Jesus, I am getting tired of these new noisepop bands that think recording your vocals on a Fisher Price tape recorder while your girlfriend beats on a guitar with a wooden spoon makes you the next Jesus and Mary Chain...

Yes, I'm talking to you Vivian Girls and Best Coast...

MANIFEST DESTINY RIFLE...

GO INSIDE ME...BE MY WAR BOY...MY AMPHETAMINE HERO...MY DRUNKEN SOLDIER...BAPTISM CONTINGENT ON BLOOD ALCOHOL LEVEL...I’LL FEEL WHOLE ONLY WHEN I’M MADE TO FEEL LIKE NOTHING...LIKE GLAZED EMPTY EYES IN A CHOPPED WHITE STRIPED MIRROR...THE CUM DRIES ON THE DRIVE HOME WHILE I READ THE CHURCH SIGN”HE WHO KNEELS MOST LIVES BEST”...AND FOR ONCE I AGREE...CUZ THE ONLY TIME THAT I FEEL ALIVE OR WHOLE OR LIKE ANYTHING IS RIGHT WITH THIS WORLD IS WHEN I’M TAKING SOMETHING IN...ON MY KNEES FOR THE RIGHT SONG...THE RIGHT BOTTLE...OR THE RIGHT COCK....CUZ MUSIC IS MY CHURCH...BUT COCK IS THE COMMUNION AND BOOZE IS THE OXYGEN...AL ONCE SAID “I ONLY KILL TO KNOW I AM ALIVE”, BUT I ONLY SWALLOW TO KNOW I’M BREATHING...RURAL BOY WITH MANIFEST DESTINY RIFLE...NO BUCK ON MY WALL..THE ONLY THING THAT I KILL IS BRAIN CELLS AND DREAMS...ANOINTED IN GOOD BOURBON AND CHEAP BEER, I PLAY OFF ADDICTION BECAUSE IT’S THE RIGHT THING TO DO...OR AT LEAST, THE ACCEPTABLE THING TO DO...I LIE HERE BLEEDING, A VICTIM OF MY OWN CIRCUMSTANCE...THE DRYING HARDNESS ON MY STOMACH AND FACE, THE LIQUOR STORE CHARGE ON MY CREDIT CARD, THE BITING OF MY TONGUE....THE ONLY EVIDENCE I HAVE THAT TONIGHT EXISTED...INSOMNIA MAKES ME FEEL WHOLE...DESPITE ANY EVIDENCE TO THE CONTRARY...THIS RANDOMNESS MAKE SENSE TO ME, IF NOT TO YOU...

He puts my face in the mirror. The looks reflected back at me full of lust and desperation, hope and angst. The same look that says...”Your dreams will never come true...” When you live your life as a dreamer, reality has a way of seeping in like wrinkles on an aging face. It’s something you never think about, even as 3 AM broadcasts it’s endless playback. Then one day, you are brushing your teeth, and it bares it’s ugly fangs. And like a kick in the groin, it tells you that your youthful cynicism and disdain weren’t just carefully cultivated sexiness...they were preparation.

reflection

I watch him there..his dark fairlight eyes aglow in the dark. Glimmer from the silver parts in his flesh momentarily blind me. He looks so evil in the dimness, yet somehow so innocent, the way that those lost boys always do. Puppy smiles and devil grins. Whiskey and candy cigarettes, vaseline winks and sugarcoated fist fucks....he’s the one your momma warns you about, but the one you take home to dad. You are never sure if he’s more focused on you, the song on the radio, or the bottle in his hand, and you like it that way.

Would I truly have lived up to the potential that others see in me, or have I only flashed the parts that glint bits of greatness but hold nothing beyond amusement and lack of substance?

Am I really the sincere, honest, good man that I sometimes am told, or is it much more than a misintepretation of my nature, sensitivity, and response?

Is there a depth that truly lies deeper than what is perceived, or a veneer that's polished by years of wanting to be a bit more than I know that I am?

When does truth surface...in the punk rock tender or the redneck scholar...or is any bit of it some scripted reality put forth to throw interest off the smell of the down deep?

One hundred proof truths and oxygen honesty...the clash that is the sincere...

fumes that reach for something more than i am willing to converse...but choke on what i might actually mean...

a complexity so shallow...

the glare of the white lights from the red within...


the gutter scarred heart flayed on my sleeve, the first honesty i could let myself show...

for the contradicting angel on my lap...in hopes that this IS...

me...i...we...us...survivalism beyond the decay...

a wink at hope beyond the ruin that are the things I wonder about myself...

rough trade saint...

ALL HE WANTED TO DO WAS DRINK CHEAP BEER AND EXPENSIVE BOURBON...LISTENING TO BITTER MUSIC AND RELIVE PAST IMAGINED SICK GLORIES...THE VOICES OF OLD ACQUAINTANCES ECHOING LIKE THE SOUND OF A LOCAL BAND FIGHTING TO BE HEARD THROUGH THE METAL OF DRUNKEN PISS STAINED BATHROOM STALL DOORS...HE RELUCTANTLY UNDERSTOOD WHY THE PARTY ALWAYS HAS TO END, BUT STILL FOUGHT THE DAWN AND THE GOODBYES OF MATURE-ADULT-LIFE WITH EVERY WHITE NOSED, FERMENTED BREATH. SINGING CAR CRASH LULLABYES AND OVERDOSE LOVE SONGS, HE'S THE ROUGH TRADE SAINT THAT MAKES EVERY CLICHE SEEM SOMEHOW AMUSING AND DANGEROUS AND SO FUCKING SEXY. HE FINDS ALL THE WRONG THINGS EXCITING, YET HOLDS THE PERFECT THINGS DEAR, AND MAKES YOU FIND THE BEAUTY IN BOTH. THE ONLY QUESTION HE EVER DARES TO PONDER IS WHO NEEDS GOD WHEN YOU HAVE YOURSELF?

the algebra of need...

