—-
In Ballet, You Are Always a “Boy”
In ballet, you are always a “boy,”
Growing up into unmade suits
Whose sleeves will deny
Any knowledge of you. For the day
Is wide, yet fixed, a stream
Eddying into smudge mist,
Seemingly pencilled in
Beneath the sky’s magnesium flash,
Though more real than the grief
You cannot yet have remembered—
Whistled or hummed. Later,
When we have less time, we may know
What we know now in an altered light
That bleeds from below, stairs
Burning above, passing a wintry dusk
In the ordinary way,
And feel reappear in a breeze
Floating about a column
The close, the familiar moisture,
The unheeding fluidity
Of the old days and years.
My Dad
He always had a thing
for frozen orphans,
matchbook memories,
8 oz. martinis,
Adolph Hitler,
Johnny Cash –
a voice crying
in the 2 a.m. wilderness
before the dawn
of talk radio.
He was my dad.
Bad Folk Song
It ain’t bad
living in a
bad folk song.
The people
are friendly,
and the weather
is nice.
Spinning Around
Move out of my way
A sharp reverential hustler
goes round the room
in the old-fashioned channel of “Quadrophenic”
on the couch under the window, head thrown back
in the New York sunlight
He had me from “hello,”
not to take him for what he is worth
As, spinning around,
we patrol earth and the setting sun
mid-morning, and I’m wondering
does he know I’m alive
I know you’re feeling me cos you like it like this
On days like this your
cock swells to proportions of egret
sleepy bird under my wing
As wise owl trembling, feebly, you stroke
in the sun Happiness that never lasts
Darkness comes to kick your ass
Long tall chicken when you’re
seventeen I know you’re
feeling me cos you like it like this disaffected queen
“I’m rimming a clown,”
Yes I did have that experience
And wow, I am still not chilled out
I am giving you my mainstream
Fly
All Greece hates
the still eyes in the Australian face,
the luster as of ecstasy tablets
where she wraps
a microphone around her legs.
All Greece begs
Kylie Minogue to lay her eggs,
a bird in a golden nest
which you could lay like a trowel
recalling Allen Ginsbergís Howl
ómodernist screed, or coffee dregs?
Greece sees her fly,
to the prime minister next
to Michael Hutchence, in excess
the beauty of his cool feet
cramped in a noose
pushed out from tiled bathroom wall
the shower curtain thump,
white ash amid funeral *fragment*
Not silver, nor nemesis, nor orgone box
Shall cover thee,
Nor Dolce et Gabbana, nor many of
Allen Ginsbergís musical song poems on harmonium
or Nick Cave,
Nor the wild rose
nor last summerís wilder rave
Lethe has forgotten thee, and forgiven
your mother, who began this war
Even Iraq says, okay,
she had sex with Michael
Hutchence on an airplane, itís not
the end of the world, wrap it up,
yet Greece reviles
that five-foot pop princess and
the more I look the more I see
her story is that of *fragment*
My Great Great Etc. Uncle Patrick Henry
There’s a fortune to be made in just about everything
in this country, somebody’s father had to invent
everything–baby food, tractors, rat poisoning.
My family’s obviously done nothing since the beginning
of time. They invented poverty and bad taste
and getting by and taking it from the boss.
O my mother goes around chewing her nails and
spitting them in a jar: You shouldn’t be ashamed
of yourself she says, think of your family.
My family I say what have they ever done but
paint by numbers the most absurd and disgusting scenes
of plastic squalor and human degradation.
Well then think of your great great etc. Uncle
Patrick Henry.
Fuck You Poem # 45
Fuck you in slang and conventional English.
Fuck you in lost and neglected lingoes.
Fuck you hungry and sated; faded, pock marked and defaced.
Fuck you with orange rind, fennel and anchovy paste.
Fuck you with rosemary and thyme, and fried green olives on the side.
Fuck you humidly and icily.
Fuck you farsightedly and blindly.
Fuck you nude and draped in stolen finery.
