i'm working on a gangster story. i suppose it's influenced by all the du wop i've been listening to, my fascination with film noir, old crime comics and my longing to make something dirty and raw and nobodys filthier than old time, hooch hustling, dirty no good ex cons.. the story (which i'm trying to make novel length is tentatively titled STRAY DOG TOWN - ya can get away with anything when ya young . consists of short stories detailing the exploits of despicable human beings. however, there's always a little bit of shine even in the dirtiest hunk of shit. i tried to shine a little light into the sewers. the ones you step right over everyday in the cities on your way to work, the subway, hell, your drugs, your misery, your life.
Introduction of The Morning Star
"How you have fallen from heaven, morning star, son of the dawn! You have been cast down to the earth, you who once laid low the nations! You said in your heart, 'I will ascend to the heavens; I will raise my throne above the stars of God; I will sit enthroned on the mount of assembly, on the utmost heights of Mount Zaphon. I will ascend above the tops of the clouds; I will make myself like the Most High.' But you are brought down to the realm of the dead, to the depths of the pit. Those who see you stare at you, they ponder your fate: 'Is this the man who shook the earth and made kingdoms tremble, the man who made the world a wilderness, who overthrew its cities and would not let his captives go home?'"
it was rainin feral cats and rabid fuckin dogs. it was late. so fucking late. if you squinted and craned your neck, looked towares the dead, flatlined horizon, you could almost see the faint flicker of pre dawn.. or perhaps it was drowning moonlight being swept away, off the enda the fuckin world. he was on the bridge, oblivious, no, more that he didn't particularily give a fuck about the torrential downpour. maybe he found it to be clensing. god knows that partciularily sorry fuck had a lot that needed to be washed away... he stood in the center of the bridge.. no cars, not a soul in sight. the fires in the hobo camp below it had long since dwindled.. even the smoke had vanished and joined the ghosts of the dead metropolis. the river was black and silent. no stars were reflected innit.. if there was any they sunk into the fuckin tarpit.. and across the water.. the waves didn't crash on the shore. they rolled softly like a dirty old carpet.
and the buildings? the monolithic skyline? steel cocks that fuck the slut of a night sky? they were blackened, hiding in their own shadow, limp and flacid in the silent night.. every light was off.
was it the end of the world?
had he been walkin so fucking long he missed the end of it all?
he was born Michelangelo.
but everyone knows him as the Morning Star.
the dead that is. well, the very soon to be dead. he tells the unlucky ones he's torturing before he kills them all about himself, his namesake and a whole buncha other grisly fuckin shit. he's got the time. he's a perfectionist. he takes his time with his killings. it's all he's got.
it's his fuckin love.
it's his fuckin poetry.
it's his fuckin god.
his fuckin punkrock.
in a perfect world, no one snitches and nobody fuckin bullshits ya. but nothings perfect. not even god. and this world? it's worse than fuckin shit. it's the shit that a shit would shit. and if it was left for a few million years ta ferment. that's how earth was created. shit shitting shit shitting shit shitting shit. that's how humans came ta be. everybody lies. everyone bullshits. no ones word means shit.
there souls are smeared with shit
that's why the gangsters hired the Morning Star. he made anyone talk. some were easier than others. his reputation preceded him and the victims didn't need much coaxing to talk. most people who believe in integrity, dignity, ones "word", loyalty, friendship, all that FUCKING shit would be pretty depressed at how quickly everyone cracks under the makeshift barbed wire nooses, pencil iron maidens, other instruments that will remain left to the recesses of a degenerate types imagination.. grown men, on their knees like a 42nd street queer in a bathroom stall, fuckin beggin, givin up their own mothers, wives, anyone, just for a chance to live another fuckin day.
if they told him what he needed to know it would be quick 'n relatively painless. if not he would torture them slowly and as excruciatingly as possible. pain that far exceedes anything the mind can concieve. most people, in fact everyone who hasn't been smited by the Morning Star have no reference point to even try to comprehend how one would feel during these unimaginably agonizing moments.
how could ya know? have you ever been nailed to a wall by your tongue, doused in gasoline and left there for days, just awaiting the inevitable flames to wrap around you and burn everything that is you and leave you alone in pain and then nothingness? consume your flesh and memories, loves and soul?
no, you wouldn't be able to acurately imagine that kinda pain. wouldn't show that sort of suffering the humbling awe and respect it deserves. no one would. Except for Tommy Gun Sullivan. he was doing a whole lotta fuckin talking when he got locked up on a grand theft auto charge. he hadda scroll of a fuckin rapsheet and it was lookin like this time the piggies had him cornered. he was gonna have to do some serious fuckin time upstate. at least a dime before he could face the parole board. none of the little few month vacations in the cushy county jail. that sorry bastard was gonna be workin the chain gang by day and takin it deep up the ass at night.
but he left straight from the precincy without a mark on 'im, smokin a big ol' fuckin cigarette, hands in his pockets.. the fuck might as wella been whistling and swingin a goddamn cane around.. whistlin dixie wit his cock in 'is fuckin hand.
it didn't take a fuckin genuis to figure that the bastard squawked. thankfully he was a small time little shit so he was never told any of the lucrative business ventures, nothing too incrimating.. that a little bit a money couldn't smooth right over. grease a few fuckin palms but it was still money that didn't need to be spent. it coulda been avoided. would have ta be. because, he had said somethin, and for that he would never say another gaddamn motherfuckin word!
