shepard fairey

ras

ras

ras

ras

ras

ras

ras

gustav dore

our boys

death and burial

wm

Tuesday, March 11, 2008

The Training Form


was designated so as to be conducive to an uneasy greasing. That said,
what wisdom it inculcated was dedicated to the flagellants, everyone’s
favorite puke group, well, enjoy yourself. In the Circle of the Ungodly,
your name is in bold, mine in parenthetical italics, O lissome lie-about,
you wench, in short, well, go ahead.


Monday, March 10, 2008

When The Drugs Run Out


what else is there to say? O well. At least I’ve had practice.
Lots. I know how to crawl the walls, I know how to shit yourself
in a dream too real to keep waking to. O fucking well.


Double Templetons For All


looked like. I can’t say I wasn’t ready. High time, ask me.
Anyway, aside of the wheedling, it’s hardly a living. I’m going
under sure as thunder in a warming environment.

I loved the golden age but, at the root, I’m a fanatico
d' interesting times.


Small Potatoes


little rhymes. I was in the market, I was there.
When the sheets of flame encompassed our delicacies,
we hid. It was too much. Later, we turned from the bier
to more for’ard-looking pursuits. It’s a blur again, a whirl, I’m in
a spin, locked-on, in the seat of
being it is.


From Here


I can see where I went skewing, how I bent the meringue
around its lip. I was saying a saxophone here would go well.
But the strings rise brimful, furious birds all of
particular persuasion. Meanwhile, Nell was still tied
to the tracks while Dudley dithered. 2 B Or No,
he muttered 2 no 1. Ordinarily,
I eschew public demonstrations.


Saturday, March 8, 2008

Joe Strummer’s Singing Redemption Songs


he doesn’t need them now. Like I do. Give me some now, please.
How it goes was written long ago. I just place my tracks in theirs, leading,
god knows where. I was at the station, waiting for my prescription, ready

to take it all down again. Watch me tear from here
all the way down. It is so written and bloody-worn by
my forebears, men and women of presence and self, people

who entered their lives full-sworn to move it to be
as it should be, and by their own reckoning. And, I, beaten,
bruised, dripping in shame, here I come. Here. Now.

I claim my life.


The Sound Makes Its Way


into me, and I got a few times left in me. I’ve got a few
yet to live. Ordinary one, you own a secret, you
don’t even know. You know nothing of what you think
you see. A diaphanous blocking of shots, marks we’ll hit,
in time. In plenty of time for the party. In time.
In time.


Just Then, He Snapped


back to life. What could he do? There was nowhere to go.
He was finally alone. Impervious to their demands. And didn’t
the world stop then? He didn’t break through.
He faced a wall. His own makings, littered

at his feet, his fool’s mission since time began
slipping between cells, permeating moments into memory’s frieze.
Didn’t the silly world look jolly from the pit?
He could see it now. O, he could see.


There Is A Wall


that’s all. And no way through, no how.
It ends here. None can go further. This sheet
of granite, marbled by my sins, be my mirror,
no more can be done. Alone, I am and cease to be
now, here it ends, no more can be done.
No more. I can’t take any more. Take my hand
reaching back into view, searching for you. I swam
to daylight, fuck that control shit, I just screw it up.