"I know a good deal when I see one," he says.

11:16 PM

2009-07-17T00:52:00.005-04:00

stink breath,
nose clogged.
it's hard to be
around him.

tail between legs,
dirty nails,
the bad
sort of kid.

tar stained,
yellow fingers -
imagine them
around your throat.

carnal pleasures,
his only love -
his hand
movies on TV.

greasy hair,
acidic smell.
an atmosphere of
sick lusting.

sickening sweet,
mocking smile -
inflicting himself
on the innocent.

but however disgusting -
as sick as you make us,
playing our weaknesses,
wounding us deeply,

at least you're
not
them.

Mechanisms

2009-07-17T00:41:00.004-04:00

I've spent these days sinking in my own bathwater
An untouchable daughter stretching to run aground.
A mind self-destructive in its self-defense,
I turn away in deference,
but it's too late I see you – you, you float like an angel.

serif

2009-07-17T00:40:00.004-04:00

this leather jacket is an anchor,
still sinking -
you've more soul than
the average girl.

you're too smart for your own good,
baby,
you can deal with it all
on your own.

i take forty five baths,
every evening, yet
it seems
i can never get clean.

metaphorically speaking,
this all just becomes
a release
of a current of words.

nervous

2009-07-10T13:30:00.004-04:00

my second ep is almost done! you can hear one of the tracks right now on the myspace if you so wish to, or you can wait till it's released on tamur.records in higher quality/without compression!

it's higher fidelity/recording quality than are you a young rebel, which i have a bunch of people to thank for, not least of whom is joe plourde, who mastered/is still currently mastering the songs!

check it out

skirts

2009-03-17T02:56:00.004-04:00

exploding outward in a field of
light, heat-
sharp, like the nib
of a pen
but not like a pencil
at all.

expanding so that all that i
can see are
the tiny threads
woven by a tiny
creature
[every one authentic spider silk!]

maybe nothing will happen

but now she knows my name.

pa kids you better not puss out again

2009-03-15T20:27:00.028-04:00

my parents are out of town. for ten days. i have free reign to do whatever the fuck i want for the next ten days (and a free house! come stay with me!). therefore, last night, i ventured into the perilous town of valley stream, in long island, to play a show with slothbear, aka THE BEST BAND EVAR, and crabagado, a band from new jersey emerging from the ashes of alex and the horribles.

i boarded the train at 6 and got to the house of ian miniero (slothbear's drummer) at around 7:30. after i was assured that these people that i had only known over the internet were harmless indie rock bros like myself, i got settled in and started to bond with the newly-met-in-person doug bleek, craig heed, josh ginsberg, and the aforementioned ian, who was kind enough to allow anna and crabagado to play his basement along with slothbear.

at around 8:20, after a quite fruitful trip to 7/11 and some stupendous scrumptious delicious cookies, i began my set.

it was:

a voracious appetite
i never learn
lux mundi/breakhouse
collapse
damage
perfume
chronic
cats
the hunger
nervous/the hunger reprise

it was a good set. i didn't have drums, which made me a little less energetic than i usually am while playing, but doug from slothbear got onto the drums at the end of the set which infused some good ol' fashioned rawk into the ending, and by that time there had gathered in the small basement space we were performing in about 15 people, so it was getting to be a good crowd (for the size of the room).

anna bradley myspace
are you a young rebel ep

then, crabagado played. their guitarist, tom, was nice enough to lend me the use of his fender tube amp (i'm not sure of the exact model, but it was beautiful-sounding), and they turned out to be quite good.

a mixture of punk and pavement, of shoegaze and hardcore, the set was a lot of fun, and one could tell that they were on the heels of something really original and new after the old band broke up. they also had quite an energy and really seemed in tune with each other's musical ideas.

crabagado myspace
crabagado blogspot

then came the musical juggernaut that is SLOTHBEAR. despite one of their guitarists having a cut finger, the show was tremendous, a real blast for all concerned. the two frontmen sang and oooh-ed, the hooks and hits flew, the guitars shredded, and the rhythm section was like an entity in itself, ebbing and flowing smoothly while the songs blew by.

the highlights included "olio/djam", a rocking epic in which frontman josh wailed over dueling guitars, culminating in an impressive display of musicality between the bass and the two guitars, playing harmonizing melodies over a staggering beat.

"pa kids", requested by yours truly, is a song about "masturbating in library". oh, teenage sorrow. starting off with a loud, indie rock breakdown, it soon turns into a bass-driven, catchy-as-fuck, rhythmic hookfest.

their closer was also inspiring - "little qid", an introspective letter from the band to a younger generation, revealed a lot about the racket these guys were making. their songs are all about youth. the joys, the tragedies, the confusion and the dramatic crescendos, and the noise.

