1.
In North City near Statues Park there's this diner with the dark-green leather booths and Mr Carruthers who comes in for his eggs and coffee every morning and scowls over the morning paper and the radio's talking about traffic and outside there's noise on the sidewalk. News finishes and blackpepper come through the speakers singing 'You Slay Me' and Mr Carruthers pauses for a second with his fork and eggs halfway to mouth before scowling again and scanning the headlines. Amy the waitress is bored and carving lines into the counter with a butter knife. It's bitter outside and every time the door opens the bell jangles and a little cold poltergeist moves about the room before leaving. It's a Wednesday. It's too early. You are waiting for your coffee and toast and you are dreading this interview. Mr Carruthers stops eating and looks up, staring at you from across the room. Amy burps quietly, and you glance out the window, noticing a dog across the street rooting through the bins, tail wagging. It wrestles with a bag a while before pulling out a half-eaten meatball sub, and then runs off. This fills you with joy and you start crying.
2.
we moved to LA
in the summer
of that
year
after i got it
into my
head
that this
was a good idea
--this was
way back
during my
performance art
phase
every gesture
every trip to the
shops
every day, in fact
was simply
(i thought)
just
another moment in
my life's work
--my great unknown
masterpiece
in which
even being
broke
was honourable
and
true
--for this was
Art
after we ran out of money
in west hollywood
and she left me
for an actor called
Clench
or
Clay
or
something
...after that
i began to
reconsider
my position
somewhat
3.
In the end there was nothing and nobody could do a damnfuck about it. This didn't seem to matter tho and people generally just carried on as before. They didn't seem to realise that the sky was in the streets, being pushed around like litter and trapped between the paving stones. There was nothing we could do, so we carried on as before. The ghost of a bear was seen on Tannion Street late Wednesday night and somebody offered it a swig of homebrew from an old wine bottle. It accepted gratefully and carried on, wherever it was going. For a while people followed it and asked questions but it would only smile and shake its head slowly, silent like the moon.
Afterwards we made another fire and danced again.
4.
though i was
helpless to understand it
i sought meaning
anyway
--i had
shredded the
index finger
of my right hand
with a
goddamn
cheese-grater
of all things
simply trying to
make a
sandwich
the wound went
deep, the
flaps of skin
hanging like
theatre
curtains
blood welling up
as though
blocked drains
during a
downpour
(i had to alter
the way i typed)
i wrapped and
re-wrapped
the plasters,
the gauze-tape
and tried to ignore
the throbbing
at the time
i had been dwelling too much
on dark things
and things which i
usually could
avoid thinking
about
but i guess
it was one of those
days
and, in a way
i could not fault
the universe
for giving me this gift
of injury
in order to remind me
that working myself
into a frenzy
achieved
nothing
i had a choice, see--
accept the injury as
justification that the world
was against me
or:
take it as a sign that i should
lighten
up
i wrestled a while
with this
as i had been so good
at keeping myself
positive, and now
--and now:
this
but
i realised
none of this
actually meant
shit
and i still had
a throbbing
finger
i decided to go to
the shops
and
buy some
wine
5.
Michael J. Faux and Bluesky are sitting in a bar somewhere and Bluesky is talking about how she wants to be a ninja or maybe a sailor but Michael is just staring at the red wine stain in the shape of a skull on the cuff of his shirt and he can't remember the last time he ironed anything. Outside some guy is wandering past the bar yelling wordlessly. "Actually I think I just want bit-parts in films that don't make any money," Bluesky says, staring out of the steamy window at the cop approaching yelling guy. "Or maybe I just want mexican food." Michael J. Faux glances up at her. "I... like burritos," he says slowly, wonderingly. The barman smashes a glass and everyone cheers.
6.
later on
we became
ruthless
with ourselves
stripped back the bark
dropped weights
in the sand
that thing
behind the sun
it spoke
to me
again
and i wept
i did
but
every once
in a while
i would smile
and wink
in the end
i resumed drinking
and continued
writing
poetry
7.
