somethings take awhile to be done,
cake, sometimes cookies, sometimes cigarettes,
so what is there to do in the loop in between times?
like when you sit there, and you're just hanging out,
not wanting to go, but not wanting to stay, where it's just you and the brain?
do you fiddle with your phone? do you observe the others around you?
it's that idle time in between breaths that tear your heart in half
you precieve and precieve and try to make the things you want to be want to be.
look man, let me inform you of something, the rambles of a human being are like the thunderstrokes from god, they have no sense no exact meaning, they are only random acts of nature. i saw a camera shoved in each contestants face and under the pressure they cracked like an egg too long in boiling water. the piece that fits exact into this puzzle is yet to be conquered but with soon be conjured and fit like it never fit before. i took a deep look into someones eyes and i could tell they saw right through my fucking soul. they saw things i've never seen before and i'm damn sure to remember that. has that ever happened to you? i hope not. take this spell that's been down on all of us.
do you know what the punk movement was? it was all a sense of urgency to make us all feel at peace. with all that violence and fucking feeling, it was like taking a calculator and breaking it when it read error, it was like taking the light bulb and breaking it when it wasn't right. it was like taking a force field and breaking through it and can't we won't destine.
it was like the perfect harmony, played over the perfect beat, at the same time, someone was yelling and performing, not to make you like them, but to make you hate them. it was a foreclosure of the soul.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Pork is Good For Vang Vangs
endless spools of wire spand over highways and concrete walkways and brickways and every which way where it's going to be all taken over. and the dogs all walk with their leashes in their mouths across busy downtown streets with the owner behind them oblivious to traffic or any concern first me then the dog then the bank account and then the women. not any humanity brewing from the pore is the price for perfection or somewhat distraction from any desire. the building where squatter lovers lye in a bed made from newspapers and their bundles rolled under their towering leaping heads, it overtakes them and they can appreciate bread, mustard, and sometimes some ham, carbonated pineapple under their fingernails and dumpster dreams for a pizza box full of crust.
"I'm a fucking artist"
"Luco, you are just like everyone else, only you claim to be art so it can be you but you're not fooling anyone man, you're just like him her me the alien."
he was talking with fierceness in his eyes and i'll be fucking damned if i understand or care for his depression. i am what i want to be, maybe not good, but who's art is good? and what's considered good? the good ones are always the ones who don't fit a cookie cutter under the bed laid the book of art i once drew when i was drunk on a binge for 4 days shut up in my apartment, with only the pizza guy delivering and the occasional trip to the store for more rum. i spent those days with my hands glued to a paint brush and typewriter constantly and it never ever forever let me down, i felt it run down my legs and up my spine, it was foreign like just one take, but it developed into a full blown picture. the snail started the race and even though he may lose and lose his shell, he keeps going.
the spots were getting darker and beginning effect my driving, i saw a team of fish i mean a school of fishes walking downtrodden on all four like a fish out of water and a penguin waddling towards a department store. i saw the pigs stuffing their faces through the glass and the wild mass boar pigs sitting at the bar stools, consuming life at the gills and getting fat ugly ready for the slaughter that was to befall them, befall us, befall this country if something isn't dramatically changed, we're all going to die in the great VP debate of 2008 of nobody takes ahold of the situation, somebody fucking say something!.!.!. it's 1984! just like orwell said! the animals have taken over the farm and Napoleon will overrun the city. Watch out for the horses, they kick like mules.
i was digging the vibe of the beat and sat at the curb for awhile to hear this cat play his horn. straight outta a time that doesn't belong to me, but fuck you must admit it feels right to be under the cast of a spell and just roll with the note and notes and notes and the scales ride high like we're riding that snake again like it was 19 something. man oh man it was beginning to get in my chest and i was feeling warm (from the rum). my palms started sweating and my shirt was sticking to my back and i could see under the dim Christmas lights, let me remind you this is late july and this man still digging his Christmas lights under his canopy, he'll never let them go because it casts an environment for him to peak in. for him to sit in. he never checks his phone because the only person he calls on is his alter sided dumb witted side. all of a sudden, as fast as he began, he evaporates into the sundown air, taking off with the Santa Ana winds never to be seen again until they blow back down this way, fierce and warm, like the man blew on his saxophone, like the window washer doing the window, taking the squeegee and squeezing it clean, like crows squawking and pigeons crooning, not cooing, because cooing does not take talent, but crooning in a massive collection, like the screaming in someones eyes when they are filled with adrenaline, like a butler, serving his last meal.
"I'm a fucking artist"
"Luco, you are just like everyone else, only you claim to be art so it can be you but you're not fooling anyone man, you're just like him her me the alien."
he was talking with fierceness in his eyes and i'll be fucking damned if i understand or care for his depression. i am what i want to be, maybe not good, but who's art is good? and what's considered good? the good ones are always the ones who don't fit a cookie cutter under the bed laid the book of art i once drew when i was drunk on a binge for 4 days shut up in my apartment, with only the pizza guy delivering and the occasional trip to the store for more rum. i spent those days with my hands glued to a paint brush and typewriter constantly and it never ever forever let me down, i felt it run down my legs and up my spine, it was foreign like just one take, but it developed into a full blown picture. the snail started the race and even though he may lose and lose his shell, he keeps going.
the spots were getting darker and beginning effect my driving, i saw a team of fish i mean a school of fishes walking downtrodden on all four like a fish out of water and a penguin waddling towards a department store. i saw the pigs stuffing their faces through the glass and the wild mass boar pigs sitting at the bar stools, consuming life at the gills and getting fat ugly ready for the slaughter that was to befall them, befall us, befall this country if something isn't dramatically changed, we're all going to die in the great VP debate of 2008 of nobody takes ahold of the situation, somebody fucking say something!.!.!. it's 1984! just like orwell said! the animals have taken over the farm and Napoleon will overrun the city. Watch out for the horses, they kick like mules.
i was digging the vibe of the beat and sat at the curb for awhile to hear this cat play his horn. straight outta a time that doesn't belong to me, but fuck you must admit it feels right to be under the cast of a spell and just roll with the note and notes and notes and the scales ride high like we're riding that snake again like it was 19 something. man oh man it was beginning to get in my chest and i was feeling warm (from the rum). my palms started sweating and my shirt was sticking to my back and i could see under the dim Christmas lights, let me remind you this is late july and this man still digging his Christmas lights under his canopy, he'll never let them go because it casts an environment for him to peak in. for him to sit in. he never checks his phone because the only person he calls on is his alter sided dumb witted side. all of a sudden, as fast as he began, he evaporates into the sundown air, taking off with the Santa Ana winds never to be seen again until they blow back down this way, fierce and warm, like the man blew on his saxophone, like the window washer doing the window, taking the squeegee and squeezing it clean, like crows squawking and pigeons crooning, not cooing, because cooing does not take talent, but crooning in a massive collection, like the screaming in someones eyes when they are filled with adrenaline, like a butler, serving his last meal.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
