VALDIS (re-post)

My head is caught 
in the cat claw of death
and beaten 
by the barbed-wire grip-
the black fear of the white horse. 
The End, with all Her aches and moans, abstracts.
I am strung up,
harrowed, cramped, and racked
by Her routine voulge.
I can't fight Her in the murder-hole.
She is coming
and Her closed book keeps cold paranoia.
The spell has been cast upon every rat, priest, and mother.
I pine for my mother,
clean and canonized,
not to expire.
I fear her bright whites turning grey,
her empyrean eyes but a dry decay.






(Death is most certainly a woman)

She ain't no witch baby
She ain't no witch baby
She ain't no witch like me.

Okay, circle shine. Blessed be the light in the shitty dark. This day has given me hope and some brand new shiny eyes to see with.

Funerals are for the Living

I would rather not go to the funeral.


I do not want to wear a dress.
And I would rather not gather around the rectangular hole in the ground,
standing there among strangers' faces I've never seen before.
I do not want to see the celibate priest
speaking from uninspired verse
with his Bible-this and Bible-that.


I don't really care
for the black ties and solemn eyes.
I don't want to hold hands
and pretend in black.


I don't want to be introduced to people I've never seen before or talk about what a great man he was.
I don't want to witness all the running mascara and soiled tissue, besmirched with the dumps.


And I don't want to feign a tear for the man going underground.

And that means my father will be there. He will stand next to me, I'm sure. He will try to pretend like nothing has changed in the family since the beginning of May. He will use his height and his dark eyes again to deter away from what has been going on. He will preclude any chance of bringing up his Swinehood of adultery against my mother. He will, and I do not want to see him in his lowering charade. I hate to see him dress the part of the funeral, when he wears a white-starched shirt and black suit. He becomes The Embellishment - the epitome of all that he is... a phony. He is some pretended father, some pretended pillar of importance. He is the soft soap. I do not want to see him. I do not want him to stand next to me at the service. He will try to hold my hand and wrap his illusive arms around me, and such movements will scour the image of who he really is. All the mourners will think him a good man, comforting, sensitive, honest, and tall. I will know the truth, though - that he is a sophist. And my stomache will turn in disgust that I have become such a pawn of amenity for a hurtful man. I will become sick and cold. I will become unnerved. I will drift off into a daydream and push him down into the rectangular deep, kick some dirt over his sorry eyes, and fail to throw him a rose.

I am not going to speak at the mass... against my mother's wishes. What would my memory be? I shouldn't have to ask. I wasn't that close to my grandfather. I only knew a few things about him. We didn't talk much. Anything I might say about him would have to be dug up from some minor memory and then decorated with plastic beads My speech would be trite and of pretense. And that is just not like me. I am not like the funeral. The funeral and I, we are not capable of synthesis. I cannot merge with the funeral. The funeral makes no sense to me at all. The funeral is like running the clock backwards.


The funeral is a mistake.





Photo Credit

Keep Your Electric Eye On Me, Babe

VelvetVeins

Mile 999

You've lost me for a thousand miles...

the whisper, once in the garden,
once alive with health and bright dew
is now dead,
has died
with the flowers,
and
is condemned
to grave silence. That thunderous aerial roar is
a deafening static defeat.

You've wasted me.
Do you repent?

Flowers, yes, they are dead.
Daddy's flowers,
they are dead, dead, dead!

The wife and the daughter now shed
now sore, collapsed.
Betrayed. You've really gone and done it.

You've lost me for a thousand miles...

You have been a swine
ever since I can recall.
I was once a tiny girl,
melted into wax, a shapeable fire.
My inner child remembers you now
Standing at the top of the stairs
Like a narrow tower of callousness yelling at the mother.
That heavy growl yells out:
"CUNT!"

Dead Eye
... what a wonderful first memory for a
tiny girl to possess
of her daddy.

Now you see to me you've always been, Daddy Swine,
pushing us down like glass buttons -
we were fragile and clear, then
jabbed with acrimony by your biscuit-colored fascist fingers.

You've always been sharpening your spear,
and stabbing us with some new fresh blade
cut/slashed/stabbed/
over and over and over
again.

But never have you gone so far as this
To cut off my Head. To cut off my Hands.
My Arms, reaching out, are bloody Ends of
resentment
hate
and
Death for you.

The dream is over. Every way is down.

I am not your tiny girl
You have lost me for a thousand miles...

You have lost me for a thousand miles
and their are no convenient underground trains or forgiving cars
for you to travel by to an atonement.
Only your repentant feet can make the walk.
Yes, your sorry feet - blistered, sore, burning, cracked, torn,
CUT,
chewed and ugly
can make the walk.

But you will not walk.
Your ego wears shoes; you will not walk.
You won't be caught dead coming up ripped apart, slashed open with regret, vulnerable, judged,       clean,              sorry.

You selfish Fuck.
You Stain!
You Dirty Swine.

It is no matter,
The road ends on Mile 999.

My Father, The Swine

Some poetry I wrote in a fever of delirium, disillusion, and upon recognition that he is a real crook.

Feedback from the Boss Man

My boss wrote this little note. Allow me to decipher his chicken-scratch handwriting:

raw talent & energy are there
-----------------------------
experiment with covers & get musically tight & confident
------------------------------
take a voice lession! (bonus $$$)
------------------------------

guitar - maybe up a little
voice mic - up
drum mic - down
------------------------------

my order
chocolate jesus cover B
take you out B
banana glass B-
pretty whites C
the woman destroyed C-

Listening to Captain Beefheart & His Magic Band

Part II. Credit Memo

You used me

like an ashtray heart

right from the start

c a s e o f t h e p u n k s

another day another why

somebody's had too much

to think

Part III.

T H A N K Y O U , G O D F O R S E N D I N G S O M E

T H I N G

G O O D

O

W

N

Whereas usually "You" are a bastard

- son of an epic bitch

= birthed by swine

- stains on blasphemous streets

today

maybe

"You" exist

Between the lines of reason and those of

blind faith

Maybe you are the Eye

rather than the God

within us.

Can you make light and turn the moon?

Can you shift into that plasmatic-spine

and drip drip drip

just as quick as you burn burn burm

and send rotten fumes?

for swallowing some anesthesia

Maybe I think He or She or It

is here.

Watching to hear,

making sense of things.

Part IV.

xxx

I N K A T E W E T R U S T xxx

PART IV.

She was turning white. Her eyes were turning white, I mean. She charted the skies with the night and lay the vessel upon the water to breath soft air. The blank man came across the bank to ask if she was crazy. She was turning red. She was turning red for a very long time, it felt like. Then after awhile she was turning blue, and everything was back to normal.

Oh that unsettling brightness that stirs within gets the shakes a shakin' and the axes a cutting away at some poor man.

Part V.

"Blessed are the meek. For they will inherit the earth [nothing]." Matthew: 5.5

YOU MADE YOUR PRETTY WHITES. I SAW RED.

VELVET VEINS is what happens when two fire signs come together on a friday afternoon talking of the green jesus, the transluscent anitichrist, and the figures of fun. Shit's rad.