The Morning Star was sittin in his apartment waitin for the sorry fuck ta walktz right on in. he was sittin on the love seat. perfect fuckin posture. latex gloves on. nice suit on too. sad, empty night black jacket with a button down grey.. grey, so dead and fuckin ashen grey shirt.
him: can i beg?
MS (morningstar) : course ya can beg. how can i stop ya?
him: please sir. (drops to knees. walks closer towards the Morning Star on his knees) I don't wanna die. I don't know what this is about. but i'm sorry. sorry as all fuck. i dunno. please. don't hurt me. don't kill me!
he looks up. he sees morning stars eyes for the first time. the fuck stops begging.
him: this is pointless. i'm going to die right? and you're going to kill me?
MS: yes. i am
him: but my girl. i can't leave her alone. i promised. please man. please. what about her?
MS: i won't hurt her. dunno what the fucks gonna happen to ya ladyfriend. i won't lie to ya. that's one thing i won't do. i can promise I won't hurt her.
him: what are you going to do with me?
MS: I'm going to pull you apart. leave you in bloody fucking pieces. (stubs out cigarette on coffee table. pulls out another one. looks at it and lights it after contemplating something no one will know but him.)
him: please (sobs rise. orchestral and rich with emotion. it gets harder n' harder ta feel but he's feelin it now. fuck yeah he is. fuck yeah. they always are) please just let me go. i'll do FUCKING anything! (pisses pants. smells like shit to. probably shit. but he'll shit the rest out post-mortem)
MS: you fear it.. death.. ya don't gotta.. ya really don't. it's that way on account a ya don't know death like ya know life. i'll tell ya something that I truly hope gives you some form of comfort, I mean it. I swear (cross his heart and hope ta die. the fuck really means it).. i'll tell ya some things about it, ta help ya familiarize yourself with it. get acquainted to it. i'll tell ya something really fucked up and kinda creepy. way back in Roman times during the gladiator fights, after all the fightin and drinkin and sister fuckin were done, when all the paying customers escorted the arena, someone had to come out and finish off the mortally wounded gladiators and animals and slaves lying around in their filth n gore and shit. each one dying alone, writhin in the sand and sun fading and burning out behind the great coliseum. wish I coulda seen it. and that particular excecutionary/janitorial position required the individual to wear an interesting uniform... a hollowed out dead head of a bull, all decaying and deathly and terrifying as all unholy FUCK.. looked something like a minotaur. they carried an enormous hammer that came crashing down on the victims skull.. the whole shit caved in, musta looked like pumpkin guts, eyes n brains.. just a total pile of fuckin slop. slop that useta hold such wonderous thoughts, dreams and loves and such. none of that beautiful shit was left behind. just filth and gore and shit and puke and dirt. dirt turned to red muddy soup from the blood. wherever they went, they musta took the beautiful stuff with em. you're going there now too. I truly believe tyou're the lucky one. I gotta clean up ya shit.
there is mostly darkness and muffled screams. zebra striped moonlight and darkness projected through partially drawn blinds, the one bedroom partment was as filthy n' lonely as the man that had inhabited it.. in the end, shorty before dawn slipped in the back door unnoticed, last call for moonshine in the night sky of Gotham, there was silence, broken glass, and black blood. blood everywhere and on the floor, slightly outta the reach of the outstretched corpses hand was a picture of a woman who he had loved very much in life. he had promised to find her again in death and continue to love her forever. she was on the beach in the picture. sitting in the sand wearing a little polka dotted bikini...like the song, he had said. Coney Island. they were young. she stared outta that picture forever and fuckin ever I guess.
