Time ain't gonna cure you honey; time don't give a shit.
happy last seven hours of 2008. try not to die. expect lists and reflections and shit in the first week of '09, when I'll have so much more perspective.
Wednesday, 31 December 2008
Saturday, 27 December 2008
These are the stories you won't tell the kids we never have
"Someone's bound to take offense, but you know, fuck 'em."--Ioan.
I'm pretty sure that could have been the theme of the night for everyone. The whole banner-tearing, sex-pistols singing, couple-swapping, crowd-surfing, public-snogging, tearful-confronting, goth-dancing, shot-taking, hey!-you're 86ed bit of it. And I got to watch.
Me and Punk John are shooting each other knowing looks across a Jess/John living room as crowded as I've ever seen it. Hi, thought I knew you, guess I did, but not as well as I could have.
In other news, apparently I have a thing for girls who still live with their ex-boyfriends with whom they are very good friends.
I'm pretty sure that could have been the theme of the night for everyone. The whole banner-tearing, sex-pistols singing, couple-swapping, crowd-surfing, public-snogging, tearful-confronting, goth-dancing, shot-taking, hey!-you're 86ed bit of it. And I got to watch.
Me and Punk John are shooting each other knowing looks across a Jess/John living room as crowded as I've ever seen it. Hi, thought I knew you, guess I did, but not as well as I could have.
In other news, apparently I have a thing for girls who still live with their ex-boyfriends with whom they are very good friends.
Tuesday, 16 December 2008
I could sleep, I could sleep--when I lived alone-- is there a ghost in my house?
I find myself oversleeping on days when time is of the essence (like yesterday when I worked at 6:30pm and took that as a cue not to do anything beforehand), times (like today) when I could have had an insanely lazy lie-in, I wake up at 8am.
This is not interesting, or artistic, or particularly personal. I suppose it could have gone in the livejournal-I've-had-so-long-I-don't-bother-to-get-rid-of. But it goes here.
Likewise, the fact that in spite of myself I am compiling best/worst lists in my head and thinking through ideas to reviews I'll never write, theories as to why Fucked Up is representative of one of the both perpetually best and worst continuing trends in underground rock music, why It Might Be Okay Now to write poems Just to Read Aloud since its in a Different Context (yet why I'm already sick of my own Zombie Poem because I think I'm finally almost done with the nerd humour) and the Pretentious Use of Capitals to Symbolize a Much Longer Discussion.
Youtube: a cheap jukebox for the man without an i-pod and a disdain for constant myspace surfing. what's the difference? none. there is none.
This is not interesting, or artistic, or particularly personal. I suppose it could have gone in the livejournal-I've-had-so-long-I-don't-bother-to-get-rid-of. But it goes here.
Likewise, the fact that in spite of myself I am compiling best/worst lists in my head and thinking through ideas to reviews I'll never write, theories as to why Fucked Up is representative of one of the both perpetually best and worst continuing trends in underground rock music, why It Might Be Okay Now to write poems Just to Read Aloud since its in a Different Context (yet why I'm already sick of my own Zombie Poem because I think I'm finally almost done with the nerd humour) and the Pretentious Use of Capitals to Symbolize a Much Longer Discussion.
Youtube: a cheap jukebox for the man without an i-pod and a disdain for constant myspace surfing. what's the difference? none. there is none.
Saturday, 6 December 2008
-- and I shout that you're all fakes,
fakes!
the point came fast but it was too blunt to miss:
life handed us a paycheck, we said "we worked harder than this!!"
________________________________________________
I have two readings in the next few weeks and don't know what I'm going to read. Probably drag out little red corvette (ie: the new like taking communion but without falling over and throwing microphones) and paintings of famous satanists (another new-school high-repetition favorite) and call it good. or maybe I'll try reaaaaal haaaaard and write some new things, fix some old things and make it "special."
at any rate, here's an old one that never got much play the first time around.
