Small writers of dust.

fine, you'll have
his connoisseur
and united state of
affection.
and then
the tiny space
in your head that
recognizes my face
will be hollowed
like an empty grave.
i will take a solace
in knowing that
worms will eat the
respective space
inside my own skull
(still) enamored with your face
after I have passed.
Even if I should
live 50 more
years,
you will still be there.
occupying a few cells,
waiting to be devoured
by the best friends
i'll never meet.

they'll be worms.
kind consumers of the wasted.
small writers of dust.

When You Are Old

by Yeats, a boss for sure.

WHEN you are old and gray and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face among a crowd of stars.

O tempora! O mores!

by Bukowski

I get these girly magazines in the mail because
I'm writing short stories for them again
and here in these pages are these ladies
exposing their jewel boxes -
it looks more like a gynecologist's
journal -
everything boldly and clinically
exposed
beneath bland and bored physiognomies.
it's a turn-off of gigantic
proportions:
the secret is in the
imagination -
take that away and you have dead
meat.

a century back
a man could be driven mad
by a well-turned
ankle, and
why not?
one could imagine
that the rest
would be
magical
indeed!

now they shove it at us like a
McDonald's hamburger
on a platter.

there is hardly anything as beautiful as
a woman in a long dress

not even the sunrise
not even the geese flying south
in the long V formation
in the bright freshness
of early morning.

What to do, what to do

Hope for us.

you
there
standing around like
the figment of
some preteen's too-intensely
idealized
imagination.
Let it go,
let it all go.
THe only remains of it
exist between
the same ears
that recorded her every word.
Let it go.
The beating beasts beneath
our chests are an endangered
species.
So let it go.
We are all alike but we are not
the same.
A cesspool of excuses
is what we dig our bitter little hands
into for relief,
though nothing of aid can be said
when you prefer a grave to a hospital bed.
So let it go.
Because a bruise is no less a shield than a scab is.
Once injured you're not more likely to be
had
than those who inexperience
has given naivety.
So let it go.
Let it go.
It ends on its own, but only
if you believe it should.
Emotions have the lung capacity
of spaceships.
I know.
But let it go.
Its worth letting go.
They, he, she, everyone who has
Stolen pieces of the lifetime you belong in
is worth letting go of.
So let it go.
Affection is our only remaining importance in this
configured torture.
So give it to someone who needs it.
And let it go.
You are their holocausts,
their hollow causes,
their extremities of perseverance,
and their mistakes.
You are like them,
you are similar to all who have suffered,
but you are not them.
So let it go.
Who wonders for any other reason than
to wander from the present?
We all do.
So let it go.
Wander only from that which has left you.
Bind not to what will not even
look you in the eye to say thank you
or fuck you.
Let it go.
Give in to the notion
of a continuation,
undetermined, but inevitable,
if you
let it go.

I did not write this.

will you make me a world
where i can curl and unfurl
of my own accord

will you find me a park
with a see-saw that goes around

for i have lived in circles
sometimes spinning
sometimes off on a tangent

but whatever
i'm always back to square one

will you be there
waiting in the wings
when i land

will you keep me from crashing
will you keep me from smashing

fragments and tiny bits
jigsaw me
picture me

relent

come on now
make that dent

for cutting edge is cool
but razor sharp is cooler still

Something someone sent me about something important to me.

so we sit and sip morning cups,
bravado keeping us safe from
no news that is good
news as countless
flames burn across
desert lands and infants wash up on freedom's
shores
before the lawns gets
trimmed and a neighbor your
kids played with hits the
headlines only to be
labeled "a nice guy"
you went to church with,
while his petite
wife sent
memos off reminding all
of the annual bake sale,
sure to raise not quite
enough to paint the barn
but more than too much,
as the Mercedes clearly shows you
three small faces deprived
and hand picked for effective
representation of how your
life
is perfectly fine
given the fact that you do nothing for those in need
and repulsive guilt is the
message intended
to open the escape way for your
soul if you
only send twenty three cents a day
multiplied by three hundred and sixty five days
which in exponential terms
becomes so many numbers (608,637,500.00 to be exact)
that a blinded mass
of self indulgent sinners
looks North as ninety six percent of
the till faces a
fate three small faces would gladly except,
for to be burned up as
quickly, would be the easy way out,
for they do not exist unless a humble man walks
them in to your living room
and force feeds them to you
before you remotely
remember that the big game
is on and you change...the channel

Give me hardcore or give me fucking death.