SLOTHBEAR, in my opinion, are best described as as alex from crabagado did - "animal collective backed by dinosaur jr.". ferocious dueling guitars and singable melodies alternately sung and yelled over feedback, noise, a ton of alternate tunings, and a virtuosic rhythm section.

SLOTHBEAR's first ep is up for download right now. GET IT. "qids", their full-length album, will be released soon, and i really can't wait to hear it.

slothbear myspace
slothbear ep
spotblog

FRIENDS

2009-03-11T20:03:00.003-04:00

sunshower orphans
layne montgomery
slothbear
le rug
eskimeaux
cameron wisch//zona mexicana
radiates
br'er
brandon can't dance
mike emmerich

LISTEN TO THEM BEFORE THEY EXPLODE AND ARE TOO BIG FOR YOU, YOU JADED HIPSTER SCUM

kipling

5:22 PM

2009-03-11T17:12:00.000-04:00

one evening I woke up,
the stale dead taste of Sleep
in my mouth.
my eyes refused to light,
and confronted with this
i knew why.

i envisioned it all perfectly,
through bars of poetry and hands
on the Clock.
the reasons, five, six, seven,
to be, to have, to want, to love, at last
it was clear.

but before I had the chance
to write of this gained Knowledge,
i lost it.
my eyes decided to emerge,
stubbornly, and the idea
was gone.

the sublime feeling of total entropy
chaos marked only by periods
of intense Silence.
surviving, in the aftermath
realization dawns, I am grateful
to be ignorant.

LISTEN UP

2009-03-09T20:11:00.001-04:00

ANABADLI IS TAKING AUDITIONS FOR A SPOUSE/REALLY GOOD MUSICIAN - CLICK ON ME

~~ANYONE IS WELCOME~~

EDIT - I TAKE IT BACK. I WILL ONLY TAKE YOU IF YOU LOOK OR SOUND LIKE ONE OF THESE PEOPLE:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WzrUdZT8eXc&

are you a young rebel?

2009-02-20T16:48:00.003-05:00

hey everybody, i don't know who reads this, if anybody, but for those who might, i have a new ep which i performed and recorded under the name anna bradley, called are you a young rebel? it was mastered by julian bennett holmes of fiasco (http://www.myspace.com/fiasconewyork), and the crazy cool cover art and the title are courtesy craig heed of slothbear (http://www.myspace.com/fuckinslothbear)

i'm releasing it for free on the internet, but i'll also be making a limited run of actual, honest-to-goodness CDs, with jackets and everything. you can download it in mp3 format at the following link.

are you a young rebel? from tamur records.

for the record, she thinks she is.

it is because i write

2008-12-31T20:43:00.000-05:00

escape came so fast that year that by the middle of summer the airconditioning had exploded and everyone was asleep by three in the afternoon. i was taking the afternoon shift trying desperately to keep my eyes open when a stranger entered the compound. she was gorgeous and carried a silver blade on a chain.

taking the knife-edge she cut through the glass and released one of my inner demons. the room grew slightly colder and a black hooded creature scuttled into the room on all-fours. i shuddered and glanced at my monster. while thusly distracted, i was easy prey for the blade: it found its target fast. even as it sank into me, i looked into her and i could not stop.

my demon sat on the wood slats on the floor. it was anger. it grew stronger and stronger as the blade went in and out, weaving through ribs and muscle and blood. the simple fact of the horrible being's presence made me feel calm, cool, collected, relaxed until finally, she looked back at me exasperated

"why can't you die?!" she screamed.

"shit, i wish i knew." while i said this, anger looked at me with black sockets. triumph grew in the dark circles. it had won at last. the room dissolved into smoke and i lost consciousness.

********

ivy had grown all over the compound by the time i finally woke. the carcass of anger lay on the ground in front of me. i wiped the sleep from my eyes gathered my notebook and my pen and i left.

for all the courageous dictators

2008-12-26T03:54:00.000-05:00

please ignore me i can feel you hurt me and i want you to breathe in because it makes me feel good.

please control me by being so cold and nobody can touch you because you have no soul.

enigma is attractive but it's not the thing that draws me, up and over in the sidecar as you plow us off the cliff.

tell me what you want because i can never tell and sometimes you come in for it but then draw back again.

********

you seem confused as to what you want to do with me, well, i'm a little doll you have in your hands -

cut my strings now dear, you are my puppeteer and i can hear you sinking right inside of the wood.

you're really something dear you hate everything but everybody loves you - and your blood.

get away from me don't contaminate me - everything is changing and it's happening so soon.

portrait

2008-12-26T03:52:00.001-05:00

"Watch this next one!" She yells out, when
We're both good and drunk.
Slightly clumsy but mostly divine,
Ready to lead the hunt.

