May 21

I want to curb my fetish for chemical burns
and monoxide rockslides, paper umbrellas and tequila worms
and the hand of death is a monkey paw, a left one,
cut from the wrist of a capuchin, a deft one,
glitter and bitters in the tears: a girl in her best glum,
doesn’t cut herself up for once she’s just flustered
and holds it together on the walk home
she holds her heart open for hope     
she’s not broken
she knows she’ll feel better if she shops some
a new dress; arresting; reversal

i want to rehearse curbing my fetish for chemical burns
to not confuse my needs which that for which I yearn
to stick to tooth-picking quick after corn on the cob
to consider what I witness but reserve a sense of god
to quit licking back when I’m licked on the mouth by dogs
I know that can come across at times as odd

I need to dismiss frivolous kisses on the lips, 
instead to know what I want and do my best to get it
and yet not to covet what I love like 
a black hole consuming a star in the glory of the great above

I wanna practice rehearsing curbing my burning the
the devil his due, a sigil of solvency
he’ll either decide or he won’t what to do with me
I’m counting my earnings and wishing for things
between bullshit I want and bullshit I need
and getting to places on time, that needs practice
and not getting lost reading maps, that gets bad quick 
and not getting lost watching hours of static
remaining steadfast when you’re being dramatic
it’s kill or be killed by each minute that passes  

I wanna act like I’m practicing
to be a better me,
or at least pretend to be, 
even if sometimes I still burn
laundry detergent don’t even hurt
rub the powder on your skin for a day
it goes numb as the nerves shrivel up
under that which is falling away 

Dec 19

On Your Own

I don’t need a coat it’s 
December you wrote me
to tell me the only dream
you could remember from 
last night’s delirium
at least now your fever’s done

and you fight for control of yourself
for control of your life, yeah, from anything else

I can’t believe that I’m breaking a sweat
walking home in the dark and then I get your text
you say you make your own choices but don’t follow through, but
you follow your heart and the law when you want to
and you don’t pick up when i call
and text back that you’re on a date at the mall

I don’t need a jacket it’s 
madness I missed you 
your last status sounded
upset did he kiss you
or did he go home 
with his dick in his hands

and you fuck for control of yourself
for control of your love, yeah, from anyone else

in all of your stories you wrote for the paper
are anagrammatical prayers for salvation
but you’re just an atheist your dreams are wasted
that’s your mistake, you would say, hey, let’s face it,
you live for yourself and you’ll die on your own
in the thick of the mist in the midst of the gloam

I don’t need a sweater 
it’s sixty degrees outside
i’m telling you 
you can always do better
just give me a call
together we could take it
we could have it all

and you strive for control of yourself
for control of your soul, yeah, from anyone else

Dec 16

Collaboration with Jason Krause, who sent me this track months ago. You can download it by going to soundcloud and hitting the little down arrow on the player.

Dying Song for Snake

You open your eyes
like the wind isn’t blowing
because the tears don’t come
when the sun’s not showing
and the water doesn’t run
from the well
since the river dried up

rise up little ghost
like a star that shines in the night
rise up little ghost
and walk into the light

do you feel something better 
in the dark 
would you sever all your tethers
for a letter of marque
from the high lord

would it fill your empty 
fluttering rags with pride? 
would a mission from god 
help you to feel divine?
would a whisper at all
help you to feel alive?
if you don’t then you don’t
but I do
and i wanted to share that with you
that I might help to make you
maybe feel better too

The woods by mooncast tree shadow
are not barren or stagnant but
wracked with action;
owl, the killer,
fox on prowl and
moth in flight,
willing to die,
just to be near the light. 

And I, of cloth, and flesh
am prone to the calling of death;
by intention, or infection,
or as means of redemption,
but only on my own
(but only on my own)

May 3

Jason sent me a track to mess with for my birthday, and I have been fiddling around with it for while until right now, whereupon I am calling it all kinds of done. 

Link to the soundcloud for downloads be at the bottom, yo. 

the study of bodies 
from birth to collapse 
we both took that class 
and we sat in back 
suppressing our laughs yeah, 
we both barely passed 
that semester 
it’s not that we’re stupid 
we just get off track

now listen 
you were all i that knew that i wanted 
your blue eyes 
reminded me of a goddess 
honest, i swear to whatever, 
i thought this 

the light that shines within you never dims 
each exhalation you make: a wave of solar wind 
i am moved by astral notions 
in the dust in the light 
that reflects from your skin

the study of bodies alight 
the study of bodies we see in the night 

and that was the subject 
i borrowed your book 
though i could not decipher 
the notes that you took

you winced when I flickered 
the casting of shadows crept constantly inwards 
my witness expressed for the stars to consider

by means of emmanation 
they keep us alive, dear 
even the waves that took a 
million years to arrive here

the study of bodies aflame 
the study of bodies and what they became

Apr 30

I’m no longer hosting my audio files on tumblr. They’re all going to soundcloud and coming here, and then you can go to soundcloud and download the ones you want. Hooray!