Life Long Tragedy - Sweet innocence

I walk through the darkest rooms
Full of gloom and minds like mazes
And rejoice 'cause I'll be the voice
Of your failure fucking generation
Still don't belong to anyone
This is a life of hesitation
And we'd all trade one night to remember
For the years we've carelessly wasted
Big dreams and half full drinks
A few pills in your guts
So now it's easy to think or breathe
And true love was just a marketed ploy
So guys can hit their lines
And girls can grab their boys
Sweet innocence with loser's luck
I know you think you're giving love
But you're just getting fucked
Guess what?
I looked and you know what I found?
That you can't expect to trust this world
When you can't even trust yourself
And your head starts to spin
As you dance to the beat
Because tomorrow isn't promised
But it's sure as fuck is coming
And your body starts to shake
As you sing in the streets
Because it's cold outside
So you better start running
Don't count on me to save your life
When I've never had
A clear enough perspective on mine
And I know things change
we'll go our separate ways
And alive is the only thing
It seems we've stayed lately
And the truth isn't always easy to believe
You walk alone to the sound of your own heartbeat
And I know it's not always so easy to see
But we are still all so fucking beautiful to me

Jordan from La Dispute posted this as a bulletin on myspace

Fighting the ocean:

"There were nights you could hear us singing through the walls
until the neighbors called the cops.
Looking back those times seem so important.
Singing with our four chord heroes.
Even now I still believe those words
and they mean more to me than they did on the day we heard them first.
If you see me in fifteen years looking like I've given up
remind me when I was twenty four
I issued this promise to never get so caught up in the bullshit
that I lose sight of the true things and cease to grow.
There are nights when the apathy cascades
with the whiskey running through our veins
sometimes it only takes a few chords to remind us
If we're sick of the chains that are tying our weak hands
let's cut them off and put our fists up in the air.
If we can get through today doing the best that we can,
Then hell, I think we're doing alright.
If you see me tomorrow
remind me I really do give a shit about all of this."

The band is Cain Marko. Hear the song here:

http://www.myspace.com/cainmarkorock

Speaker and listener are two of a kind.

stainless slabs of whose dick is bigger
still it doesn't stop hither as young women portray the whorey
witch of high matriarch of slutdom
and lex death pushers glorify fatal futility of guns
all quite belligerently from the not so distant land of insufficient funds and bastard sons
you're withering away at the hands of dogs and duns
delighted to defoliate wherever some green may run
then disperse to a slow trickle
abandoned, praising the sociopath sickle
over the very pen and mic which cripple
your comely hides from doom's grossly disfigured nipples
so there you stand, knowledgeably weened
and esteemed poise to speak in orders lime lit green
atop a soapbox of the many's trusted screams
this time pause and wipe fortune's slate clean
before allowing slurred stupid to beam
from those idolized lips, brother
things can always be better than this.

- Doseone.



"there is no hayborn tribulation arduous enough."

Horse Feathers - Working Poor

Gives me the feeling I'm listening to Dylan's discontent about the awful state of the working class in this country. Also reminds me of Lullaby for the Working Class instrumentally. Overall, a great song. I look forward to getting some music by these guys soon.





We are young and we are weak.
Just as blank as we are bleak.
Too far gone in our heads.
We all live and work in the red.

We're cold,
we had done all we've been told.
There's no court for our case.
What failure gave us suits our taste.

We all bend, we all break.
We all forfeit what we make.
Too far gone, in our heads.
We all live and work in the red.