Wednesday, December 11, 2013
Thursday, October 31, 2013
attempts at noir
smoke fills the bar like low hanging ocean fog. cigarettes in every hand. handsome men either the clark gable type or the james dean type smoking and smirking shit eating grins chasing tail and cunt, slapping asses tight and shaped like the moon wolves howl ta, everyone is dressed in black but a few of the dames have on tight red dresses, red lipstick, hour glass figure don't shatter baby sand drips down in it but times stops in here yeah baby time stops in here no matter who you are you aint got nothing outside/
bartender behind the counter, black bowtie, moonlight pale skin and soft grey eyes, wipes some of the glasses dry with a kerchief he pulls from his back pocket, talks like gravel and new yawk callous "yeah. ya hear bout ernie? the cheap bastard has a tab here longer than that War and fucking Peace book" -"YA NEVER READ THAT BOOK RICHIE!" - "will ya shudup? it doint matter if i read the fucking book i know the damn thing is collosal! i'm saying the cheap bastard drank me outta house and home, owes me enough to wine and dine a super fucking model and have her tug my prick and put my nuts in her mouth and hum frank fucking sinatra tunes and the bastard has the balls to call me up collect at 4 in the fucking morning from rikers goddamn island, got stopped for taking a leak on someones front lawn and when the law patted the toothless wino fuck down they found a (voice slows down to softer gravel..like someone walking softly over broken glass) hypo and some of the morphine syrettes.. ya gotta slow down on peddalin that shit.. at least outta MY fucking bar!"- (the noise lowers to nothing more than a slight heartbeat. a loud voice from some unknown phantom overpowers it all. no one hears it. it is not there) : that's just a small snippet, a brushstroke on the painting of a bar you will never find in your town. they don't exist anymore. only in the dreams of the old men who sit handcuffed and at home in the bullpens, the top bunk in county jail, smoking top tobacco with an asshole fulla drugs and walking the yard up in attica, the old timers who remember the days when their was honor amongst criminals. how could you not learn to love someone you live in a cage with for years, spend 23 Christmases, turn the other way when the other one has to shit or jerk off, share your smokes, commisary, snacks, dreams, murderous revenge plots, fuck books, fuck dreams.. if the world is all in your mind, can't you bring yourself anywhere you wanna be? they would lay in their bunks and talk about when they were young and man, we would laugh so hard at the stories we'd tell we'd be hurtin in the bellies.. they were wrong. the motherfuckers were wrong. they locked us in cages but we grew. we found the light and we grew towards it. we were always free. we were always fucking free.
-everyone is drunk and laughing and stumbling and leaning on each other. everyone is dressed in black with white shirts underneath, white faces with black stubble, supple creamy milk legged girls hike up red skirts, black and red laced panties, a greaser with a motercycle jacket pulls hard on a cigarette, puts it out in her drink, takes it from her, chugs it, and kisses her hard like they were the only ones. adam and fucking eve.
-a man walks in. no one notices him but hes different from everyone else. his eyes hard color. they are green and his features are distinct, old fashioned. people don't look like him these days. only in old photos from the war. his hair is wet and he pulls out a pocketknife comb and slicks it back. he is wearing a pearl shark skinned suit. he walks straight to the jukebox. he looks through the records. two tall men in all black, black trenchcoats walk in behind him, smoking cigarettes, hard in the face, look like boxers, nose broken so many times a man looses count, eyes like ferocious animals but no one knows. they are wearing black sunglasses. it is nighttime. it is so dark no one knows where night ends and the shadows begin. the man in white pulls out change from his pocket. drops it in. The song he picks is The Witch- by The Sonics. he pulls a picture from his pocket and looks at it. he stares for what might be forever but it's closer to a few seconds. he puts it back away. he nods to the two men. they both pull out tommy guns and slaugther every living person in the bar. bottles shatter. glass flies and slices throughs wide open. blood spills so excessively its absurd. intestines and hearts and brain matter burst and walls chip apart. wood is ripped and thrown about. women are screaming, a deeper blood, a truly blackend crimson ocean stains there already red dresses. the men crawl on the floor and reach towards light or god or salvation but only receive an onslaught of bullets. "die you fucking fucks! die! die! DIE!!! DIE!!
-the man in white just keeps looking at the jukebox, smiling and smoking a cigarette. once the shooting and the moans and groans and farts of death cease, he speaks: "you know, people don't talk about the Sonics enough. their record, This is the Sonics? It's fucking brilliant. it's so fucking primal. fuck the mc5. fuck the stooges. the sonics started punk rock. i'll make it official. i'll say it for the goddamn fucking record books.."- (pulls colt 45 gun to own head) "see? i'll make it my last words. that way it will be infinite! i'll make it real! it's the least i can do them. they wrote The Witch and Stychnine! it would be a small sacrifice" (laughs. lights new cigarette.puts gun back) "we should probably get going. i know we paid the cops off already this month but they are gonna at least have to go through the motions and investigate this little massacre here.. c'mon boys. lets go shoot some heroin and get a lap dance"
-a black girl and a white boy ages 17 lay naked in each others arms in a motel room mostly in shadows but the fluorescent turquoise motel light creeps through the partially drawn shutters like a peeping tom.his head is in her lap. he's rubbing her breasts absentmindely and she's running her fingers through his hair. clothes are thrown about the floor. there's a bottle of whiskey on the dresses, a motel bible open to the book of revelations, and a Glock with loose scattered bullets on the nightstand, cigarette pack open with a few poking out. she picks one up and pulls it out with her teeth. he lights it. she takes a drag and blows it up.
