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Friday, September 25, 2020

The Ratodrome (For El Lobo Blanco)

I’m going to tell you a story
I promise it won’t be boring
Monsieur Lacheur
Lacheur Monsieur

Twas known as The Rat Man
a real gone cat, man
big long nose, lime green eyes
rat hair coat much too big for his size
Rat fur? Fur what? Fur rats!

Busted top hat lined with black rat hair
capped stringy locks which never showed care
necklace round his neck of rodent bones
bracelets of rat skulls as hard as stones
Monsieur Lacheur
Lacheur Monsieur

Walking down the cobblestones his hungry hound
to the roundhouse grindhouse down ground round
sweaty old space filled with men of great wealth
well-kept ladies hungry for a taste of hell

(Isn’t it funny how wealth and hell rhyme? Back to my story)

Welcome to The Ratodrome!

Rat Man steps into the pit with his hungry hound
money changes hands the bell is rung
release the rats release the hound
growling, squeaking, men all shouting cacophonic sounds
Monsieur Lacheur
Lacheur Monsieur

The street vermin race to the circular wall
the hound grabs their necks in his bloody fanged jaws
cracking their heads with his ravenous fangs
bloody rat claws twitching as their intestines go bang!

The noble rich men clutch clammy pale breasts
with their sweaty little hands
mamzelles laugh brashly, acidic champagne
seeping through their glands

The hound races round the circle
grabbing three at a clip
bones crunching to his munching
tearing them apart in his canine championship
Quelle domage quelle fromage quelle damage

Counter jots down how many how quickly
as the mamzelles begin to feel quite sickly
20 dead rats lie twitching in a heap
there’s no damn inheritance waiting for the meek

Monsieur Lacheur gets his fistful of francs
bloody bloody money death has no thanks
that’s all folks c’est terminé for cheap thrills
would you believe the wrong rats were killed

Friday, September 18, 2020

The Scenester


A waterfall of ink black hair
spilling out of my painted skull
like a curtain about to open
over my face for the horror show

where do all the wild boys go

Big long restless hands like
bear paws falcon claws
punching writing washing playing
feminine lips trying to follow what I’m saying

Brown eyes turn to blue
like a crumbling lighthouse
with the light slowly dimming
eardrums smashed from too many nightclubs
like a deaf tom cat

closed captioned for the hearing impaired

Wide hips composed by my mother
shake it to industrial bands
endlessly running legs
endlessly tired legs
dance to the beat

let’s go back to the big long hands


So in addition to recording this poem I thought it was time to get some of my mandolin in on the action. My playing is a little rough and the editing is even rougher, but it's okay. After this lockdown is over, I'm going to head over to a decent recording studio and engage in some decent overdubs. Should be good.

The echo on my voice was largely inspired by vintage country records, where the narrator talks about how he's serving time in prison for killing a man who took his beloved, forcing him to do the unthinkable. I love those records, and as long as I was doing a weird self-pitying narration here was my golden opportunity.

PM junk

him: Hey!!
me: hi
him: So, what’s going on?
me: nothing, what’s up?
him: I’ve been checking you out. You’re all kinds of fine. So, what’s going on? May I ask you personal question?
me: um, well…
him: Are you trans?
me: what?
him: Are you trans? Coz, you no, you’re like a hot chick but you have dude’s name.
me: I’m not trans, I’m me.
him: Are you trap? I’m from Pakistan. It’s a long way from you. So, are you trap?
me: no, I’m a boy.
him: I could make you feel like a woman. I have beautiful gray beard. Did I offend you? Are you trans?
me: what?
him: You look like a pretty girl. Do you like violent sex?
me: oh….you’re from Pakistan. I’ll bet the heroin there is totally pure. send me a few bags…Hazan, is that your name? send me a couple of balloons, Hazan.
him: No, I want to have sex with you, pretty girl.
me: sex is nothing, heroin is everything. send me your desert drugs.
him: You’re just a dirty drug addict! You’re filth! You disgust me, Trans! I spit on you, you ugly witch whore!
me: ah…so how about those balloons Hazan?

Friday, September 11, 2020

Albert Ayler


Albert Ayler is haunting your town
Albert Ayler makes a joyous sound
two-tone head and a saxophone voice
he and his brother have come to make noise

A joyous noise check it out now
military marches, spirituals and nursery rhymes
starting out like a little cartoon mouse
and then roaring and screaming like an uncaged lion

Sweet and innocent like the newborn day
carnival tunes deconstructed into sonic ferocity
like the screaming of a people
begging for salvation in prayer

“We rejoice in the beauty of God’s name with noise” – Andy Seven, Trash Can School Deep South tour 1992

Albert Ayler set list:
HOLY ghost
the truth is marching IN
SPIRITS rejoice
light in DARKNESS
omega is the ALPHA
Spiritual REBIRTH

But alas, being black where the only color white can see is white
so much white until they’re blind
Albert Ayler felt despair and sadness
and drowned himself in New York’s East River

Listen to Albert Ayler
he played with innocence, turning into sadness,
moving into outrage, protest music we can still feel now
protest music we still need now

Albert Ayler came to town
Don’t forget what Albert Ayler’s putting down