Fuck you while cells divide wildly and birds trill.
Thank you for barring me from his bedside while he was ill.
Fuck you puce and chartreuse.
Fuck you postmodern and prehistoric.
Fuck you under the influence of opium, codeine, laudanum and paregoric.
Fuck every real and imagined country you fancied yourself princess of.
Fuck you on feast days and fast days, below and above.
Fuck you sleepless and shaking for nineteen nights running.
Fuck you ugly and fuck you stunning.
Fuck you shipwrecked on the barren island of your bed.
Fuck you marching in lockstep in the ranks of the dead.
Fuck you at low and high tide.
And fuck you astride
———————anyone who has the bad luck to fuck you, in dank hallways,
—–bathrooms, or kitchens.
Fuck you in gasps and whispered benedictions.
And fuck these curses, however heartfelt and true,
that bind me, till I forgive you, to you.
Huffing My Piece
I’m not a guy
who will ever be
pulling off things
like he does—
his whole being is bod,
cock blocking,
riding jock.
He’s time.
I’m just a clock.
Belief
Benoit balls rosary
is this
could be
a poem
Desire
I wanted
to write something
in praise
of Macaulay Culkin’s novel, Junior
that wasn’t ironic
diehard
hard-on
succulence
Oh, please
really
Matt Dylan should be Matt Dillon
Dennis Peel should be Denis Piel
Lesley Briner should be Leslie Bryner
Charavari should be Charivari
André Leon Tally should be André Leon Talley
Sean Casey should be Shaun Casey
Ultimissima should be Ultissima Beauty Institute
Ma
chado should be Augusto Machado
Danillo should be Danilo
Robert Fiancé should be Robert Fiance
Debbie Mazar should be Debi Mazar
Shelly Duvall should be Shelley Duvall
Brews should be bruise
John Peters should be Jon Peters
The After-Dinner War
“There is in this sack a different sort of meal.”
—The Mabinogion
What it narrows down to is a market-driven fantasia
on others’ themes. You got a tender little look at it
back there where three roads cross. “Are you ticklish?” has requested
the new-fangled bundle of sleep, and who’s
to question her legitimate motives? We,
that’s who. With the sun setting and all,
we beetled in from the lost dude ranch. Aftershocks
the color of a seedpacket made it all seem alive.
Thou vehicle of remorse, apprise us,
and that quickly, of the circumstances
of our late removal. You see, it was our understanding
that choppy seas covered the planet, reined in only fitfully
by heresies that seem tame in the light of the morning after.
Once we had scratched ourselves and made a few indecent noises
it was time to get up and consult the sibyl,
who was on lunch break as usual.
Whom could we get to stand in for us?
Who will be next out of the starting gate?
Untitled
Today, I aspire to drunkenness
And a long swim
Straight out from the shore
And tonight I’ll sleep
In the same fetal position
That I’m standing in now.
There Was a Time
There was a time I would have
blown my nose on your shirt.
I can’t have fun unless I get drunk
We like to make pretty parties
with glass bottles smoke brown
believe me
you drink eighteen beers in one hour
and it’s bound to affect your life
I just can’t remember
what it did to mine
Clothes
This is a good line.
This is a bad line.
This is a clothesline.
Confessional Poem
when
my pet dog died my
parents
didn’t understand how upset I was
they didn’t know
he’d been giving me head
A True Story of Enormous Significance
The other day I was making some
tea so I put a pot of water on
to boil, turned away and got
a cup from the cupborad. I
put a teabag in the cup. By
and by, I went back to the
stove and stood over it, gazing
into the pot of water. Presently,
the water began boiling before
my very eyes. It wasn’t the
first time I had had such an
experience.
Girlfriend
a ball of light
comes up
a street
meets a park,
enters.
A translucent
statue
stands inside
one that holds
the day &
explains
love to the world
even in the
dark
the roaring sun
embraces the
girl
inhabits
and entrances
her. It’s
the way
you know me,
I know you.
