isn’t it so?
that miscommunication
rides a broom.

 

there’s a girl on my street
twelve years old,
in an abandoned theater.
her parents leave her there: alone,
afraid, in a seat, on a stage.

her gray mother and gray father
see the grinder everyday.

yet she sits
and smiles,
and sings sour;
I’ve been waiting for this moment,
all of my life.

Some nights my mind swells with temptation
to creak open the closet door.
Ideas, fed through a thick libation,
of madness spill upon the floor;
on settled dust and rotted timber
the ghost of love does thaw and limber
and wake once more a shrieking sound
that goads my frozen blood to pound.
These ghastly dreams cause such a racket,
I place my pillow on my head
and pray I make no sound, instead
the bastards enter with a jacket
and throttle me until I weep,
then needle me until I sleep.

 

Between Manhattan and Queens sits an island that's been forgotten.
Yet it breathes; gasps when oily waves recede and spits when cold
green water crashes. Beneath the feet of children plucking blackberries
by the lighthouse, below the tennis courts and apartment buildings and
the asphalt; the island remembers horrors. Centuries of tortured bodies
and splintered minds seeped down through the island’s skin into its id.
One hundred and seven acres of pig shit and guts moistened its soil
for sin, and thus was born a prison that grew an asylum and a small-pox
hospital. The murderer, the moron and the moribund replaced the pink
squealing meat with disheveled hair and wild eyes and scared, hideous,
screams.

All around it buildings rose that needled and blotted the sky, buildings
filled with women and men and happy little children. Most did not know
the island. Those who did cursed it or forgot it or thought it mad as
those trapped in the clawed walls upon it. But there are two who will never
forget, two who will never forsake, for when they were young, they saw the
graffiti wrapped iron lungs inside the boarded up nurses residence.

 

I generally keep my innards to myself, but I've recently come to the conclusion that my innards ain't my own ... the vultures are circling and I no longer fear their plucky humor. So, just below are a few old motunes for falcons, cattle and sperm whales. They’re all pretty much unfinished, listed in chronological order of creation and, (dare I say it?) raw (wow, what a word), I fear for your soul.

• My Harley – Written and played (originally) by Chester, was originally “My Pony.” I converted it to a California Harley love song, and made it worse in the process … I ain’t sad about it, it’s the damned truth man.

He always thought. He thought about his bookcase, thought about his past, the books never read, he always wondered what was inside. Each book spine perfect, each cover unbent. Next to the bookcase he had a TV with video built in.

 

Hey Skinny, the shop boy said, Skinny!

Yeah? Said Skinny.

We got that movie in.

Skinny looked around the store, looked down the isle, and fixed his eyes on the foreign section. Skinny's seen every movie here.

was it you
this thing in my room
shiny, sickly, sic

poor red bug
for you I have love
aged pierced high on a stick

my friend
is this my end
perhaps you think me a prick

it's name in French
les betes du bon dieu
now opportunity spent

 

The link below leads to an imperfect remix I made of a song by Isola, a band I performed in a while back. We played all of two shows and then split up ... I'm thinking about starting a reunion tour! Middle America, here we come! The lovely vocals is none other than the lovely and talented Michelle Amador. Lord only know's how she put up with me an' my musical shananigans, but happily she did. At any rate, she's a damn fine musician.

The link below will take you to a song I worked on for a project with a friend. He makes the photo's (www.robprideaux.com) ... and I make the music:

MusicFace

Just the Music