him: the smoke looks like the ghost.
her: what's wrong
him: what do you mean? i'm fine.. i'm just tired
her: no.. i can tell. i can see by looking at you. your thinking about something. your mind is always going. like a big clock. i see the gears constantly grinding, grinding, grinding,
him: please.. just thinking about that.. it's giving me a headache.. i'm just.. i dunno. how long can we run?
her: until they find us baby.. until they fucking find us. and then we'll take them to fucking hell with us..
him: sometimes i don't want to run. i want to just stay somewhere. i want to stay somewhere with you. i want to hold you forever and not let go. i want to make a baby. i want a baby girl. i want to look in her eyes and see you. i love you so much i want to see two of you. and watch her grow into a beautiful woman and find someone who will make her happy and for her never to have to know the sadness that i knew.. that sadness before i found you..
her: that sadness, that sadness that you're so terrified of.. is why it felt so sweet when we found one another. why it felt so perfect..
him: you know.. you have to know.. that if someone ever hurt you.. ever thought of hurting you.. i wouldn't be able to stop myself.. i wouldn't be able to stop myself from tearing them apart, doing it so slowly, so FUCKING GODDAMN FUCKING SLOWLY.
her: baby.. baby.. stop.. stop.. please honey. please calm down (runs fingers through his hair. rubs his head and kisses his forehead) nothing is going to happen to me. we found each other. after all those lifetimes, maybe we've been looking since the beginning. maybe we're adam and fucking eve and we've been looking since the beginning of time. we finally found each other. that was the hard part. nothing could take us apart from each other. nothing. nothing.
camera slowly rises and spins. they caress and kiss and cry and shudder in the darkness and the blinking neon.
him: i will find you even in death. the hardest part was finding each other for the first time. your in my dreams now. why won't you be in eternal dream?
Monday, June 3, 2013
coins in the eyes of the dead/ do we seek to help others or ourselves when it comes to charitable acts (mitzvahs)
They, whoever the fuck "They" may happen to be, claim that a good deed only makes the cut off and is considered "legit" if it's done unnoticed. If you give to someone but don't let them know that you were the mysterious giver. The personification of altruism.
You've seen them shuffling their feet and grinding their teeth and smoking cigarette after cigarette and slurping down that sweet and hot ol jamaica queens coffee. good time of the month. welfare benefits arrived.. cash assistance and foot stamps on the ebt card which is as good as a debit card if you know the right individuals and locations. For a couple days they are as a generous and selfless as the new testament claims jesus fucking christ was. they were able to re-fill their bottle of xanax. they get 60 1 mg pills (the "sticks" that everyone talks about when referring to xanax are 2 mg and are named for shape. the most a doctor may legally prescribe to someone in NY state is is 3 of the 2 Mg. pills a day and that's if you're dying of cancer or have a crooked doctor. They are notoriously addictive and the withdrawal has the potential to be fatal.
along with alcohol, it is the only drug where you can actually DIE from it. yes, i reiterate, you can die from the withdrawal after having seizures.) The Xanax bottle should last them a month but they always finish it in a few days. (it's so easy to rationalize getting high when it's what you want to do) They can spread it out for maybe a week and change if they are as frugal and exercise herculean self control. They're taking hand fulls and chewing em up and laughing and bullshitting, and running up to everyone on the block, offering them cigarettes because they know the other 2/3 of the month they won't have two pennys to rub together and hope they can ask those they gave one cigarette to over that week for one every time they run into them for the rest of that month dribbling that same tired fucking bullshit outta their chipped tooth, chapped lip bastard drawl, "you KNOW when i got it, you got it. I'd never leave a man hungry. never leave someone hurtin for a cigarette with their coffee in the morning if i had.".. lays it on heavy. he knows what he's doing.
I despise when people do a favor just so they can keep that card in their back pocket (redeemable anytime, day or night). A chance to ask and guilt the other party. It's an extremely manipulative tactic and never believe them if they feign ignorance to their actions. They know what they're doing. I know, I've done it myself.
