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bob dylan stepped offstage in denver just in time for the band to play us to sleep archives Monday, September 30, 2002 atrophy when i come apart at the sinew and i'm all pop at the firecracker heart and all that's left dancing are red bruised shoulders i'll be nothing but stitched lips and the color purple the gravity man dragging my bled spirit out of the bed in the morning posted by Shaun Minus 9:32 PM Thursday, September 26, 2002 city of bouncing souls running south through a dream new york city where the brickwall bronx should be empty intersections that roll around the breaking heart of the city around the base of the mountain streets that sing vacuous traffic hymns downtown plays the moon and follows me around on a seperate thundercloud paint cell and all the cells are bouncing in the background the whole world is dancing and screaming in circles my urban dream denizens stay scarce out of fear and me rolling over morning wanting anywhere but here posted by Shaun Minus 12:35 AM Wednesday, September 25, 2002 flinch yours is an independent film your edits condense and rearrange time to disorienting effect your head is bolted to the floor your eyelids held back tight fly-sized vices by paperclips yours is a punk rock soundtrack played at an alarming eleven in numb surround yours is bits of thirty-five millimeter abstract black and white abrasive and all color flashbacks don't flinch on me now at the treasury stock climax they all cry cry at your grave scenes posted by Shaun Minus 12:20 AM prisonparkinglotblues i slept the black steps the neighbors left for the weary i braved the wash of classic rock radio slumber heat and thunder wandered with my eyes the length of the prison fence against the sky posted by Shaun Minus 12:13 AM Tuesday, September 24, 2002 former horses shimmering gold september out the living room windows a place for translucent horses as far as the mind can see the pines walk the horizon in front of a barn's dark heap rust hewed wires and unmended fences a haven for your memories horses to sleep posted by Shaun Minus 11:33 PM 12:18 am it's a fan's whine pantomime euphoria the absurd bleach of cathode ray turns your temples gray the muddy gloves of saliva stains shafts of light from beneath the door across the hardwood floor is a dead giveaway every step is a car crash sirens groan faster the chicago fire and all manner of natural disaster your assassin silence replaced by the din of seven year ruins the midnight lives of jackrabbits and other such creatures of habit posted by Shaun Minus 12:20 AM Wednesday, September 18, 2002 will plinks restlessly at the stratocaster and the big muff i try my silly putty hands at the drums we make rediculous cacaphonous noise love somewhere in the middle of the song i lost all sense of present tense posted by Shaun Minus 11:49 PM this is the sound of a thousand heads turning forty-five degrees posted by Shaun Minus 11:40 PM terminal echo i sit shivering in terminal echo pockets full of boulevard rain purging on black leather shoes parallel police car visions ghetto silence in the bathroom holding hands with my ghost hands, my eyes misery cross double dime exposures the eye of God thunderstorm tears in the eye of God pale face reflection in the eye of God i sit sleeping on the television after the laughter went lucid and weird and the hunger ate my naked spine and i choked on my last wildflower breath i lay among the piano and dreary studio lights neglecting to dream my way out of the ghetto the steady staccato of my conscience echo posted by Shaun Minus 11:35 PM Wednesday, September 11, 2002 european son longs for mono squealing from cheap speakers in the spare bedroom posted by Shaun Minus 9:34 PM Tuesday, September 10, 2002 fetal a brilliant sketch of charcoal eyes clenched vise tight in the late afternoon i become quarter notes in the key of B minor laid end to end i can break your little napalm heart but tossed about like prize fighter sheets i am drifting odes to chemical peace and i hum the words in my chemical sleep posted by Shaun Minus 11:59 PM bob dylan wrote sixty-six songs just to get me through my fever and he water slides in my headphones then spiderland woke me up posted by Shaun Minus 2:01 AM abandoned love poem o mother in the corners of your home I dream of incendiary life like a cardiac arrest sustained for a thousand years rather than the short bursts of arrhythmia and long nervous silences I spend in the mirrors I keep my Wilde tongue tied to the closet and the fan blowing on the curtains for effect for the sake of fiction and a substitute whisper to listen and I feel the heart beating barely at arm’s length for the color pencil sketches of a girl who became a woman who became inertia for another and every treated photograph I have stapled to the hum that lives behind the walls of us all I sit in the stare of a forgotten bedroom in the absence of the artist the first to read to me the poetry of the myth of love and the essence of leaving that everything may remain incomplete that the carpet and the remains of my things may be my sky and that what may be my why flinching at a joke that reminds of time and yet it scrapes and bruises my arms as it passes it flashes to remind that it never quite extinguishes like unsettled alarms, quiet in the morning so I leave my fingers and bones in the bright corners of your home in hopes that my radio static skull might explode and I would be the violent spark the magnesium flare that blinds for a