The ball
streams past
but leaves her
light
shovels its
glory everywhere
jars & cars
out paces
the stars
the world
is flooded
with
you. That
good.
Splash!
Like a rock, Elly
May’s cake sank to the bottom
of the “ceement” pond.
In Outer Space
Judy Jetson spins
a disc and does the Orbit
to “Comet of Love.”
With a Little Grin
Morticia snipped off
the rose and placed the stem in
the tombstone-shaped vase.
Patty to Cathy
“While you study as
me, I’ll leave as you, then go
as me on my date!”
Housework
Samantha looked at
the dirty dishes. “Just this
once,” she thought, and twitched.
New Year’s Eve
The cork popped off the
bottle and, effervescent,
Jeannie overflowed.
Honey in the Flesh
She knew how to use
her high-voltage curves like an
unconcealed weapon.
Batman and Robin
hang by threads above
a bubbling vat of acid.
To be continued…
Model Children
Kitten told the truth.
Princess set aside her pride.
Bud made right his wrong.
Island Girls
Mary Ann dons one
of Ginger’s dresses, but it
falls flat on her chest.
Gossip
Gidget and Larue
knock heads as they press their ears
to the princess phone.
Fred’s Breakfast
With a club, Wilma
cracked open the three-minute
pterodactyl egg.
Puberty
Wally pounds on the
bathroom door. “C’mon Beav! You’ve
been in there for hours!”
Fractured Fairy Tale
This kissing princess
was such a dog that the frog
she smacked simply croaked.
Green Acres
The smoke from Lisa’s
burnt pancakes slowly blackens
the fresh country air.
The Mod Squad
Julie, Pete and Linc
bust some thugs, then head back to
their pad to turn on.
Like Bird or Balloon
Sister Bertrille fades
to a speck in the blue sky
above San Tanco.
The Silverchair Poem
Daniel Johns, you’re a genius,
but you used to sound like
Pearl Jam so America says
no. You were cool. You had
our jizz. Now we want to fuck
The Vines. We did genius once.
We had critics who desribed it.
Now we’re into feeling horny.
You aren’t helping us. You’re a
what? We’ve forgotten how to
write about you. We’re with The
Vines now. They make us write
unbelievable copy. America
really loves to fuck. You’re a
what? Okay, you are. One star.
Unplanned Account
Everybody has a story. The mountain threw rocks at me. I stood up to it. At the top I built a shelf for my record. There was enough sky for another life, an abutment of air. Science itself authorizes blue, whoever comes along may have some. Up here one can appreciate the eye as an exposed part of the brain. That’s Helga, the chick who shares my pad. She’s not really orange, it’s the picture. We’re moving the aerial into the hall. I’m an emotional guy who lacks a cohesive point of view, and Helga has an eating disorder. She’s a monist. I can dig it. I mean, why did the universe go to all that bother? Bears drunk on honey wrestling with monkeys, electric burgundy odd-toed ungulates, and the two-headed snake—one head for eating and drinking, the other just for thinking.
Poetry Information
Rain with a sour smell. Not to worry, though you might wind up with it— primarily a race against your own skin. The skull is showing. The jerking horses in the old footage, bound to end badly. Psychi
c hardening, I suppose. Poetry is arranged by sound. I can say no more. A beloved relative from out of town was arriving the next day with a brand new infant who would be tense, disoriented and distraught at discovering herself uprooted from her familiar bassinet and plunged into a great metropolis seething with cutthroats and cheap chiselers. People ought to get out more, play cards more, fight more, fall down more. But we don’t need each other to watch a film, streaming overhead. At your behest, I stood behind the statue, peeking over its shoulder at live persons, catching something of their tenderness. They’ve been marinating, the young and the tough. Meanwhile you should all have live blood cell analysis.
Two Years Later
The hollow eyes of shock remain
Electric sockets burnt out in the
skull.
The beauty of men never disappears
But drives a blue car through the
stars
I took love home with me,
we fixed in the night and
sank into a stinging flash
1/4 grain of love
we had,
2 men on a cot, a silk
cover and a green cloth
over the lamp.