Her hair frames her face like a portrait of May,
A carefree vision of peace.
Raucously singing the songs of our age,
And stepping outside to breathe.

Bodies colliding, the music plays on,
I don't take my eyes from la belle.
She's glancing back shyly and I see a smile,
Words of a broken shell -

I hear the sea when she's walking away,
Lithe as a cat on a sill -
We're both as maligned as that same sea,
By those who've had to pay.

Attraction is strong as a vice,
Clamping us together.
But however tightly we may be bound,
I just don't see forever.

burning like an angel

2008-12-26T03:47:00.000-05:00

cut your wretched heart if
it will make you feel a little better
i am covered with your daughter's blood and
i could never get clean
i broke her shell and i broke her glasses and
i set myself beside her
i wiped off my clothes and i wiped off my jacket and
she broke down and kissed me

check your watch the night is soon
take off your clothes embrace the moon
walk off the lunch embrace the food
now everyone's a looney toon
blow things up inspire havoc
but always keep your faith in danger
watch the clock and don't be late
your hair is burning like an angel

hold my hand and tell me i'm fine

[i never will be that bad]

tell me that you love me and it'll be okay

[we're all going to die alone someday]

lunar conspiracy, my head is a tuner
and the world has gone awry.
but no one could mess with
my perfect noblesse
your little girl has
started to cry.

for ginsberg and kubrick

2008-12-24T03:10:00.000-05:00

smash the sun
brake, the moon!
throw your international space stations
and hubble telescopes
straight into the fiery mass!

hold me tighter, Jupiter!
don’t let me fall.
it only took two months
for us to
break the engagement.

he had to find God, he said -
i didn’t understand -
i told him, i said,
“Pay attention, Charles,
I AM God.”

under the balloons

2008-12-24T02:19:00.000-05:00

and then it was breakfast under the balloons.
the growing light of the sun pulsated, as slowly, things began to move.
the whirring of machinery, cranky at being stirred from sleep, exploded the night with metallic shrieking.

then came the smells.
some were unpleasant, some so vibrant one would stand for hours next to frank's popcorn booth to get just one whiff.

as the sun rose higher into the blue, men and women took the final rounds to greet their neighbours.

then it was time.
the brave, uniformed people took their places.
some were gluing bottles together, some speeding up beloved rodents in huge iron boxes.
the bullhorn signalled the opening of the doors - the race had begun.

good morning how are you

2008-12-24T02:09:00.000-05:00

[inspired by Good Morning, a song by the Crayons]

"what a nice day."

"i don't think so, it's going to rain."

"but how does that prevent it from being nice?
aren't we supposed to be wet?
that is how we came into being."

"and cold and on the ground."

"of course."

then the sky explodes.

set fire to the clouds
break the title card

"i put your heart on ice for a moment."

"oh, thank you!"

"anytime."

"it was getting a bit hot around here."

the haze

blocks everything.

the last time

2008-12-24T01:59:00.000-05:00

the last time I saw [ ] was
san francisco in
'99
she told me
"kiss me, it's the end,
we're all going to
die."
i stood there
without saying
anything,
for the rest of the century
(i think it was 12 minutes.)

maybe life would have been
different if i
had done her bidding.
i hear she's
doing well.
married a doctor right out of college.

i wonder if she's still attractive.

the only other thing
that i can remember
about [ ] is sitting
in the basement,
drinking vodka,
screaming
at the top
of our lungs.

anna bradley

2008-12-24T01:32:00.001-05:00

"I hear she's a whore." Sean said.

"Where'd you hear that?", I asked.

"Armand. Heard she's sleeping with that old bastard Fieldston." On saying this, Sean took another liberal drink from his tumbler and sighed. "Wish I had some tits. Could use some of the old man's money."

I didn't know much about Anna Bradley. I'd seen her once or twice, playing tennis at the club, but beyond her saffron coloured towel (meticulously folded), her neat glass of orange juice (and an innocuous flask of tequila), and legs that went up to Heaven (and back); I didn't know her at all.

"I'm sure she isn't in it for the money. Anyway, that's a rumour. It means nothing." I said this matter-of-factly, but what did I know? Anna was an attractive girl. Dark blonde hair that fell like a mane around the curves of her shoulders; supple, defined breasts, and - I've already mentioned her legs, haven't I? It made sense that in a world where a woman is valued only with money in her pockets that she would go after Fieldston.

"I wouldn't mind getting my hands on her. I've heard about some of the scratches on his back..." Sean grinned widely.

I put down my drink and frowned. There had to be more to this woman's life than drinking, fucking, and tennis.