I catch myself slipping. I wonder at sporadic moments, perhaps when I'm walking through a "park"... those little squares with one tree with a few benches they scatter the cities boroughs with like a type of vegetative rash , especially where I'm currently staying in Queens. These parks have their usuals, as does any bar from the highest to the filthiest and other gatherings of sorts..A few Spanish day laborers continuously drink all day and night by the bench. Coronas on payday, Steel Reserve 40s or brown bagged hip wine every other day. they don't stop drinking. in the summer it's sweltering and i don't know if they eat or drink water, i suppose so because they don't die. they see the flowers the city planted die and then feel the autumn breeze run down their lower back like the whispers of the dead. they see the snow blanket the benches. when the snow melts, they are resting in the gutter, drinking a warm beer for breakfast and reading a few days old news paper they found beside them when they woke up.
they see me pass on my way to the methadone clinic or if i have a take home bottle that day they see me on my way to the library. it's usually around a quarter to one. I get up at noon usually. Well that's when I rise up out of bed. I wake up countless times throughout the night, morning and just lay in bed until the urge to piss becomes uncontrollable.. if there's a bottle or bowl or cup at hand i piss into that until its almost about to overflow, throw the piss out the window, repeat process until desired results (no more painful feeling in bladders and i can sleep away more of my life). i don't move. i think my girlfriend does the same thing. two people laying in bed, pretending to be asleep.. pensive, peaceful. sometimes i dream while i'm not quite asleep. last night i dreamed of a plane crash. my whole family was on it. my dad, brother, and my mom. she was alive and on the plane;. it crashed but we lived..
they see me pass daily and i don't do something to help them. how can I? what do they want? What do I want? Money? What would that do? Have they lost love? Have they never found love? If they found love would they know what to do with it? Would it be like handing someone blind and deaf a 12 string guitar and ask them to play you something? Would anyone? Would they want to talk? I have my acoustic guitar with me because I play guitar on 7 flushing bound train for change and money and food before and after I go to plumbing trade school.Would they want to hear a song? What can I do to help? What can I do to help myself?
I lay in bed, it's late or early, i'm not sure. the blinds are drawn tight and the room is dark. I haven't the slightest idea what time it is. I look over, my girlfriend is asleep. She is naked and beautiful. My bunny rabbit isn't making any noise so she must be resting. My guitar is standing upright and quiet, stoic.. It's dark but my eyes adjust quickly. Everything is in it's perfect, chaotic, disarray. Just the way I like it. Am I happy?
Am I happy?
I think so. I really do.
Friday, May 24, 2013
the beauty within the lair of the head hungry female praying mantis
it's because that's what i was. we only know our life. sure, we take the TVs word on some pertinent issues. and the expressions (say more than volumes of dictionaries, dust, maybe even a two dollar bill bookmark stuffed in..that actually happened to me years and years and years and years ago when i first got breakfast of chapmions by kurt vonnegut. turned out to be a true masterpiece) and words of the people and the music and the preachers and the promises and the imbalances in the brain and the voices that creates.. we listen to that. listen to all that shit.
but we only know us. that person that when your taking a shit and it's so quiet you can hear the echos of thy heart and your shit plopping in the toilet. even the flutter of an eyelash is amplified by the solitude and can sound like angry hordes of monarch butterflies approaching from horizons unseen.
we only know us. and that's what i was. i was a selfish, hedonistic, perpetually child minded, talk is cheap spittin bullshit nonstop walking, smoking black and milds, giant slabs of meat somehow stuffed, perhaps up the ass or cunt, with a soul.
i was a junkie. it was a horrible way to live. i don't know if i was punished for something in this life or something in this past or maybe it's something i will do and there is nothing linear about time other than we just perceive it that way. perhaps retribution happens whenever it needs to. i suffered in advance. because addiction is hell. it is true demonic possession. you don't sleep, you nod and those nods are fleeting. every waking hour, day and night is "how am i going to get as many bags of heroin as possible. what do i have to do. who do i have to steal. who do i have to lie to. who needs to be fucked/fucked over. what pills can i trade." it's endless. it's maddening. truly. it's the only way i can articulate it the feeling of being wrung out so tightly, like a sponge, inside fucking out.. your eyes bulge outta your head, veins on your eyeballs even, fat, like little worms that sipped water under a blood moon
the memories are under yellow scabs, almost calcified because i always pick them just to peak and see underneath.. here... look.. i'll show you. lets lift this nice big crusty scab right here...
i'm in a basement. it's were i live. laundry is hung from the ceiling prison and tenement style. shoelaces drapped over beds, draws and socks wrung out, rinsed with dirty old soap. me and a few other junkies live there. it's a halfway house. it's usually raining so we sit in bed, nod, smoke.. me and my friend jim read. we trade books. the others look out the window. the older guys think a lot. i don't blame them. they must have a lot to consider. they have lived longer than me. some of the young ones.. young black boys, fresh outta prison, have the 7 p.m. curfew but we talk and they slip me a few cigarettes and gimme a call and i sneak them in my window. i like to let people enjoy themselves. the man did some time. he wants pussy. i'll assist the man by whatever means possible in his search to obtain some vagina so put his penis in. he was in a correctional facility and when i look in his eyes he looked like a child. he loaned me his bike... he looked like a child. why do we hurt our children and our parents and friends and animals and adults.. why do we hurt? i know we were hurt, but why can't we stop the hurt.. please..