The music was just right.
I blew him like a symphony,
it floated and
he took me
down the street and
left me here.
3 AM. No sign.
only a moving van
up Van Ness Avenue.
Foster’s was never like this.
I’ll walk home, up the
same hills we
came down.
He’ll never come back,
there’ll be no horse
tomorrow nor pot
tonight to smoke till dawn.
He’s gone and taken
my morphine with him
Oh Johnny. Women in
the night moan yr. name.
died at 16
put a rifle in his mouth, and laid across his bed at night.
After he held my hand on the way home and said
I will be dead tomorrow.
—-
*
p.s. RIP: Susan Tyrrell. So weird: I was literally putting together a blog post about Susan Tyrrell yesterday, and I went back to her Wiki page at one point to check on something, and her life had suddenly been given an end date. So sad. She was a trip. I always thought someone should have remade ‘Whatever Happened to Baby Jane’ starring her and Grace Zabriskie. ** Oscar B, Thanks, B! Maybe I’ll be seeing you in a few hours? ** Nicki, Hey. Yay, the addiction has set in. Okay, I’ll concentrate on finding ‘Snowtown’ then. Less is more. Well, sure, of course ”s question was legit and more. I hope she or he comes back too. ** Kyler, Danny Kaye! My mom loved Danny Kaye. I grew up with him charging up the background. Thanks! ** David Ehrenstein, Hey. Yeah, those hidden mom pix were a real find, right? Hope all is great with you. ** Paul Curran, Thanks, Paul! Fantastic to get to chat with you for sure. I have some queries out, and I’ll let you know. ** Cobaltfram, Hey, man. Ah, well, I’m going to skip that video entirely then. When you’re a vegetarian, or the kind I am, stuff like that is like watching snuff. When do you estimate you’ll have the section polished up enough to send? ‘I’m growing increasingly to worship my subconscious as some kind of god’: wow, that’s a nice way to put it. Cool. My weekend … uh, worked on my maybe novel, which is still going well. Followed the French parliamentary elections on Sunday. Started organizing and getting the tickets and hotel reservations, etc. for Yury’s and my upcoming shortish summer vacation in Portugal and then in this crazy, amazing spa Therme Val in the heights of Switzerland. Work-related meeting with Gisele. (We start work /auditions/ rehearsals re: our new theater piece this weekend.) Other stuff I don’t remember for probably a good reason. How did the novel and life overall treat you today? Love, me. ** Sypha, Good luck with the gauntlet. Sounds like your vacation will be around the same time as mine. Maybe that’s a mutual good luck sign or something. I do remember that story, yes. That was a character after my own heart or head at least. Yeah, well, good luck with that Bieber album. I’ll get my crucifix and garlic earmuffs ready, ha ha. ** Daniel Portland, Hi! Oh, yeah, maybe that was it. It was, like, a photo of you and another guy in drag, I think, facing each other sort of? You saw Vår, you lucky dog! Damn. I guess they’ll play here. Paris is kind of in their neighborhood. Take care, great Mr. Portland! ** Alan, Ha ha, apparently. What was it about the post in particular that made you consider that? Why the author photo drama? Do they want her to look more official than she wants, or … ? Ah, that’s the thing, right? If you’re in love with a novel that you want to write, you’re kind of powerless. That’s my story. You just have to trust the love, I guess. I’m very happy to hear that, as you can imagine. ** Bill, Ha ha, yep. No, I didn’t know about that Excel egg. I don’t even know if I have Excel. Maybe. I’ll find out. Yay! Your weekend sounds pretty sweet really. Mine was sweet too, I think. Maybe semi-sweet, too much rain and some new internet hog moving into the Recollets being the bitter. ** Memoirs of a Heroinhead, Shane, old buddy! You must have felt my longing for you over there in Lyon. Awesome to see you! Wow, that’s like a job job, I mean capital J job and everything. It even sounds kind of interesting, at least to a layabout like me. Well, maybe the hand slashing part is a little nerve-bunching. Really great about the writing! You sound like you’re totally on fire. And your blog looks beautiful. It always did, but now