Distorted poet, speak prose

Broke stride as last of men realized their deep deceit. / This troubling advance of half-assed crews crowd these streets. / Never mind of who I am, son, just listen when I speak / Broken paragraphs hold wrath of a hundred million deep. / Bleak circumstance led masses to only want to dance / A bastard child of Reaganomics posed in a B-Boy stance / Make our leaders play minstrel, Left with none to lead our people. / How the fuck am I gonna shake your hand, when we never been seen as equals? / Deemed evil by those housed in church steeples. / False prophets read backwards from broken tablets to the feeble, / I seen you! / Regurgitate their lies. / I’ll bide my time with scrolls and ancient’s wine. / Heady brew left mark on this hazy scribe. / If stars align I suppose even the blind will see, / How they stole our last voice, corrupted culture into industry. / Few minutes remain, a tame soul wanders wild when it dreams. / Mine are filled with ill visions of soot and dope fiends. / These slit wrists won’t rest till I spill these last drops. /Tarnished skin only sin when I awoke on sidewalk. / Seen your movements through peripheral / Remain same individual. / When a man’s viewed as criminal to act animal is logical. / Audible tones honed to hold substance / Form sentence / Poor reluctant poet, speak prose / Refuse to beg repentance / Reluctant poet speak prose / Incite our peoples / We got raked through those coals / Once the truth was divulged. / Conscience calls thoughts subliminal / Actions all cyclical / Deplorable descendants of men depressed clinical. / Answers seem visible when visionless / Useless souls fold under pressure like hands pray to false Jesus. / Inadequate adversaries advance awkwardly. / Anger expressed outwardly / Causes ranks to break amongst these frail MC’s. / Your fictional tales told with conviction. / Concise concepts once written enter bloodstream / since this inks been forbidden. / Distorted poet, speak prosen / Incite our peoples / We got raked over coals / But the truth’s still untold. / Meaning lost to these zealots / Prefer bullets to ballots / Watch the rich sip from chalice / As these eyes fill with malice / Peasant hands remain callous / as our days retain darkness / I swallow razor blades to keep my vocal cords sharpened. / Morbid mixture of mistrust and anger paints picture. / Perception now blurred words slurred to form scripture. / These sullen souls misinformed / Storm gates of stronghold / Strange fate that I chose / Morbid poet speak prose. / Tattered voices arose / Red Blood written on scroll / Escapes throat an ill flow / For my violence atoned. / Modest thoughts monotone / Infant MC’s play grown / Found them hung in hallways / from cords on microphones

Here come the Painbirds. R.I.P. Mark Linkous

I’ll write more of this tomorrow or later, or something, but I can’t just now. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Mark Linkous (Sparklehorse) killed himself. It’s not enough to say he will be missed. It’s impossible to say how much his art meant to me, and to others. Fuckin hell.

Hey why aren’t you writing anything on your blog? Lazy much?

After having had the above, in some variations, emailed to me a few times, here’s my story: I’m sick. When I’m sick, I write badly, and can barely read. I lie back and play games on my computer.

And this is one of the best songs of the 1980s. Yeah. Fuck me I’m sick.

Fuck Me Up

One of my favorite songs on one of my favorite albums by a musician who’s put out a lot of shite. Like, really awful stuff. This is just perfect, though. (Yeah I’m sappy). Ryan Adams, “Come Pick me Up”, off of “Heartbreaker”.

“I wish you would / come pick me up / take me out / fuck me up / steal my records / fuck all my friends / they’re all full of shit / with a smile on your face / and then do it again”

this is my second favorite song from the record. “Call me on your way back home, dear / Cause I miss you / And I just wanna die without you / Oh I just wanna die without you / Yeah I just wanna die without you / Without you Honey I ain’t nothing new”

I talk no more

A remark by someone on a board I frequent sent me to look up music by Jay-Jay Johanson, which in turn led me to purchase two records of his. Incredible stuff. Way to spice up depressed drinking! No, really, a fine artist, but most of you will know him already. Here are three favorite songs from the two records:

Odetta died

The great, marvelous, amazing Odetta, whose songs I hear at least once a week, had died on December 2. Here is an obituary from the New York Times.

“What distinguished her from the start,” Time magazine wrote in 1960, “was the meticulous care with which she tried to recreate the feeling of her folk songs; to understand the emotions of a convict in a convict ditty, she once tried breaking up rocks with a sledgehammer.”

Love this Song (27)

Heard this twenty times today. May delete this later when I stop loving this. I still don’t like her delivery but this song hit me hard when I saw the video today. IT’s so well done, not just matters of gender but also race, power etc. Look closely. Not subtle but really great. And the song gets better as it progresses.

Love this Song (16) – "Yeah I hope I never get sober"

Mountain Goats, NO Children

I hope I cut myself shaving tomorrow
I hope it bleeds all day long
Our friends say it’s darkest before the sun rises
We’re pretty sure they’re all wrong
I hope it stays dark forever
I hope the worst isn’t over
And I hope you blink before I do
Yeah I hope I never get sober
And I hope when you think of me years down the line
You can’t find one good thing to say
And I’d hope that if I found the strength to walk out
You’d stay the hell out of my way
I am drowning
There is no sign of land
You are coming down with me
Hand in unlovable hand
And I hope you die
I hope we both die