but look, i'm showing you what's under the scab. everyone is asleep. only me and jim really slam dope. my needle is filled with water. I already had gotten high that night so i was slipping in and out heavy eyelid crescent eyed biting cigarette tip nods. i was shooting ants with water. my needle was locked and loaded and i was shooting them. the basement was infested. there were hundreds in the basement. i was sitting on the toilet, pants down, belt around my arm, dried blood on my forehead, cock hanging between my legs in the toilet, head falling, jerking it back up, smiling, shooting ants with water..i was smiling but everything hurt. it felt as if instead of oxygen broken glass was in the atmosphere. i breathed it, got it in my eyes, it got in my throat when i cried out for help.
i don't know what happened. i don't do hard drugs anymore but i still see the world from the perspective of the hidden crevices, the darkness where just enough light enters so you can see the eyes of those around you are grey and there smiles.. a yellow like a dead moon.
don't let them take you without a fight.
Wednesday, May 22, 2013
love and the need to be warm.
I got into plan-it-x records and folk punk when i was around 16, 8 years ago, and it had a profound impact on me. it was so striped down, so raw, so filthy and my mind couldn't help but conjure these visions of james dean looking teenagers with stick and poke black flag tattoos and spiderweb elbows and ripped the fuck up jeans safety pins in em, knew all about japanese hardcore and which Au Bon Pain threw out the best bread at closing time and they hopped freights on the fry and the scars to show. went to portland and the LES and oregon... i saw the rails and i imagined autumn. i knew they left NYC before it got too cold, when the lines at the shelters were wrapped around the blocks, shivering dope fiends wrapped in reaper robes, hand shaking slightly as they smoke a cigarello, snot dropping down the curves on their angular, thin, dope fiend face from their red nose to their tight stretched chaped lips.. shivering, sniffeling, eyes just truly exhausted. but no, our heroes, our punks with bandanas around their necks and acoustic guitars were on the trains, watching the autumn trees fly by at freight train speed, trees all the colors you ever thought they'd be and then some! laughing because they are all friends and when old friends get together after not seeing each other for a little you do a lot of laughing at first don't you? i'm talking the REAL friends. the ones you can not see for a few years and when you run into them it's like no time has passed. strumming songs with hand rolled cigarette in their mouth, kerouacs dharma bums paperback rolled in leatherjacket pocket, friends passing around some cheap wine.
that's not how it is. for the most part they don't even look at the nature. the wonder. the county. america. as fucked up as the country is, you gotta admit parts of it are beautiful. they are laying with their heads in others laps, thinking about heroin, shooting heroin, methadone, suboxone, subutex, getting "straight" until they get to another town. others are late stage alcoholics. delirium tremors and all type old school training hustlin and bustlin wino only they are in their late twenties, strong greasy hair, wipers shirt, drink cheap vodka all day because that's what the older punks did when they were young, 14, sipping robotusin and passing one joint around between a group of 6 kids, everyone getting absurdly high and just watching.. wondering who you were and how you wanted to become.
punks are people and people are fucked up. but you find some good ones.
i have been posting on the plan-it-x for years now. since i first got into Rosa, Defiance, Ohio, Ghost Mice, Rio De La Meurte, Sexy (the best rock n roll band), future virgins, the bananas, and ESPECIALLY one reason! it was so exciting. i can only speculate because i only know my own life but i assume it must of been like when 80s hardcore broke and people heard bands like bad brains, crucifucks, die kreuzen.. just stripped of all excess and leaving only enough for the individual to survive. to purge so thoroughly and so ferociously that it's almost terrifying and frightening in it's honesty. voyeurism
once i heard it? it was a cataclysmic implosion.. every memory, dream, de ja vu, epiphany, god, hope collapsed in on me from my the songs coming out of the headphones and i realized i wasn't completely alone. (tumbleweed through a project hallway. the end is everywhere)
but i had mentioned that this wasn't a music blog. this was about discovering the depths of my mind and what it's trying to simultaneously hide and show me. I'm looking for subconscious messages. i'm looking deep. maybe my mom is trying to communicate with me. perhaps it's madness. perhaps i'm just getting tired and returning gradually to the earth. to the soil, to the branches, the sap blood and chipped bark. and nothing embodies insanity like love.
why i mentioned plan-it-x and the message board I'm a member of and have been for quite some time is because an individual mentioned that he was with a lovely young lady who makes him feel ever so happy and light and infinite and his love is the first and only real pure true love. however, he has only been with this woman for three months. is it possibly for the love to be pure? is their any validity to love at first sight? is love even real or do our brains remember being an infant and held and caressed and kissed and we want that and it's so cold at night when it's only you in your bed and you don't have drugs and your brain just thinks of the bad. and there's A LOT of bad (and good. yes i know that. i'm in a relatively outstanding mindframe and time of life now. I'm in school for plumbing and I've been off hard drugs for almost 3 years. A lot of this is recollections of years past that just won't die. because they were a truth once they are a truth now whether i want them to be or not..
