20.10.09

The Boy Looked at Johnny


Burroughs was simply one of the most influential writers of the last century.  For his writing but more than that.  From Patti Smith to radiohead, WSB was the mentor.  He opened the dream pathways.  He held the keys to the next dimension.  More than science, more than biology.  Take any book of his.  Open and read.  Narratives repeat, revise, reinvent themselves from Naked Lunch to the Wild Boys to Exterminator to Cities of the Red Night. 
Had the honor of meeting the man  himself at a reading.  I sat backstage with him and John Giorno as they passed a joint, talked about television and ate a pizza.  Like some kind of elder insect, he presided over the conversation with an occasional aside, a cryptic comment sounding in person like he sounded on a recording, every imagined reading.  He was conversational, not imposing, but it's impossible to be yourself with a legend.  Or two, as Giorno was there as well.  His schtick a repetition of rhythm and language building, breaking down, building again.  The verbal equivalent to a Steve Reich piece of music. 
Horses, Horses, Horses.  Coming in IN all directions.  Horses, Horses, Horses. 
Do you know how to pony?

17.10.09

With the speed of insanity, then he dies


Crucifixion

By Phil Ochs

And the night comes again to the circle studded sky
The stars settle slowly, in loneliness they lie
'Till the universe explodes as a falling star is raised
Planets are paralyzed, mountains are amazed
But they all glow brighter from the brilliance of the blaze
With the speed of insanity, then he dies.

In the green fields a turnin', a baby is born
His cries crease the wind and mingle with the morn
An assault upon the order, the changing of the guard
Chosen for a challenge that is hopelessly hard
And the only single sound is the sighing of the stars
But to the silence of distance they are sworn


So dance dance dance
Teach us to be true
Come dance dance dance
'Cause we love you

Images of innocence charge him go on
But the decadence of destiny is looking for a pawn
To a nightmare of knowledge he opens up the gate
And a blinding revelation is laid upon his plate
That beneath the greatest love is a hurricane of hate
And God help the critic of the dawn.

So he stands on the sea and shouts to the shore,
But the louder that he screams the longer he's ignored
For the wine of oblivion is drunk to the dregs
And the merchants of the masses almost have to be begged
'Till the giant is aware, someone's pulling at his leg,
And someone is tapping at the door.

To dance dance dance
Teach us to be true
Come dance dance dance
'Cause we love you

Then his message gathers meaning and it spreads across the land
The rewarding of his pain is the following of the man
But ignorance is everywhere and people have their way
Success is an enemy to the losers of the day
In the shadows of the churches, who knows what they pray
For blood is the language of the band.

The Spanish bulls are beaten; the crowd is soon beguiled,
The matador is beautiful, a symphony of style
Excitement is estatic, passion places bets
Gracefully he bows to ovations that he gets
But the hands that are applauding are slippery with sweat
And saliva is falling from their smiles

So dance dance dance
Teach us to be true
Come dance dance dance
'Cause we love you

Then this overflow of life is crushed into a liar
The gentle soul is ripped apart and tossed into the fire.
First a smile of rejection at the nearness of the night
Truth becomes a tragedy limping from the light
All the heavens are horrified, they stagger from the sight
As the cross is trembling with desire.

They say they can't believe it, it's a sacreligious shame
Now, who would want to hurt such a hero of the game?
But you know I predicted it; I knew he had to fall
How did it happen? I hope his suffering was small.
Tell me every detail, for I've got to know it all,
And do you have a picture of the pain?

So dance dance dance
Teach us to be true
Come dance dance dance
'Cause we love you

Time takes her toll and the memory fades
but his glory is broken, in the magic that he made.
Reality is ruined; it's the freeing from the fear
The drama is distorted, to what they want to hear
Swimming in their sorrow, in the twisting of a tear
As they wait for a new thrill parade.
The eyes of the rebel have been branded by the blind
To the safety of sterility, the threat has been refined
The child was created to the slaughterhouse he's led
So good to be alive when the eulogy is read
The climax of emotion, the worship of the dead
And the cycle of sacrifice unwinds.

So dance dance dance
Teach us to be true
Come dance dance dance
'Cause we love you

And the night comes again to the circle studded sky
The stars settle slowly, in loneliness they lie
'Till the universe expodes as a falling star is raised
Planets are paralyzed, mountains are amazed
But they all glow brighter from the briliance of the blaze
With the speed of insanity, then he died.


13.9.09

Paranoid Man in Cheap Sh*t Room -Mark E. Smith

Paranoid man

In mid 30s
at the height of paranoia
at the zenith of his powers
By bed, replica shooter
zenith dissolving
by his bed replica shooter
in the zenith of his powers
When girls pass, puts his head down,
in the street
His neighbors now are listening to this
Shakes in the chemist's
While buying his vits
Puts his head down when girls pass in the street
Shakes in the chemist
Paranoid man in his late 30s
32, 45
Reaches its summit
Male, mid 30s, white, paranoia
Goes down to the dance
Going down fast.
No heebies, creepies or hallucinagenics
It's the height of paranoia
Male, white, mid-to-late 30s
Serial Number 54129
Going down to the dance
Going down fast Leather jacket, baggy black pants
Very clever
Not as good as it was at 2:30 this afternoon
Nostalgia
Spangles
Late to mid 30s
Goes down to the dance
and truth's mental inertia
Mid 30s man in the grip of paranoia
Just like I told ya
Third kareoka.
Cheap shit actor man
The sky calendar,bar, home, speculates.
From Wikipedia:
In interviews, he ( Mark E. Smith) has cited Colin Wilson,[1] Wyndham Lewis and Philip K. Dick as influences[2], as well as H. P. Lovecraft, whose short story The Colour Out Of Space he read in Christmas 2007 for the BBC Collective website.[3
The Fall 1993 Infotainment Scan

10.9.09

welcome to visionaryoutsiders

glad to see you could make it. 
we've been waiting for you.
there is much to be done. 
the pictures must be sorted.
the words must be summoned.
the emotions buried.
then unburied.
dug up.
set free.
expanded upon.
eyes wide open.
deep breaths now.
one step at a time revealing unveiling unwittingly