thousand years that would be something that would be quite a something posted by Shaun Minus 12:39 AM Sunday, September 08, 2002 Waiting on a marvel road for a lift through suburbia minutes from the country with my jeans on fire, with my feet on floats ten sketches of hundred dollar bills standing next to a mirror ball sunset flyers folded beneath the flags of broken mailboxes to an acoustic rave, a cacophony of pure noise subdivisions, ready made with a lost soul aesthetic a twenty megaton bonfire in the cul-de-sac sometimes we become fury like we saw in the city or deep in available conversation with a nervous twitch and then waking from a suspense dream being chased by your future through the playground at the daycare center the capricious youth live for denim, make outrage with a fabulous crowd, live with thumbs severed and outstretched fell asleep on the linoleum ceiling fans and then the early morning was covered with a layer of gray and red and black ash for their house had burned down around me. posted by Shaun Minus 11:31 PM Monday, September 02, 2002 magazine one the headtrip candlesticks billowing fire curtains and moonlight bulletholes make for perfect modern country living magazine two she folds herself up to hold hands with the long bang blonde in an american denim jacket magazine three in the den of survivors only skewed by trick photography in glorious black and white magazine four and five the story of windsome lovers crushed by a world's collective gaze unraveled by kitchen knife kind-of-guy whose water spots marr his reflection a response from a suicide written in secondary characters and the unmistakable splash mark of a tear magazine six 8:02am first clumsy waking thoughts wide collared shirts and vintage corduroy traversing the universe in irresistability posted by Shaun Minus 11:44 PM visceral southern social experiment 1955-2002 on the eve of afternoon there's an ornette buzz about the bedroom, disparate sentences that flitter about the corners among webs surrounded by men with eight-sided die for eyes inebriated beyond recognition and humming discontent the oppressed and unfashionable white man circus chant and I hold my ears on, tape up my cracks, avoid eye contact trade jokes for venomous spill my hands deep inside whirring metal wombs my tongue near bitten off one by one they parade to their couches with sad sad laughs and smeared clown faces, feet tucked into the cushions i endured a long high-pitched day in a prism posted by Shaun Minus 11:30 PM o.j. orange juice stains much like semen stains much to my lover's consternation posted by Shaun Minus 11:29 PM Amoureux Dans les Torments if I should turn to carbonated foam and bleed into the cigarette holes that play connect the dots with your pleather sofa would you remain passion or better still dissolve into sparks in random blanket pattern about your room selfishly wrenching you from fitful sleeping would your lips kiss me even if I would become nothing but teeth sharp and shallow in the valley of your mattress sending you in circles and even stranger shapes would you still say stay posted by Shaun Minus 11:29 PM melville shaken by a vision of a man or was it a man lost in a photograph a French new wave scene by the romance of a European channel a street of wet stones from white to gray to black a gorgeous nightmare photograph of a fearsome figure in the fog or maybe a lonely night's dark heart frozen in a constant state of approach always just out of reach from the serpents beneath his coat posted by Shaun Minus 11:29 PM Sunday, September 01, 2002 a tiny lake surrounded by trees reflects the detached fury of a summer storm hours earlier the sun made ash of the mountain i held a pistol out over the water and i was eleven the blast lifted me into the sky and through the window of a nearby farmhouse surrounded by trees into the lap of an old woman who would one day know the haggard face of murder the pistol made bruises of my brow to compliment the scars on my arm made by a dog in the street as unforgiving as the summer was in 1988 posted by Shaun Minus 10:52 PM A Rocket's Wild Whistle Boy you’re a rocket’s wild whistle now You’re the thump, the bass heart at the battle over Britain Your sister’s a sweet seductive bayonet With a feel for the soft of flesh, the salt of sweat You make disco for the sky in Africa A spectacle for God’s inquisitive creatures The funky beat of evasive action I hold your sister in my tatters And sample her croons for my masterpiece These hands Shiver like a flicker And I invoke the majesty of your explosion As I compose the great American death ballad posted by Shaun Minus 10:40 PM Mi hombre negro de la rabia I was riding the perforated edge with a black man of rage Hovering vicariously in his vacuum across the margins His teeth shown like the river blur in sharp contrast The speed of blood, the instincts of drums, the song of screaming souls I became hum and shadow in the negative of his body Together we traced the fractures of guitar strings Making the most of the ocean’s feedback and symphonic crash We drew a portrait of mountains and savage spirits With the calluses of his Caucasian feet and my razor tongue Watching women naked fire and wind leading one another In a dance of ellipses and suppressed sorrows He wore anger and hunger and there were veins in his eyes I gave way to city streets and gaslight smoke atmospherics And he found sleep and silence in a field by the turnpike posted by Shaun Minus 9:59 PM |
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