Love buzz

Re: below; the new Van Halen, not Bleach, also a fine album.

Cast of characters
Miss Prunella Vulgaris, The Duchess of Hammer-on-Dulcimer, esteemed member of the Peonage
Juan, The Earl of Valdez, less esteemed member of the Peonage

The Towering Slab, interior.

DUCHESS: Is that all you've been listening to?
EARL: Yeah, until das Deutschlandenpackagen arrives.

fin

True story.* This imitation one-sixteenth act play was supposed to lead into something else not the next one-act play I'm in the midst of penning thanks for containing your enthusiasm ingrates, but I forgot what it was since I started typing this post. True story. Also true is me scouring my music files for preferably snarky songs about love, preferably en plus with the word 'love' in the title but that's not a requirement, 'cause said Duchess is in the midst of planning next Tuesday's radio gig & I'm all about homies helping homies & what's more worthy of nelsonmuntzing than naive melodramatics vs. vitriolic burned-agains, opposing civilizations locked in mortal kombat whose bloodshed drowns the feet of us, the charmingly innocent, in a sparkly, rhymed effluvia? 

Dammit, I can't (i.e. I can) believe I forgot what the other thing was which means it was probably the coolest part of this post which means it wasn't all that cool.

*the dialogue has been paraphrased to protect the guilty

Paralyzed by inaction

Particular glints, paired, remind. Of what,
I don't know, & it's driving me nuts,
divine center of I don't know what,
thus, awake, among other stimuli.

Shadows taller than our soul (Zeppelin's never cliche
to this Parmastani man, so shut your piehole). Photos frozen
in order of darkness, so why this is clearer than the next,
the auncient art of digital divination will spill, perhaps.

No? So tell me something.
This way is as good as any,
says the shrug.

Radiant addict.
Maybe I'm spineless.
Head full of crap.

Being & everythingness.
Ghosts, all of you,
save -- to be continued. I lied. The end. Amen. fin

Halloweenie roast

Not in the spirit of much of anything nowadays,
but monkey dance at the keyboard:



I'll be watching this for at least one more October 31.

 

Here's some blood.





Here's some metal.

Guess Slayer would've been more appropriate --

oh, all right, you demanding dogs



-- but some Good News nonetheless:

Cleveland owns 12 cemeteries, 11 of them more than a century old. The cemeteries are home to about 400,000 departed.

Why is that good? Because

Census 2010 numbers released Wednesday show Cleveland's population has fallen to a 100-year low of 396,815.

Dawn of the dead, baby. Have a nice day.

Set the controls for the heart of the sun

Penned in class a fortnight or two ago, because I wasn't thinking about silly geese like #OccupyInsertCityHere, the amazing coincidence of human rights as grave concern when violated over tubs of black gold, weapons grade domestic scowling, or class, all markers of an existence that is nothing more than an existential slow ride take it easy towards Ragnarok.

This, 'tis a ritual, a necessity like once upon an adolescence when life was that & death. Now, the same, but I know more, know I'm often wrong yet am better equipped to handle it. 

It means more, & less. So, this. Staccato, pretty on the page. Spoken, a terror. Cut & stripped & stitched, then discarded then restitched then dropped.



Until a name & a series of sonic swells that burned through stanzas rising & falling, cliche of cleansing fire, sure, but there it is. Spark not the piece, but its inherent sense, the result of its spellwork upon memory & illusion (usually the very same thing), composed over as many hours as I've slept over this time & was it a waste (see below, no), is it a-okay (I can say, no) but what can I say. Great art will never be in my hands, two pair, now & then, then I fold into an eleventh, twelfth caffeine, but there is nothing else. Less than nothing after censoring here but not on the sheet because who's ever going to see past this safe pivot, I'll never show & tell. I'm not crazy.

[redacted: 1]

Whirligig hours spin the bottle, neck
jaundiced & craning
out white noise to steal
a face in tarot-littered streets, to purloin
(over a bus, a bridge) a story from a crowded being. Piercing
the smog, a solar song
whose staves prop up the dead
left, right, here in the chest, though not in vain
if I could be permitted to freeze

[redacted: 3-7]

No commentary on anything that would mean a damn thing to anyone but me, & that is a-okay. Art is its own vent. There is no other reward, sometimes.

You must do what makes you happy.

Might as well get up for work.

Sure, there's some red stuff, & some blue. No Baba Yaga, though.

Ache & attack

That otherwise nondescript building with its fascinating pattern of rust & crumble, shadowplay & color, passed & ignored by thousands daily, perhaps turns out to have been situated as such because there was no other place for it. Simple chance. & weathering? Of itself, how commonplace.

Less fascinating than the serendipitous outcome of artistic desires to be sure, but whatever piques our fancy, mundane or exhilarating, will nonetheless have a story to tell.

So, the Wheelie Bus. What teenage vandal stuck this here?

But grown-ups -- real ones, of course, for the adult mind that dwells on such frivolities has thrown pragmatism away to embrace an adolescent atavism that keeps one from very important blah blah blah I'm tired of this crap -- too feel those emo pangs that always come unannounced.

Young or old, it matters not. Was he, or she, spurned, suffering a rapid oxidation until extinguished? It will pass, someone is bound by law to tell you. Ignore them. Was it unrequited? Was it an impossibility due to distance -- or to closeness which I imagine would be the most paralyzing -- was it done in jest, friends marking one of their own out for a mocking approved only for those within the closed group? Or was it a small child not yet burned by this beautiful corrosive, giving little or no thought to choosing a heart, lifting it off a sheet of yellow companion stars & rainbows & sticking it to surface in some makeshift match game, red like red?  

Yeah, I think I prefer that last one.

I hold your hand so hard my knuckles turn white

Getting used to an academia-fractured schedule is going to take some getting used to, en plus, with coworker corollaries of ja das Nachtbus (in spirit at any rate), urban darkthroning is severely curtailed this semester, thus, before weekly junior offspring pickup campout on my new day off in the almost-middle of the week, a trek through the wilds of Parmastan, & lo, what hath I discouered, Thor vs. the burbs:

Guilty as charged but dammit it ain't right,
there is someone else controlling me.

A little bit postapocalyptic, a little bit rock &/or roll. Seated in the sun -- at that hour, no angle sleeps with angels in the shade -- the heat's but a looking glass for future haruspicy ingredients. Illusions both optical & visceral appeared, in salty beads & ink, respectively. The denouement, lines on a map, garbage honesty better left unseen, as usual, but an uncomfortable gleam alone is sometimes just what's needed. For what, I've no idea. When I find out, I'll let you know.

I hope it's not for looking in the mirror.

And it rolls off the tongue, almost

Spiked, fourth of fifth. No, not this that; too obvious, that. Yeah, that that, thirty-eight going on eighteen. Splitting hairs, each a liquifier. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid -- oh, but I don't control, so I don't fly the bomber, yet who can resist such a magnetic water body but the dead? I'd bang my coded head on the wall if I didn't have to clean splatter from between the keys. Contemplation, solitude, storming brain, ink is no lightning rod. Nor poison; quantify the unquantifiable or make-believe make-sense; not those thats either, rather that -- that again -- most tired of conceits. How fresh the ancient seems, always, when new to the perennially confused, the damned that never wilt long enough to reflect, the beautiful molting into the ridiculous, for all time. Detach, & you can laugh at this juvenile convivio. I would, but remain stuck in stupid, stupid, stupid, same as pin, same as needle, ever was. I'm going to laugh now, loud, without discipline.