i won't add his posts because that's not necessary and i don't think he wants me including his innermost thoughts and contemplations and life altering decisions so I'll just mention my insight into the situation that I posted. It is pertinent to why I created this blog and should offer more insight into myself than him when read from this perspective (the absence of his words) and that's entirely what i want..
i agree with those who believe it's a little too soon. you are still typically in the honeymoon phase. you see the awesome in them. it's one of the greatest feelings in the world when you find someone amazing and you guys really enjoy being in each others presence... you feel like there's not enough moments in the day that you can see them and you are always kissing..hugging.. touching.. fucking.. all that great stuff.
then after a little bit you begin to notice tiny little things.. very small at first. sometimes they are so subtle you don't even notice them or if you do they are very easy to ignore or disregard because the person seems so amazing and you think the good immensely outweighs the negative.
then one day you wake up and all you can see is that thing that seemed so little and it's so obnoxious and gigantic and the only thing you can think of when you see them and it's almost catastrophically imploding like mountain goats song-esque disaster affairs.
soon you start fighting or if not fighting you realize they aren't perfect. no one is perfect. if you can make it past a few years, once you've seen all sides of them and they've seen all sides of you.. once you've had brutal fights and were brought to tears and insanity and madness and have suffered and still remain with them (you also have to make sure it's not a co-dependence thing once you get to this) and if you can still stand one another than yes, i believe it may be time..
life and love is a funny thing.
but i don't know. everyone is different. for me personally i don't think three months would be enough to understand the complexities of ones personality and be able to make the decision that i want to spend the rest of my life with them because I'm an honest person. when I'm in a relationship i take it very serious and am entirely monogamous.
do what you think is best.
and enjoy this beautiful phase in the beginning. maybe you're an exception and you found the most beautiful and purest form of love in it's raw essence. or maybe you're like almost everyone else and in a wonderful honeymoon phase. think it over. wait until after a few fights and you let your guard down and so they do and you learn who they are. and you learn who you are.
the ring. the wedding. the ceremony. pomp and circumstance..
it's all symbolic. only you know if love exists. when it's just you two lying in bed and you have nothing to do for the rest of the day but laugh and fuck and dream. it's a beautiful thing. I've been there. it feels so right and if it existed for a moment then that mean it has to exist forever and no one can ever take it away. sometimes a few months or years down the line that's all you remember and it seems so far away. so many fights and bitter resentments in between but every now and then, for a fleeting second (but once again, a fleeting second existed so that means it exists forever) it feels like how it used to. in the beginning. and you think that you guys can fix it. and everything will be okay. I'm not sure. i really don't know.
I'm there with someone. yes, we fight. somethings quite bitterly and sadistically and we say very hurtful things to one another. but it doesn't mean for a second that we don't love one another. it's actually quite the contrary. i love her with every fiber that makes up this conniving, playing guitar on the train to fill up our bustello coffee cup with change and money for rent, giant heart of mine that is still strong somehow. on sundays when we stay in bed till 2:00 p.m. she puts her ear to my chest and listens to my heart and tells me it's so big. and it's so strong. and that i have to die before her because she says i'm stronger. she can't live without me. and she cries. and i cry. and i don't know and i wish that death was a joke but it's not but we really believe, no, we KNOW we will find one another as will anyone else if the love was pure. the heretics might be shackled but they are together..
the only way i can bring myself to get angry with someone is if i actually care for them. I'm the most laid back, easy going individual when it comes to strangers and acquaintances. everything's cool and nothings a big deal. I'm a lazy apathetic bastard. the 10 years of constant weed smoking and 130 milligrams of methadone a day plus some xanax will make an individual quite lucid.. it makes me feel like sunlight. i feel like i can slide anywhere i please and when i get there i wish i hadn't because it's quite scary.
i just want what i thought i didn't want. i want what my parents had. they were together since high school. they used to do what everyone does when they were young. my dad snuck outta the house because he had a basement window and he ate acid with my mom who once was young (even younger than i am now!!) and they ate acid and went to disney world and hitchhiked across america as soon as they finished high school to go to a willy nelson concert. they were people and they lived and hurt and my mom is gone now. passed away April 16th 2012 (i will never forget when you sat across from me mommy, a glass window between us when you were visiting me at nassau county jail (my 2nd time there. 3rd time it was only my father and my soon to be wife because mom passed) and we cried together and i told you my biggest fear was to be alone and she cried and said i'm always here (pointed to my heart) i'll never not be.) and i can see it in my dads face that a part of him was torn from him. it's physical. i see the emaciation. but it was love. and it was real. and he had it and i want it and i think i have it and when she was alive for a little bit i wasn't sure if i believed in love because they would fight and when i was younger i felt divorce was around the corner but they always wound up laughing at night. my dad would put his massive tattooed arm around my nagging jewish mother and she'd grudgingly smile and say how she loves her boys.. and look at me and my brother and then at my dad and he'd smile too. we were a fucked up family but we were a family.