A spit shined veneer of perfect abandon. A fine way of saying...”I just fucking give up”. Cuz giving up or going on are pretty much the same in that book. When your lifeline comes on tap and your pride comes in...well just cums...it’s a history lesson in the algebra of need or want, or what the fuck ever keeps the gun out of your mouth. They say that women attempt to off themselves more than men, but men are more successful. Does that mean that males take it that seriously, or it’s another macho bullshit thing to prove? WWJWD? What would John Wayne do? Cuz it’s all about that pseudo frontier shit that some closet case coward, scared shitless of himself designed to cover his tracks. What’s worse....A cock in the mouth....or a gun in the mouth. I think we all know the answer to that one.

another old one...musings on a past life/relationship


Maybe it is fucked up....I sit here drinking my 14th beer listening to the Pixies and trying to ignore my boyfriend, naked and masturbating on the bed.... Every asthmatic grunt driving me further into denial....should I feel sad that I’d rather drink than fuck my lover? Is it a sign of how in love I am with my liquor or a sign of how little I am with him? Yes, I love his cock and I love him..but I don’t think that I’m really in love with either....and maybe I haven’t been....in a long....long...time...Routine is heroin to the confused, and sadly I may be nodding off on what I have become accustomed to. I pray for him to cum, so that I can feel free to go on with what I actually want to do and can quit pretending to be oblivious...I know he knows and I feel like a bastard, but at the same time, all I am denying him is a fucking blow job. He has denied me my self. He claims to love me and be attracted to me for what I really am, but all he seems to really give a shit about is himself and his own interests. “Oh wow, baby, you started writing again finally? That is great, but have I shown you my latest piece? Did I tell you how fucked up work was today? Did I tell you about this debate I got into in class? Have I told you that I rarely fucking understand much of what you say, talk about, think about, or care about???? And more importantly, I don’t give a shit?” Yeah, so maybe he doesn’t say that last part, but he may as well scream it, when he cuts me off in mid sentence about defeating my writers block or my latest mix cd to discuss, or even better, to soapbox about the trivialities of his day for the 245th time. I just nod and retreat into my mind, my music, my liquor...cuz the pills aren’t working any more....and I’m not sure that they ever did....he might stop and tell me that MAYBE I drink too much...and I think it isn’t enough...he might talk about how fucking hot the guy was that supposedly wanted down my pants that actually seemed interested in ME....cuz trivializing it makes it more acceptable...cuz I might be cool to talk to...hang out with...drink with....but mostly I give great head and I’m a great lay...and if one has to “pretend” to listen to Joy Division, or read Steinbeck, or love Asian film, it’s well worth it for that look on my face as the cum flies...

The stories are always better at night. Exaggerated with whisky and Camel Filters, Cure songs and Special K, the age old tale of boys that chase boys and the girls that love them. It gets easier with age, they tell me....but what if the worst time of my life really is the best time of my life? Maybe the lies I told myself to make me like myself are the reasons that I don’t. Hmm...well pretentious pondering and empty bottle self analysis isn’t pretty and rarely gets on with the show, but angst...angst is always sexy. The fresh scar underneath the scab...that’s what this story is. The brutally lovely night stories...

SHARPIE HYMNS

I ONLY BLEW HIM FOR THE STORY I COULD TELL LATER OVER EXTRA STRONG COCKTAILS AND COCAINE...I’M ON MY KNEES SUFFERING FOR MY ART...THE GLORY HOLE EDITOR IN SOME MIDWESTERN REST AREA EVALUATING MY TALENT. AND JUDGING ME...9.8 ON SKILL BUT 6.7 ON ENTHUSIASM.. SHOW US YOU LOVE IT..THEY ALL BELLOW....SO IT’S SOME MIDDLE AGED TRUCKER GRABBING THE BACK OF YOUR HEAD IN SOME FILTHY ABANDONED REST AREA. AT LEAST IT’S SOME KIND OF ATTENTION. AND WE BOTH KNOW THAT THE FILTHIER...THE TRASHIER...THE MORE DISPOSABLE THAT I AM TREATED....THE BETTER I SEEM TO FEEL. AT WORK, AT SCHOOL, IN LOVE, ALWAYS UNWORTHY...BUT SUBJECTED TO SOME LEVEL OF HUMILIATION AND SCORN, I FEEL WHOLE.. FINDING SALVATION THROUGH CUM STAINED DRILL HOLES IN SPRAY PAINTED STALL WALLS...SHARPIE HYMNS AND KEY SCRATCHED PRAYERS TELL MY FORTUNE ALONG THE SIDE OF ANOTHER PRAIRIE HIGHWAY. THIS IS MY EXISTENCE...