Saturday, April 17, 2010

heart worms

the jealous wife does set me up for deceit

she eats my goals and funds my smile

keeps me hallowed but in chains

no no more

no more

no more

no, no more

by the cunts and the caskets and the cains

by the chains and the chariots and the chiseled smiles

somebody wants you somewhere

in the their arms

in the their sight

in the grave

and if you ask me

there's nothing like the service

winchester firecracker traveling band

Stuart Sparling

you bend whistles to speak no love no love in your voice

you haven't the gift to forgive me you haven't the spirit

there's nothing to do so you take out your ribs

and you play me your song

no kind of rhythm

no kind of blues

your feet are rubber your feet our glue

whatever i say doesn't seem to stick to you

fight fight fight and you want me again

I don't know how to pretend

any more

Stuart Sparling

Wednesday, April 14, 2010

concrete jungle

Rockbois Documentary from ryan Dooley on Vimeo.

showcasing: Bera White, Kane Logos,
Ufo 5, Orticanoodles, Ema Jo, Blackwan,
Jet 4, El Tilf, Danilo Mendez, Marvin and more

Tuesday, April 13, 2010

Sunday, April 11, 2010


I can’t believe that you are going
there, oh House of Birds,
I warned you of my sisters
and you met my father
we don’t have the time
for cabin games or carbon experiments

if you are no longer a little boy
then leave me with my sons

my love for you
was the scab that grew
over the open wound of your rejection
it was the scaffolding on my basilica
it’s the moat around my fortress

and the cavernous darkness tunneling underneath
where the waters turn rankid meeting up against stone
that is also you

and what use have these walls
besides as my prison?
and when will I hear the music of my name
spoken without the sneer of yours?

I know the future to be naught but a rumour
scarcely less dead than the past
I know finders keep, the universal law
and I know the dark memories
wherein I lost you

I turn black inside and red outside

Hamlet grabs one hand, Holden the other
and Michelangelo’s God anoints my tongue
how long have they been ready for this?

* how right it's me the camera follows

now leave
your nasty design
has failed
and we are only bickering fools

* and rightly so my music plays

is there any triumph as sweet
as that gentlemanly parade of pillow sermons
I won’t miss you, oh I won’t, I won’t

P. McGreer

Diamond Dust

Saturday, April 10, 2010


the loaf-stale air itself passed through the bodies
in that place, and like a pine needle in a leaf
pointed to the raunchy sweaty breasts of
the dumb young girls exposed and
the sweat glistening on their breasts
from the hard light of the bar was like a cow tongue
sweating in a pan

in one moment that I was in that crazy bar,
talking nothing but like I was swine,
feeling nothing but like rancid butter that has
basted in the smell of a skunk,
and looking at the masses seething with their
smiles like tricycle handles,

I closed my eyes and I saw
blood walking around in the form of a body
with brown tiny bits straggling inside it,

I opened my eyes and looked on
the floor, and the floor was made of
human faces looking up into the boot heals,

the roof bled black beetles who scrounge around

I left the bar--yea, ran away from it
and I hit the outside
and didn't stop my running till
I got to a field where I had first learned
to ride my bike as a child,

and I saw myself there with white blond
hair, and I goofy voice spilling along
and echoing through the field
like a supine wonder of nudity,

yes, I saw my body there
and I laughed

the air turned warm and nurturing, the air was a factory where
a million men worked inside, punching
out the sweet tantalizing air, and the sound
of the wind running nowhere over
the dark, wet grass

that lined the pavement

M. Desjardins

Thursday, April 8, 2010

Thursday, April 1, 2010

peyote poem, part 1

Clear -- the senses bright -- sitting in the black chair -- Rocker --
the white walls reflecting the color of clouds
moving over the sun. Intimacies! The rooms
not important -- but like divisions of all space
of all hideousness and beauty. I hear
the music of myself and write it down
for no one to read. I pass fantasies as they
sing to me with Circe-Voices. I visit
among the peoples of myself and know all
I need to know.

there is a golden bed radiating all light
the air is full of silver hangings and sheathes
I smile to myself. I know
all there is to know. I see all there
is to feel. I am friendly with the ache
in my belly. The answer
to love is my voice. There is no time!
No answers. The answer to feeling is my feeling.

The answer to joy is joy without feeling.

The room is a multicolored cherub
of air and bright colors. The pain in my stomach
is warm and tender. I am smiling. The pain
is many pointed, without anguish.
Light changes the room from yellows to violet!
The dark brown space behind the door is precious
intimate, silent and still. The birthplace
of Brahms. I know
all that I need to know. There is no hurry.
I read the meanings of scratched walls and cracked ceilings.
I am separate. I close my eyes in divinity and pain.
I blink in solemnity and unsolemn joy.
I smile at myself in my movements. Walking
I step higher in carefulness. I fill
space with myself. I see the secret and distinct
patterns of smoke from my mouth
I am without care part of all. Distinct.
I am separate from gloom and beauty. I see all.


And grim intensity -- close within myself. No longer
a cloud
but flesh real as rock. Like Herakles
of primordial substance and vitality.
And not even afraid of the thing shorn of glamour
but accepting.
The beautiful things are not of ourselves
but I watch them. Among them.

And the Indian thing. It is true!
Here in my apartment I think tribal thoughts.)

There is no time. I am visited by a man
who is the god of foxes
there is dirt under the nails of his paw
fresh from his den.
We smile at one another in recognition.

I am free from time. I accept it without triumph

-- a fact.

Closing my eyes there are flashes of light.

My eyes won't focus but leap. I see that I have three feet.
I see seven places at once!
The floor slants -- the room slopes
things melt
into each other. Flashes
of light
and meldings. I wait
seeing the physical thing pass.
I am on a mesa of time and space.
Writing the music of life
in words.
Hearing the round sounds of the guitar
as colors.
Feeling the touch of flesh.
Seeing the loose chaos of words
on the page.
(ultimate grace)
(Sweet Yeats and his ball of hashish.)

My belly and I are two individuals
joined together
in life.

we smile with it.

At the window I look into the blue-gray
gloom of dreariness.
I am warm. Into the dragon of space.
I stare into clouds seeing
their misty convolutions.

The whirls of vapor
I will small clouds out of existence.
They become fish devouring each other.
And change like Dante's holy spirits
becoming an osprey frozen skyhigh
to challenge me.

Michael McClure

the man who shot liberty vallance

Our darker cousins to the south

We was hollered at on a blog from I'm guessing california? Either way its a sweet little piece with a lot to offer by way of melon teasers.