my dad always made me come home to eat dinner with the family until i was 18 years old. every night they'd make dinner and we'd sit as a family and eat and talk. it was important to them and i believe now it was beautiful.
the only people who can conjure genuine emotion from within my body and mind is the love of my life and my family.
i hope you find happiness. but just think about this..
is it this person, ******, that you love or do you love the concept of love? how it feels. what it entails? that you are never alone. that you have someone to hold and someone to hold you. i was confused and in the beginning when i found random people on dating sites i would do these things and it felt right and i thought that was love. that was just the temporary abscene of loneliness which hurts so bad.. it's like a cancer. i felt it consume me with sharp fangs and talons from the inside out every moment. i felt as the immortal Prometheus, restrained forever to a rock only to have his insides ripped apart by a massive eagle, consumed.
i don't want to be alone. i want to be held and warm.
Love is quite frightening. I wanted to help him. I wish I had the answer.
Pablo Neruda speaks of love in his poems.
AbsenceI have scarcely left you
When you go in me, crystalline,
Or uneasy, wounded by me
Or overwhelmed with love, as
when your eyes
Close upon the gift of life
That without cease I give you.
We have found each other
Thirsty and we have
Drunk up all the water and the
We found each other
And we bit each other
As fire bites,
Leaving wounds in us.
But wait for me,
Keep for me your sweetness.
I will give you too
Everyone wishes to understand it. We feel it. It's that atomic expansion within when you see them after not seeing them for a few hours, days, maybe.. when you learn that the trick is to allow yourself to miss them.
remember what it is about THEM, the individual themselves, and not how you want them to be. if you say "well, i really love her a lot she'd be the most perfect person in the world if only ________ ).. i don't want perfect. they are who they are. even the shadows and the demons and the lies and deceptions. i'm a scumfuck myself. just don't go looking for love. it will come to you. i hope
no one deserves to be alone. this world is so big. and i'll end it by reiterating the name of my blog..
i am quite scared.
Monday, May 20, 2013
these days my only dreams are awake, looking out windows on subways. i float from one thought to another. life is hysterial
hello friends, strangers, enemies, cyborgs or computers intelligent enough to process the information that flows through their syntactical ocean of words.. pixels.. smaller than atoms but like what makes up a t.v. if you step back.. you will see it all. it's there.. to all of these and the billions more that could make up this world....who knows, the angels, the anti-Christs, whatever the Scientologist fucks believe in, who knows.. it could all be bullshit or all real so hell to all!
i have another blog where i ramble about things that are somewhat intertwined with punkrocknroll and outsider trash and splash.http://www.t1melesstrash.blogspot.com i also strategically place brief mentioning of my band fried chicken n gasoline http://www.friedchickenngasoline1.bandcamp.com brainwashing style.. like splicing raunchy porn into movies in a theater (you know, tyler durden in fight club even though i'm not a big fan of the book the movie is interesting on drugs or sober..) don't even know what hit you because even though you're watching a movie, maybe, MAYBE 32% of your attention is on the movie.. the rest is on the drugs you either have or want to get. bowels like a sponger being wrung over a filthy sink.. (mind: can i scrape the bag and get a bump of dope to at least take the edge off? can the cigarette filters be crushed enough to get a shot that at least turns brown and TRICKS MY STUPID FUCKING JUNKIE MIND THAT I"M GETTING SOMETIHNG THAT SORTA LOOKS LIKE A SHOT???? ---- big side note.. i don't do "drugs anymore"- I'm on methadone (we'll get into that soon in to be written threads, believe me.. we will get heavily into my opinion on that enigmatic, controversial, almost futile to argue because it truly comes down to the intention of the users.. see i started already.. in good time dear enemies. heed you frothing at the mouth imps of fire.
this is about my life. and about how i don't know anything and i'm scared and i want people to read and let me know if they understand. if they can help. if they have felt what i've felt at some time in their life. if they know the feeling of laying in bed and looking at the clock and seeing it's after 12:00 noon and you wonder what would happen if you just didn't get outta bed. you don't want to but you think you have to... it's a voice that's juxtaposed, loud as book of genesis God and subtle as whispers of welfare hookers in shadows of subway.. it's the voice of my parents, my morals.. "wake up on time and get out and find a job. get outta bed. be a man. be an adult"
i don't know.
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