Dinner for One
She walks slow from oven to table
hands pressed firm against ceramic.
mits makeshifted from towels
someone once told her that you could
burn your fingerprints off
on simple kitchen appliances
she hung a "caution" sign above the stove
for anyone who might use it,
took the batteries out of the smoke detector.
a week later her tongs disappeared.
a few close calls with oven doors and apron strings,
untied hair and blender lids,
a few too many arm-burns on oven racks;
friends started telling her
she's got to be more careful.
she eats the pasta dispassionately,
roast with abandon,
half bottle of wine in.
a fork in one hand,
steaknife in the other,
gazing out the window
as she slices.
the point came fast but it was too blunt to miss:
life handed us a paycheck, we said "we worked harder than this!!"
________________________________________________
I have two readings in the next few weeks and don't know what I'm going to read. Probably drag out little red corvette (ie: the new like taking communion but without falling over and throwing microphones) and paintings of famous satanists (another new-school high-repetition favorite) and call it good. or maybe I'll try reaaaaal haaaaard and write some new things, fix some old things and make it "special."
at any rate, here's an old one that never got much play the first time around.
Dinner for One
She walks slow from oven to table
hands pressed firm against ceramic.
mits makeshifted from towels
someone once told her that you could
burn your fingerprints off
on simple kitchen appliances
she hung a "caution" sign above the stove
for anyone who might use it,
took the batteries out of the smoke detector.
a week later her tongs disappeared.
a few close calls with oven doors and apron strings,
untied hair and blender lids,
a few too many arm-burns on oven racks;
friends started telling her
she's got to be more careful.
she eats the pasta dispassionately,
roast with abandon,
half bottle of wine in.
a fork in one hand,
steaknife in the other,
gazing out the window
as she slices.
Friday, 21 November 2008
Ladytron live review, 19/11/08.
“You don’t really go for blondes, do you?” my sister accurately observed on her recent visit. With that in mind, I knew that going to see Ladytron play in Bristol wasn’t going to be a bad idea, any way you cut it. Plus, it’d been a few months since my last gig and I was ready to be icily electropopped so the idea of getting my arm-folded head-nod on was very appealing. Also, you know, I like the band. So I hopped in the almost van with Wood and Martin and we were off. Just like that. Like Magic. Light and Magic.
Gig was at the Carling Academy; venues built specifically with the idea that no matter what sort of music is being performed, it will all feel equally out of place. A look at upcoming shows confirms this; Opeth, Alkaline Trio, The Roots. . . ah well. Better than Sin City, at any rate, albeit with worse beer. Seriously, Carling?
The support act, Asobi Sesku was solid; very loud, very pretty, tight and propulsive. None of this quite won Martin over, whose look of “this is thoroughly unimpressive in every right” was evident even dimly lit and in profile view. Wood and I quite dug on them, though; the songs were all indebted to shoegaze, but were varied enough one has their options as to what-sort-of-mix-cd they’d go on. But doubtlessly a good band to scam on girls with cute haircuts with, or perhaps impress a friend with. Fact that she sings in Japanese is cred points plus plus, but unless you’re Swervedriver or Catherine Wheel (Shoegrunge!) no one pays much attention to the words; its all about the voice-as-instrument. Which, incidentally, is one of the few aesthetics shared by a whole generation of mopey brits and the guy from Pig Destroyer.
Ladytron took the stage with Helen Marnie and Mira Aroyo right up front and the guys with questionable facial hair in the back. This is as it should be. You don’t play rhythm guitar for a band called “Ladytron” and expect an interview in Guitar Player Magazine; these guys know what side their bread is buttered on. The women of Ladytron maintained a cool reserve for most of the show as they rocketed through selections from their most recent album. It was all well and fine since that's the one I've got. A bit of a quibble as single “Ghost” felt slowed about a half-step, but “Deep Blue,” “Kletva” and “Forget the Day” were all aces.
The best moment of the show, undoubtedly, was “Seventeen,” when Marnie actually came alive and punched the air like she was at a socialist rally. Starting a revolution. Of angry 21 year olds and the men who empathise. Or something. There are many theories as to why this old, old song (for them) was the highlight of the night—possibly most credible being crowd reaction—but I’d theorise it’s easier to rock out a tune with fewer words. Plus if you fuck up the lyrics you just have to wait a few measures and you can throw down again; yeah!
