1. |
Beat Intro
03:08
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2. |
Blame
02:44
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-Inspired by Thom York’s “Black Star”
Dead-beat dots ring but longer connect;
ghost notes on a tremoring clef,
singing Bill Evans’ “Blues in F Major”
inside a windowless room,
a pillow dampened kick drum of doom.
To cushion life’s sightseers,
who shift sockeye shame into b-bruising beer glasses,
fat lipped, short-lit, thrilling neon signs
whispering blame inside the Pub of the Black Star
What to see with eyes
sewn shut by street light?
each rapid star blacks out
making it impossible to finger trace the sky.
Orion, go home you sad fuck!
Ursa Major, tuck your piñata tail and fly
away! away! Away!
Across the draining Milky Way,
to the last celestial watering hole
where sat-down dreaming choirs
chirp blame, through chipped teeth
and pitiful blasts.
What to know when a Zeitgeist
is no longer worth knowing?
see ya Holocene!
your faded Gothic spear is piercing
Anthropocene’s snare,
releasing entropy inside of all words
baking humanity’s loaf of penicillium space junk
bloating on the breeze,
poisoning the cosmonaut’s stomach,
blowing chunks into satellites and petri dishes
But what will happen
when the wreck heads inherit the earth?
Like I would know?
I write this poem now
for the unsteady living.
3 am, New Year’s Eve,
nose stinging from the fumes,
curdling mystic genitals
vapor off tarot cards
vibrating in my damp sepulcher,
7 of Swords for balance,
10 of Wands for burden,
and Fortune’s cracked, click-clack highway
rumble strips of chanting, roaring drone,
the sound that beams me home
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3. |
Winter Fire
03:52
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Embers circle and rise in winter time. One
lone ranger cruiser, blueberry bruiser loops the park. Two
times around supervising our merry little weekend crowd. Three
empty Pilsner cans may sizzle us in the pan. Four hours foraging
wood, eyes over shoulders like we’re in the hood. Five
hundred decibel belly aches raging off our sky’s sound proof cage.
They stop and spout, hope it’s a one and done.(One)
I wonder if we can fend them off with our shoes. (Two)
If their badge has the word “gratis” or “free” (Three)
I’ll make sure one of us ends up in gore. (Four)
At least one of our mothers will cry. (Five)
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4. |
Media's Car
03:01
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who’s driving the media’s smoking car?
flame foot joy-riding through the windshield glass, the skid marked
proof of plying tar
is trepidation steel wound round an Old-World Tree.
its radio blurs the bureaucrat promise
of moldy Tesla fruit baskets in urban decay,
the glovebox gun of carbureted awmous
suffocates those who get in its way.
its engine is faulty, pistons pump
SoCal serum into youth’s sordid veins,
16 year old’s driving Ferraris to the dump
is one way to lick a battery’s drain.
it slashed its wailing wheels, locked its own damned doors while
starter, spark plug and smoke scintillate around,
journalist mechanics forget your chores
there’s always room for another ass clown.
now who’s driving the media’s broken car?
Procter-pissing-Gamble gambling away their time?
Your sunset drive awaits, smell the candied char
Rise Up Now! Shovel Sugar In Your Tank!
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5. |
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In a line on the dime
criss-the-cross dot my eye
with my phone out of sheath to save DMV time
money pools, lost Bejewled
I’m dripping my drool
shut me up take my money you spring-boarding tools
scraping skies, screwing lies
Phillips head? I’m just shy
waiting round makes me horny in stripping mall lines
accidents?
come on gents
yeah my car’s got a dent
so hammer it out or I can’t pay rent
(Weber was right on them green backing shites
who tilly my tally for working man’s rights
their ethic is epic evadingly blessed
I’d rather be lazy than cower pathetic
in front of a robe reeking collared prophetic
cylindrical, cynical dollar roll sceptic)
not that saving money ain’t cool
or ethi-cool
it’s just that my finances are ever so hectic
I already owe my shroom dealer breadsticks
that build your own fleshlight kit was altruistic
and that mail order bride had to cum without lipstick
I’m broke, out of coke
no more stacks, no more smokes
I’ll have to get by with my cinnamon jokes
but the taste isn’t right
for this clerk’s under-sight
under-bite
under-height
or twist-whitey-tights
let’s hope that next time
I’ll save up that dime and
not blame all the starch in the DMV line
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6. |
Flyfisher's Haircut
03:51
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Gel was too much for my hair today
each stalagmite frozen tip
is flexing against an action.
steel rods,
a bed of nails,
sticking out of my head.
Anodizing,
minute by minute,
loop to loop,
(attached) by (seconds)
If I was out fishing
in a Sunday stylist chair
salmons would skim like the razor
across my placid scalp.
in deep runs,
a fragile Baetus,
gliding across a moor-by-water.
a nymph for now
who is shortening
maturing
then all over again,
each cycle anadromous
auld catch
slow retrieval.