The following is a throwback (one that I wanted to make available for download). 

In the Briar Patch

I don’t know exactly how I was concieved 
I was born of an affair if my dad’s to be believed 
but it started in a dark apartment, Cookeville, Tennessee 
the chord was wrapped around my neck 
the baby couldn’t breathe 
and it probably would have ended there 
but i wasn’t born to die 
the midwife fixed my airflow and i managed to survive 
we moved to Puerto Rico where my parents had a fight 
i was taken by my father in the middle of the night

well, my mother flipped her shit and figured out where we had gone 
she reported we’d been kidnapped and it didn’t take them long 
for the cops to bust the door down storming into our hotel 
my mother got her kids back and my father went through hell 
he got out of jail 
and started smoking crack 
when all he really wanted 
was to have his family back 
he started in puerto rico which debased him to his core 
my mother took my bro and i to live in baltimore

we struggled for a couple years before we found a home 
a duplex next to junkies but at least it was our own 
the neighborhood was poor and white with nazis down the street 
who hung their banners off their porch for everyone to see 
i grew up knowing girls in their full anatomy 
from the porn we found behind our house discarded carelessly 
i pretended to my brother that i didn’t want to see 
the pussies dripping cum and graphic acts of sodomy

Apr 29

The final Dusk Warrior song from my set is sung over the track “A Wild Sky,” and is a collection of lyrics from other songs (that have worked themselves into even more other songs). I thought to myself before posting: “Do people care about a new song with old words?” I then reminded myself that no one cares either way.

A Riled Sky

There was a girl I knew
before you who
had a tendency
of dependency
on my willingness to try
to pluck the gnats
from her eyes
and I told her it would help
if she cried.
And all the while
my blood inside
never pumped 
higher than 
three miles an hour and

here i am,
at the park watching clouds awaiting
providence or grace 
in sprawling bodies of vapor 
suspended in space

the scuttling dead leaves
are mixed by the wind
with the ashes into which 
the dead leaves rescind
into cinders you see into splinters, the trees
and the waters turn bitter and summer to winter
the end can begin
the ascension of sin

Now given the break in what was you
given the extent to which the crack is running through you
shovels at the ready
metal heads in flower beds
and fill yourself with petals
purloin beauty in the end. 

(edit: Jackson cares)

Apr 28

Next track from the Dusk Warrior takes. Again, this recording is probably just over a year old (these were the last songs I wrote at Purchase). 

Where We Were

When we lived in the city 
my brother and I
we used to peruse 
for cool shit under bridges
we wore shoes 
after Orph stepped on glass he got stitches
but we moved
to the county with big yards and rich kids

(where we were)

prone to be thrust into 
poorly considered conditions   
consequential of our own decisions
through boredom
recording the course of 
destroying adornments
your lawn gnome our target 
with sling shots
and rocks it 
cracks and it shatters 
misfortune for laughter

and we steel away on our razors 
engage warp speeds 
on cement lanes in parks 
and paved back alley ways   

(where we were)
trying to find trouble 
trying, finding trouble
trying finding hiding
from trouble for the
crimes we committed
to humble the suburbs

John Wood 
jump kicked 
a snowman
but he didn’t know man
about the tree underneath
he learned not to put much stock in what he believes
(it accounts for just a fraction of that 
which remains as of yet to be seen)
and what does it mean to write Krisp on the bricks?
to deface a facade with a tag and a quip?

DUDE - I heard ‘Krisp’ means something. 

i only took paint-can in hand for one hit
at a school by the racetracks near Daniel Levin

(where we were)

trying to find trouble 
trying, finding trouble
trying finding hiding
from trouble for the
crimes we committed
to humble the suburbs

Stoneleigh Elementary construction
ladder up to the roof
christmas bulbs pop like firecrackers
shoot ‘em at the neighbors when we’re in the mood

we can get this party goin’
we can get this window open
do you see anybody coming now?
do you see anybody coming now?

(in times of human boredom
thrills are cheap
I can identify with that
cuz I was raised on the streets) 

Apr 27

I had an idea a long time ago that I would write five songs for the first Dusk Warrior ep; I wrote three, instead, and never uploaded any of them. Here they come. 