The encore was a few more new ones and, of course, “Destroy Everything You Touch,” which has been stuck in my head the last couple of days. The show could have been a bit more switched-on energy wise (as demonstrated by a handful of the cuts that were) but all in all I left satisfied. After all, I was going to see a band called Ladytron.
Gig was at the Carling Academy; venues built specifically with the idea that no matter what sort of music is being performed, it will all feel equally out of place. A look at upcoming shows confirms this; Opeth, Alkaline Trio, The Roots. . . ah well. Better than Sin City, at any rate, albeit with worse beer. Seriously, Carling?
The support act, Asobi Sesku was solid; very loud, very pretty, tight and propulsive. None of this quite won Martin over, whose look of “this is thoroughly unimpressive in every right” was evident even dimly lit and in profile view. Wood and I quite dug on them, though; the songs were all indebted to shoegaze, but were varied enough one has their options as to what-sort-of-mix-cd they’d go on. But doubtlessly a good band to scam on girls with cute haircuts with, or perhaps impress a friend with. Fact that she sings in Japanese is cred points plus plus, but unless you’re Swervedriver or Catherine Wheel (Shoegrunge!) no one pays much attention to the words; its all about the voice-as-instrument. Which, incidentally, is one of the few aesthetics shared by a whole generation of mopey brits and the guy from Pig Destroyer.
Ladytron took the stage with Helen Marnie and Mira Aroyo right up front and the guys with questionable facial hair in the back. This is as it should be. You don’t play rhythm guitar for a band called “Ladytron” and expect an interview in Guitar Player Magazine; these guys know what side their bread is buttered on. The women of Ladytron maintained a cool reserve for most of the show as they rocketed through selections from their most recent album. It was all well and fine since that's the one I've got. A bit of a quibble as single “Ghost” felt slowed about a half-step, but “Deep Blue,” “Kletva” and “Forget the Day” were all aces.
The best moment of the show, undoubtedly, was “Seventeen,” when Marnie actually came alive and punched the air like she was at a socialist rally. Starting a revolution. Of angry 21 year olds and the men who empathise. Or something. There are many theories as to why this old, old song (for them) was the highlight of the night—possibly most credible being crowd reaction—but I’d theorise it’s easier to rock out a tune with fewer words. Plus if you fuck up the lyrics you just have to wait a few measures and you can throw down again; yeah!
The encore was a few more new ones and, of course, “Destroy Everything You Touch,” which has been stuck in my head the last couple of days. The show could have been a bit more switched-on energy wise (as demonstrated by a handful of the cuts that were) but all in all I left satisfied. After all, I was going to see a band called Ladytron.
Saturday, 15 November 2008
Everyone Has Something
There’s a pterodactyl outside your bedroom window
claws like diamond cutters, eyes red slits.
You outran the sabertooth, left the tyrannosaurus in the
tarpit with a quick dash-and-roll, killed the raptor with your
bare hands but you haven’t been able to shake this one and
now it watches you sleep, head ducked between leather wings.
Close the curtains and hear it breathing, waiting.
The pizza places stopped delivering,
the neighbourhood pets have all disappeared.
Sometimes it leaves the heads of cats on
your doorstep, reminders that someday, it’ll be you.
For now, you bury your face.
In South Dakota a man carries bundles of firewood
through the snow, he’s got holes in his boots and his
wife no longer loves him. She stays because he’s the
only thing between her and the wolverine on the roof.
He’s not afraid of wolverines; he’s got an axe for that,
but he never leaves his bed ‘til sunrise; otherwise the wood
will splinter away, leave him pitching through an
endless stretch of dark.
You are certain of your floors and ceilings,
none of your doorknobs have ever come off in your hand.
You know you’re safe in alleys, don’t
worry about taxes, trolls or terrorists.
But the fear always hits you in the
back of the knees when you get home and
that’s how you know you’re home.
Because It’s out there,
raising black wings, eyes of red,
waiting.
________________________________________________________________________
this is an old one I found when I was ruffling through my papers. Jake might remember it but I only read it once anyway. Gave it a few edits. I like when I write this sort of thing and it feels like it actually is something. Probably bring it out at a couple of upcoming features. May consider it for the chapbook submission.
claws like diamond cutters, eyes red slits.