it has this being inside a cave entrance kind of look and vibe, which you know I would be into. Me, yeah, you know me, I’m always up to doing something. I don’t think anything that I’m doing would shock you. You got ‘TMS’ cool, thanks. Uh, hope you don’t need to use your powers of loyalty on it. Anyway, man, this is great — you here, you and me shooting the shit together across this lovely country and inside this crazy blog again. A whole heck of a lot of love to you! ** Ian Tuttle, Thanks about the post, man. That book ‘The Gift’ does sounds really interesting. Hunh. Shall I look for it? Yes. Yeah, there’s a shitload of porn flashes in the Disney cartoons. I think I did a post or most of one about them at some point. Great ‘Snow White’ one as I recall. Excellent day to you, sir. ** 5STRINGS, Like Bill said, Gang of Four are way not Oi. Way more tricky, angular. My Plato visit would have been pre-pothead, I think. Or, wait, post pot, pre-LSD, I think. I think he really wasn’t cool when I was at a tender age. I think it was all Sartre back then. And Timothy Leary, ha ha. I never had a stepdad. I just had my mom’s step-dates, and not many of those. One was a priest or ex-priest or something. He actually joined in on family dinners and stuff. He had that creepy, sociopathic priest way of talking to you. Clichy is especially kind of like its own town inside Paris. More than the other areas that seem like that. There’s this part of the Marais that’s like that too. Not the famous part. Actually, the loft parts of ‘TMS’ are set there. Oh, I didn’t get to read the rest of your story yet. Yesterday got swamped. I’ll get to read it today. Like early evening. More like late afternoon, actually. Killian’s book is off the hook, yep. Ken’s too. I was a Pluto man as well! High five! I wish everybody talked like him. ** Emily Louise Church, Hey! Oh, that’s okay. Moving is so horrible. I hate it. Did you have to move out of London ‘cos of money stuff? Shit, that’s a rude question maybe, so never mind. The outside of Circus Circus is cool. And the kind of shitty amusement park under the
dome inside is kind of weird in a cool way. But otherwise, wow, it’s like Tea Party central. I used to always stay at the Luxor until they de-cheesified it and tried to make it elegant, which ruined it. Then I always stayed at New York, New York ‘cos … it was the cheapest one that wasn’t depressing? ‘Cos it has a roller coaster on its facade? The one that’s shaped like a castle is really depressing too. You saw Cher. Good pick, very Vegas but with a twist or something. I think I want to see a magician next time. ** Steevee, Ha ha, Roggenbuck is becoming such a phenom that it almost wouldn’t shock me if Bieber and he did a double boost. ** JoeM, How about that? I mean about Shane showing up as if our mention was a Siren. You saw all the superhero movies. I think I did too on airplanes. I can’t remember which ones I liked and didn’t. Oh, I do remember that the Green Lantern was really bad. I have a bead on that Meek movie now. Thanks, Joe. I didn’t know or remember that Epstein and Orton went out in the same year. Strange. Did they all know each other, all those smart, clever, groovy queer English cultural, London-based dudes? ** Postitbreakup, Oh, thanks, Josh! ** Misanthrope, Holy shit, like, pantsed naked? When I think pantsed, I just think trousers only, harmless fun. Yikes. That child has evil in her. Sande came to you via Harry fucking Styles? Okay, I’m about 90% less inclined to search her out now, ha ha, sorry. Not that I have a clue about Mr. Styles’ taste in things. I’m totally stereotyping him. Shaun Cassidy was into Patti Smith and Bowie when he was big and when they were still the edge. So, there you go, or there I go. Vincent Kartheiser could easily have mainstreamy tastes. He probably takes acid and listens to The Shins and goes whoa, trippy! ** MANCY, Hey, man! Thanks about the post, of course, and fuckin’ A, awesomeness supreme about the acceptance by the U of W! Great! For the fall or when? Congrats, pal, that’s so good to hear! Consider my tangled fingers at your beck and call. ** Chris Dankland, Ha ha, right. Can the Boost be far behind the