Fighter Jets in Slumberland

In your hand is a drink that’s made of paper mache
every sip that you take
peels another layer away
"in Heaven," you say, "no one cares what you did
before you died,” and,
I shrug and I nod and you look down, and sigh

We don’t talk for long on account of
your sensitive mouth
as the Aurora Borealis gorgeously
beams ever further south

Radiation emanates, eruptions on the sun

the break in what was you
could have been Fitzgerald’s split
or, a rip in the drawing you kept getting wrong
or, a tear in the dress that you wore to the prom

And I don’t know I’m late if I don’t have the time,
three nickels get tricked in a switch with a dime
in a room where you sit
listening to songs ‘bout the sound of a room when you’re in it

I’m not gonna tell you twice
but I think your hair looks nice
and my pillows and coats all have tears
but what comfort and warmth I still have, I will share

the break in what was you
could have been Fitzgerald’s split
or a chip in what is now a dead tooth
or the scab on my back where you scratched right through

bright coronal mass injection/
under geomagnetic storm warning in the northern UK
they’ll have a chance to see Aurorae 

Apr 26

A sequel to Cursing the Earth (two tracks back), Cute Wrists continues my bullshit interpretation of the early Christian Gnostic stories. The intrumental track is Cex’s Cut Wrists, which I’ve used before, but not to completion (like, thirty backs back). This is an entirely new song on my part, with the exception of the gnat picking lines (which are like a year old but I don’t think I ever uploaded anything in which I actually used them). Oh, and the “too much blood on your palms (way that it runs down)” lines are from the original Cex song (which is on Grooveshark over here).

Cute Wrists

sewing stories in that park with a thread that i found
and an empty junkie’s needle there beside it on the ground
keeping track of the marks that i make on the page  
connecting dots on dots on dots 
and there’s a dachshund
what’s its name? 

there was a girl i knew before you who
had a tendency towards dependancy 
on my willingness to try 
to pluck the gnats from her eyes
and i told her it would help if she cried
she did and i picked at the insects inside
that’s a thread of the web i’m spinning out of lies

i stitch a little tighter as i inch along but
i bleed a little a lot of times as i sew wrong
(probably got hep c)
and i really wanna play with that dog

(emmanationism is the soul’s descent
the result of primordial agnosis and shit)           

i no longer dance along with the revenant
dead is the end you’re gone you don’t come again
the vicious timbre of your song still echoes in my head

i hummed in rhythm to the needle and i wondered what you’d think, if you’d seen it
your name impressed 
my wrist 
indelible ink it’s bleeding

it’s just a side note
inscribed now inside to remind me
not to forget you
not to pretend to  
remember why 
the moon still shines 

sophia was the mother of the demiurge and she didn’t want to keep him
she hid her shame away on a cloud wrapped throne, 
beholding no others that bastard he grew up alone
and in that fog he was almost a god but his works’ fatal flaw was spiritual
he knew not the body from which he had culled his materials

and wasn’t it somebody’s job to remember to free the pieces
of sophia from the burden of earth to which her soul is bound
the captured aspects of her pleroma that keep our feet on the ground
when the rapture collapses the fabric of all those entrapments the blast will be loud

there’s too much blood
too much blood in your palms
and the way that it runs down
through your fingers is all wrong (all wrong)

i hummed in rhythm to the needle and i wondered what you’d think, if you’d seen it
your name impressed 
my wrist 
indelible ink it’s bleeding
it’s just a side note
inscribed now inside to remind me
not to forget you
not to pretend to  
remember why 
the moon still shines 


Apr 22

I did another cover of a song over a cover of a song— thanks again to sszreter for her harp playing skillz, which I have taken without her consent (but she was really nice about it the last time I did this). Her original:

Picture to Burn - Taylor Swift vs The Sprout and the Bean - Joanna Newsom

To state the obvious,
I didn’t get my perfect fantasy
I realize you love yourself more than you could ever love me
So go and tell your friends that I’m obsessive and crazy
That’s fine! 
I’ll tell mine
You’re gay
and by the way

I hate that
Stupid old pickup truck
You never let me drive
You’re a redneck heartbreak
Who’s really bad at lying
So watch me strike a match
On all my wasted time
As far as I’m concerned you’re
Just another picture to burn

There’s no time for tears,
I’m just sitting here
Planning my revenge
There’s nothing stopping me
From going out with all of your best friends
And if you come around saying sorry to me
My daddy’s gonna show you how sorry you’ll be

'Cause I hate that
Stupid old pickup truck
You never let me drive
You’re a redneck heartbreak
Who’s really bad at lying
So watch me strike a match
On all my wasted time
As far as I’m concerned you’re
Just another picture to burn

If you’re missing me,
You’d better keep it to yourself
'Cause coming back around here
Would be bad for your health

So watch me strike a match
On all my wasted time
In case you haven’t heard

I really really hate that

Burn, burn, burn, baby, burn
Just another picture to burn
Baby, burn