(white sky)
In North City near Statues Park there's this diner with the dark-green leather booths and Mr Carruthers who comes in for his eggs and coffee every morning and scowls over the morning paper and the radio's talking about traffic and outside there's noise on the sidewalk. News finishes and blackpepper come through the speakers singing 'You Slay Me' and Mr Carruthers pauses for a second with his fork and eggs halfway to mouth before scowling again and scanning the headlines. Amy the waitress is bored and carving lines into the counter with a butter knife. It's bitter outside and every time the door opens the bell jangles and a little cold poltergeist moves about the room before leaving. It's a Wednesday. It's too early. You are waiting for your coffee and toast and you are dreading this interview. Mr Carruthers stops eating and looks up, staring at you from across the room. Amy burps quietly, and you glance out the window, noticing a dog across the street rooting through the bins, tail wagging. It wrestles with a bag a while before pulling out a half-eaten meatball sub, and then runs off. This fills you with joy and you start crying.
2.
we moved to LA
in the summer
of that
year
after i got it
into my
head
that this
was a good idea
--this was
way back
during my
performance art
phase
every gesture
every trip to the
shops
every day, in fact
was simply
(i thought)
just
another moment in
my life's work
--my great unknown
masterpiece
in which
even being
broke
was honourable
and
true
--for this was
Art
after we ran out of money
in west hollywood
and she left me
for an actor called
Clench
or
Clay
or
something
...after that
i began to
reconsider
my position
somewhat
3.
In the end there was nothing and nobody could do a damnfuck about it. This didn't seem to matter tho and people generally just carried on as before. They didn't seem to realise that the sky was in the streets, being pushed around like litter and trapped between the paving stones. There was nothing we could do, so we carried on as before. The ghost of a bear was seen on Tannion Street late Wednesday night and somebody offered it a swig of homebrew from an old wine bottle. It accepted gratefully and carried on, wherever it was going. For a while people followed it and asked questions but it would only smile and shake its head slowly, silent like the moon.
Afterwards we made another fire and danced again.
4.
though i was
helpless to understand it
i sought meaning
anyway
--i had
shredded the
index finger
of my right hand
with a
goddamn
cheese-grater
of all things
simply trying to
make a
sandwich
the wound went
deep, the
flaps of skin
hanging like
theatre
curtains
blood welling up
as though
blocked drains
during a
downpour
(i had to alter
the way i typed)
i wrapped and
re-wrapped
the plasters,
the gauze-tape
and tried to ignore
the throbbing
at the time
i had been dwelling too much
on dark things
and things which i
usually could
avoid thinking
about
but i guess
it was one of those
days
and, in a way
i could not fault
the universe
for giving me this gift
of injury
in order to remind me
that working myself
into a frenzy
achieved
nothing
i had a choice, see--
accept the injury as
justification that the world
was against me
or:
take it as a sign that i should
lighten
up
i wrestled a while
with this
as i had been so good
at keeping myself
positive, and now
--and now:
this
but
i realised
none of this
actually meant
shit
and i still had
a throbbing
finger
i decided to go to
the shops
and
buy some
wine
5.
Michael J. Faux and Bluesky are sitting in a bar somewhere and Bluesky is talking about how she wants to be a ninja or maybe a sailor but Michael is just staring at the red wine stain in the shape of a skull on the cuff of his shirt and he can't remember the last time he ironed anything. Outside some guy is wandering past the bar yelling wordlessly. "Actually I think I just want bit-parts in films that don't make any money," Bluesky says, staring out of the steamy window at the cop approaching yelling guy. "Or maybe I just want mexican food." Michael J. Faux glances up at her. "I... like burritos," he says slowly, wonderingly. The barman smashes a glass and everyone cheers.
6.
later on
we became
ruthless
with ourselves
stripped back the bark
dropped weights
in the sand
that thing
behind the sun
it spoke
to me
again
and i wept
i did
but
every once
in a while
i would smile
and wink
in the end
i resumed drinking
and continued
writing
poetry
7.
(white sky)
Kuke.
The Time It Takes To Smoke A Cigarette.
- 30/06/2012 08:40:39 PM
578 Views
That may be the most vivid cheese grater incident I've ever heard *NM*
- 30/06/2012 11:23:15 PM
109 Views