Biebz? Yeah, Shane Jones’ rough ride to publication is a total inspirational story. And now he’s at fucking Penguin! His new one’s real good. I liked ‘The Wind Up Bird’. I think that was the Murakami that I liked the best. I’m still waiting until the Bolano mania dies down a bit before I read him. Sebald is fucking great, right? Damn, that guy was good. I was just rereading him the other day. Ace that you’ll get to see Ben Kopel. If you talk to him, say hey for me, if you feel like it. I don’t know him really, but we’ve exchanged emailed hellos. Let me know how that is. ** Hyrule Dungeon, Cool, I’m glad the links helped. You need to get over here and see some of that stuff up close. Castellucci might well get over to you. He’s kind of the big European theater dog right now. Wow, fantastic that you put new writing online! I’m excited to read that, and the formatting/ form stuff looks amazing. Thanks a ton from a fan. Everyone, the seriously really fantastic Hyrule Dungeon has put some of his new writing out there for all of us to read, and this rare treat can be had right here. Click that thing, and you’ll be really glad that you did the second the page opens, guaranteed. I’ll be over there in just a while. Really, thanks a lot, J. Great day to you. ** Schlix, Hi, Uli. I’m so glad you’ll get to be in Berlin. We can figure out a meeting place and time, etc. between now and then. Great! Ugh, I hope helping your father isn’t too hellish. That Larry Clark show looks like it might be the same one that was here in Paris. Interesting, the paint throwing. Curious looking article on that. I couldn’t figure where the writer was coming from, but I’ll read carefully it in a minute. Take care, man. ** Bollo, Hi. You’re home. That show looks cool. I don’t know that artist, I don’t think? Everyone, courtesy of artist extraordinaire Bollo, here’s part one of a video tour of a cool, eerie art show in Norway called “if you go down to the woods” by the artist Magnhild Opdøl that he helped put together and that both he and I recommend you visit. Nacho pizza? Hold on while I construct its phantom version. Okay, I’m down with that. You got a Nespresso machine! I think of that as being so French even though it isn’t. You can’t go five minutes here without seeing George Clooney hock those things. Allright, enjoy the fruits of Ireland today, man. ** Okay. Like I mentioned before, I’m on a semi-regular mission now to get the last stuff worth saving from my dead blog onto this blog, and, in today’s case, it’s pretty simple and self-explanatory. Please meet, greet, and enjoy the released hostages, if you will, and I’ll see you tomorrow.
Now available in North America 
Dennis, You know, I almost didn't mention that Harry part of finding Sande because I knew that'd be your reaction. But we don't like to make assumptions and generalize now, do we? Believe me, if I thought it was shit, I'd say, "Damn, that's shit. Harry's taste in music sucks." But I really like this singer. I think I've told you how important the voice as an instrument is to me, and that's what she's got, a great, heavenly, rich voice.
So to make it easier for you, here are two little linkies:
Next to Me
Read All About It Part III
I just love the passion and textures of her voice so much. And her lyrics and music aren't bad either.
Yes, it was a total, full-buff, 100% naked pantsing. We were just talking about it about half an hour ago. (Yes, the kids were still up at 5:15am. Playing Smash Brothers on the Wii and talking about my very white ass and how funny it would've been if I'd fallen as I scooted back and shit.) Like, almost every time I walk out into the living room now, everybody starts laughing.
My boxer briefs get loose by the end of the day, and either the force of her pulling my shorts got them off too or she unintentionally grabbed my undies too. She's a prankster and a trickster. Though when you trick her, she gets mad.
These are wonderful.
When they're not hilarious truth by the pound, they're lyric shivs.
So many of these poets are in my head forever.
Love Killian's "I know you’re feeling me cos you like it like this disaffected queen." And his funny, splenetic parody of the celebrated poem.
