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

let the sunshine in

Nighthawks on the radio

Digital sound imprints of Tom Waits peddling the flint of his voice on the Bob Dylan magic hour. (Who knew he hosted a radio show? I guess anybody who uses last.fm but that's definitely not me.)

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

All Tomorrow's Parties

Exorcism

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

yet
I turn black inside and red outside

quickly
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

Satori

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
everywhere

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

Sons of lovers

Allison Schulnik

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.

I KNOW EVERYTHING! I PASS INTO THE ROOM

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.

(SPACIOUSNESS

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.)

STOMACH!!!

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.

! STOM-ACHE!

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.

THIS IS THE POWERFUL KNOWLEDGE

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.

check. it. out.

PEACE