We're cold,
we had done all we've been told.
There's no court for our case.
What failure gave us suits our taste.

There's no money to our names.
Empty pockets to our graves.
There's no court for our case.
What failure gave us suits our taste.

we live for a reason. that reason is no reason at all. we swallow our words and
hide our thoughts. everyday i regret everything coming out of my fucking mouth.
and I wish that I could shut the fuck up.

Real Emo Lyrics FTW

Death, prolonged by a return to infancy, has more patience than I. Reborn into a caustic world with a name that inspires nothing, pulling meaning from pieces, consumed by repetition and outmaneuvered by my consciousness, my life isn't a trial; it's an eternity.

But I'm just a child. All I have is time.

And time will save me, through this machine.
Time will enslave me through this machine.
Its movement is mine.
And as we fall gracefully upward through the hourglass, no comforting melody invites us.
How long can a voyage take in a vacuum without time?



Pyramids - The Clockwork

Rule 1,

Write what you like; there is no other rule.- O Henry

Its so easy to laugh, its so easy to hate, it takes strength to be kind over and over and over and over

-Morrissey

This world has some weird fucking values. The perception of strong is an individual who is often uncaring for other individuals who can triumph in any situation. If strength encompasses being that person who only takes care of themselves and is fine with living like that, I'm going to eke my days out in loneliness and weakness because I'm not going to be the half-assed participant in a bunch of group activities composed of people who will talk all the shit in the world about others once they're no longer around.

'Should you ask me if I'm happy, i'll answer that I am not.'

that is the beauty of prose. The words are as pure as a thought not hindered by presentation.

Put this in your pipe and smoke that shit

The feeding frenzy of my starving soul, gnawing voraciously at the bones,
the exo-skeletal patchwork protecting my own reflection within;
The twin-and-same engaged in the mirrored act of chewing away
at the shell of my attacking self. The paradox unseen

Treacherous this deceit to make no choice matter
To have and yet lose yourself, until finally all reasons why are forgotten
To live through ones own shadow. Mute and blinded, is to really see
Eclipse the golden mirror and the reflection is set free

The frustrated youth deserve not their frustrations

Well I am a one man rent strike
and your couch is my picket line
Well I'm eating acid for breakfast
and puking all over the sidewalk this time
But mostly I'm just full of shit
in a world that's already filled up with that
So if Aaron makes it to space then I ain't coming back
Well I am an artist if that means that there's a cigarette in my mouth
Well I'm a punk rocker if that means that I
smell pretty bad right now
But mostly I'm just kinda crazy
in a world full of sadness and pain
We waited there in the yard but the train never came

The sky

Looks bluer when you fuck the order of the day or the way the shelves are meant to fit.

On the mediocrity of music

To the man making all the new shadow puppets,
i like your style more worthwhile then rubbish.
a big break for bad taste acting like faith is a face,
a dumpster man singing a dumpster song of redemption,
share the broken note, it's the only note.
people here got thick skin to hold the nothing in.

Such a great verse

This is what has brought me back to hip hop. THe thing this verse has in common with some of my favorite non-hip hop songwriters is that its speaks on life and it puts things into perspective without making the words all pretty.

Sixtoo's verse on "Testimony", which is off of Sage Francis's mixtape Sick of Waiting Tables

how far will he travel?
the essential interpretation watching the sequential falling of the dominos.
which one will stay erect? a microcosm where every effort is just that.
it's just maps, papercuts, and the photos to prove the strength.
he followed the family, alone as the next member.
california dreaming of moving out there in september.
i sit in admiration, knowing that the weakest link
is also the one that holds the pillars on the brink
of collapse. relapse is the replay of emotional disarray,
sustaining the stains of teardrops on his t-shirt.
sometimes, taking for yourself is harder than giving.
those who want to give up, living in the circumstance.
dance around the issues of dealing with the problem,
drudging through the uncomfortable streets of dispairity.
all's fair in love and clarity,
and also ignorance.
chains don't always hold the fingerprints.