You outran the sabertooth, left the tyrannosaurus in the
tarpit with a quick dash-and-roll, killed the raptor with your
bare hands but you haven’t been able to shake this one and
now it watches you sleep, head ducked between leather wings.
Close the curtains and hear it breathing, waiting.
The pizza places stopped delivering,
the neighbourhood pets have all disappeared.
Sometimes it leaves the heads of cats on
your doorstep, reminders that someday, it’ll be you.
For now, you bury your face.
In South Dakota a man carries bundles of firewood
through the snow, he’s got holes in his boots and his
wife no longer loves him. She stays because he’s the
only thing between her and the wolverine on the roof.
He’s not afraid of wolverines; he’s got an axe for that,
but he never leaves his bed ‘til sunrise; otherwise the wood
will splinter away, leave him pitching through an
endless stretch of dark.
You are certain of your floors and ceilings,
none of your doorknobs have ever come off in your hand.
You know you’re safe in alleys, don’t
worry about taxes, trolls or terrorists.
But the fear always hits you in the
back of the knees when you get home and
that’s how you know you’re home.
Because It’s out there,
raising black wings, eyes of red,
waiting.
________________________________________________________________________
this is an old one I found when I was ruffling through my papers. Jake might remember it but I only read it once anyway. Gave it a few edits. I like when I write this sort of thing and it feels like it actually is something. Probably bring it out at a couple of upcoming features. May consider it for the chapbook submission.
Wednesday, 22 October 2008
, but I'm sure as hell not the walrus--
Lately I've not felt much like writing. I've been hanging out with Lailey and trying to figure out things like going to Ireland, when to visit family friends, how to pay for things when i don't work all the time and what to do with the stupid rest of my life.
Some asshole once said that "life is what happens when you're making other plans" so i'm trying to keep production rates rolling and keep casting my nets in moderately ambitious ways. No formal announcements but I am going to be downloading lots of goddamn paperwork in the near future.
I did write this one thing, though and why the hell not put it up here? I'm probably sending this to 3AM. If more people knew about this blog I wouldn't post poems I was going to submit up here any more, but they don't, so I still can.
____________________
Donkey Kong country
When they cut some poets open they find trees and rivers and mountains and whole cities of frozen warriors guarding aliens and rainbows. Others they find empty after empty of Jack Daniels and unfinished love letters drown in crusted over bile. When they cut this one-- and only one-- open all they found was an empty barrel marked “toxic waste” and a grand piano reading Kerouac. The Priest said a prayer but the Piano refused to close its eyes so he burst into flames. The Scientist adjusted her X-ray glasses and saw through the corpse to the bottom of the world and all her vision came back paralysed. The other poets wrote odes to the deceased, about pianos and anger and burning bright into the night sky like a million blazing rangers but before any could utter their last line the barrel rolled across the linoleum and into the hallway where it startled all the flirting interns and the Piano started playing Fats Domino at top volume.
Some asshole once said that "life is what happens when you're making other plans" so i'm trying to keep production rates rolling and keep casting my nets in moderately ambitious ways. No formal announcements but I am going to be downloading lots of goddamn paperwork in the near future.
I did write this one thing, though and why the hell not put it up here? I'm probably sending this to 3AM. If more people knew about this blog I wouldn't post poems I was going to submit up here any more, but they don't, so I still can.
____________________
Donkey Kong country
When they cut some poets open they find trees and rivers and mountains and whole cities of frozen warriors guarding aliens and rainbows. Others they find empty after empty of Jack Daniels and unfinished love letters drown in crusted over bile. When they cut this one-- and only one-- open all they found was an empty barrel marked “toxic waste” and a grand piano reading Kerouac. The Priest said a prayer but the Piano refused to close its eyes so he burst into flames. The Scientist adjusted her X-ray glasses and saw through the corpse to the bottom of the world and all her vision came back paralysed. The other poets wrote odes to the deceased, about pianos and anger and burning bright into the night sky like a million blazing rangers but before any could utter their last line the barrel rolled across the linoleum and into the hallway where it startled all the flirting interns and the Piano started playing Fats Domino at top volume.
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