This time I’ll let it grow Deep
Into
Next
Season
Just to be impressionistic
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7. |
The Almighty Pube
04:24
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Mme Toussade had sold the roles
of many souls so tale had told
by rubbing rum into the rubes
and waxing The Almighty Pube
For it wasn’t just another pub
near Regent’s Park in dirty ‘Dun
that soldered off its soda gun
to cut off shandy drinking sons
A little belittled delightfully tickled
the wickedly wackity waxables trickled
innie and outtie from outer and cloudy
melted and mingled so proudly and pouty
Kanye West was deemed best dressed
Elvis sat on the Elton John
Steve-O drank from the drip tray’s array
Blondie watched the horse race and yawned
One day an Aquarius astral equestrian
straddled his horsepower pony in testament
traveling through timelines and infinite guidelines
to recreate balance from close minded confines
He lit up some incense without any pretense
and scattered some sage in the smoldering remnants
of the uncanny, wax smelling hootnanny tenement
and unfortunately created quite the resentment
The Almighty Pube had gone up in flames
the sludge of that pudge was all that remained
our war hero born-zero felt so much shame
that he reversed all the roles and then did it again
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8. |
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Kids with Guns
Kids with Guns
Kids with Guns
Shot Arabian nights behold
the parachutes of Colgate co-misery
dropping from the foaming mouths of CF-18 Hornets
Welcome Home
Welcome Home
Welcome Home Yankee!
To Israel, January 1991.
How can it be your home if you’re entering someone else’s?
tossing your wet tweed coat on the ground
shitting napalm on the floor
Scimitar smiles hide beneath face masks in this place.
Not the pretty ones with cucumbers and avocados,
instead, fuming rubber and charcoal filters
They even cover the creamy, alabaster Sumerian statues
who tower above to protect
THEIR stone over OUR plastic
THEIR West over OUR East
oil and sand smeared on a Canadian cameraman’s canvas
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9. |
Greece
01:05
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Based on an excerpt from “The Cutting Prow” by Ed Sanders Poem
can be read vertically and horizontally
Rushing Illiosis You Seemed Pushed
To Shoving Buried With Him
Hushing Speaking Wallowed Phronesis Over
Township Tonged Korakinois Chiding Next
Rhetoric Tied Above Gods To
Symbolize Bronzing Olympus Planning Plato’s
Death Beneath Templums Entrance Door
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10. |
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I
i’m sit sat, nailed back to this stop sign with a smirk on my face
remember how Felix the Finger once cut sheet metal with his chainsaw?
(i mean high)
d
e
t
a
v
e
l
i think he was uh… e
we all were because we FUCKING HATE working on any sandpaper sabbath
sparks rose through Time’s Square
focused cement comets in karmic space
blinded our supervisor “sober jerry” in his FUCKING FACE
II
Hi, my name is Arden <3 <3 <3 and I’m like super ardent.
But sometimes I’m still late for work
My cat wouldn’t start
My car doesn’t meow loud enough.
I’m purring in this deadass traffic, so at least I have an excuse.
I ask how long chief? to this piece of borough trash holding a stop
sign
About enough time to brush your teeth or smoke a ciggy hun - he
says.
How lucky?
I’d let him put his cigarette out on me
Use his member as a joystick for all I care.
Like he does for all his stupid little computer games
Why not right now?
Open air Manhattan foreplay in the back of my Jaguar
We don’t know how lucky we are.
III
“Towards the beat you must go,”
Hooted some things
Blue badge, moon madge
My night club a-swingin’.
I walk proverb dogs to NY’s Four Seasons
Past dead homeless men that make me crimson.
Inside, I buy chips out of vending machines
Inside, I watch tickers of World War III
I choose words this way too,
But out of my dreams
Out of my dreams
The NYPD has dead pedigrees,
Soon our uniforms will be dungarees,
Moo moos with floral patterns?
Or Giuliani’s rings of Saturn,
Maneuverability has got to be key
To fill in the cracks of Gotham City,
And crack its novel
Of dovish disparity
Dovish disparity
I get it now, we’re here for a good time
Blue chalk on the balls in corners and sides.
In Jimmy’s Corner we stumble and mumble
Bite razorblade bloody in bruised apple crumble.
Honolulu to Sail Rock all use the same dimes
On rails of this table. The penniless crime!
It’s a match to a shoe, a spark and a shine
Waiting for the next airline
IV
“Fallen Leaves” - original lyrics by Jacques Prévert (translation by
Derek Loewen)
C'est une chanson qui nous ressemble, It’s a
song that swiftly weathers, Toi, tu m'aimais et
je t'aimais I’ll love you and you’ll love me Et
nous vivions tous deux ensemble, We’ll live
forever, both together,
Toi qui m'aimais, moi qui t'aimais I’ll love you
and you’ll love me Mais la vie sépare ceux qui
s'aiment But storms separate those who love Tout
doucement, sans faire de bruit, Soft as snowing,
without haste, Et la mer efface sur le sable The
seas erase a sea of sand Les pas des amants
désunis. And footprints of a lover’s waiting
The fallen leaves on the ground
The autumn leaves make no sound
When you step on them, and then fall in
You won’t be coming out again
In that hole for years, they feel so long
On the Hudson’s frozen, sweaty palms
But what I think they’ll miss the most
Is Frank Sinatra’s frozen ghost
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Del Boy Druid Vancouver, British Columbia
Treeplanter, trouble maker, vagabond, musician and writer straight from the deepest darkest coldest centre of Canada.
djlradio@proton.me
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