I remember that Trinidad series appearing somewhere– in BAP or somewhere, fetishizing t.v. show "moments" the way Hockney paintings fetishize decor. The man's poems have such a good heart too.
Amy Gerstler's Boy George poem is always in the back of my mind. I didn't know this "fuck you" poem, which is delicious.
So many other surprises.
Can't begin to figure out why the typos poem works as beautifully as it does.
But who doesn't love it when they can't figure out why art is working so well?
I guess I really buy into that ars est celare artem Ovidian thang.
I usually end up with seams everywhere myself.
Thanks for your kind words of welcome. I'm always confused when you do that. Most places I'm persona non grata. (Bipolar people leave such wonderful dead things on the welcome mat like crazy cats.)
I feel like a mutt who wandered into a butcher's shop when you scratch me behind the ears like that. 😉
I'm mostly like that Knopf painting, I guess (about visiting) except it's "I Lock My Blog Upon Myself." Social anxiety really can spread even into one's internet life.
I mostly hide from everybody and everybody seems to like that just fine. 🙂
Happy day to you, Kind Sir.
Man, I still love that 'Fuck You' poem! Makes me think of John Cooper Clarke's 'Chicken Town', for some reason….which I now have to go find again on YouTube.
Nicki: hey! Good here, thanks – I have missed your unadulterated enthusiasm, lady:)
Hey Dennis: no, I know what you thought of 'Prometheus', that comment was directed at JoeM actually. Not that I'll get around to seeing it til it's on TV anyway, probably.
The guy I was at school with who was the nephew of someone in the SAHB? Interesting story. Yeah, John was kind of cool: best mate of a guy I ended up having a thing with, when we were all 15, and he was fine with that. Bit of a fantasist, a blagger, if you know the type – like, he claimed his dad was a black US sailor, had an American passport, and that when he was older he was gonna go live with him in NYC. He always had money and great plans. His mum was really ordinary and very overweight but owned masses of property, let John run wild – which meant loads of parties at John's houses so everyone liked him for this. He got into drug-dealing, we lost touch for ages then hooked up again in our early 20s – and again, I ended up having a thing with his then best mate. Last thing I heard, he'd got himself onto the Sex Offenders Register (my sister's a paralegal in the town where we all grew up and her firm represented John in court), so fuck know what happened there. Weird. Never did find out which SAHB member was his uncle, but his mum had a framed, signed photo of the whole band on her mantelpiece so I'm thinking at least that was true.
Writing-wise, my dope-growing marina thing's on hold, cos it got way too sprawly and needs narrowing down. My focus hasn't been what it should be recently, so back on the Pirecetam to see if that helps – and it is, kind of, so far. Fingers crossed it continues to do so and I get me staying-power back, mentally. There's a call here for ten-minute monologues to be performed on buses, believe it or not, so semi-working on that right now. OH…and bizarrely? Tinkering around, with a song-writing friend, on ideas for 'Princess: the Musical'. Who says no-one wants to see all-singing, all-dancing junkies? We're thinking along Kurt-Weill ish lines – hence my delight at that SAHB clip of 'Sgt. Fury'.
And you?
Lovely poems.
Watching Fat City on TCM last night was so strange. It was introduced by Ellene Barkin as part of set of films she liked for their performances(the others being Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf and The Last Picture Show) Her intor was shot last week so she had no idea that Tyrell had died.
Genuine acting originals are precious and rare. Tuesday Weld is still with us thank goodness.
Victor Spinetti R.I.P.
Dennis, Cool. Thanks so much. Ken got back to me so I send it over to him too. This day is so great. Should be an anthology! On an unrelated note, how did the French translation of 'TMS' go? Weren't you meeting with the translators or something? Did they get it 'right'?
Hey hey,
Yes, I wasn't sure what sort of vegetarian you were, ha ha, so probably smart. I know I wouldn't be able to handle a real snuff film (or, even, a well-made fake).
I actually did enough polishing to send the piece in late last night/early this morning. I'm not a fan of late-night work, but our much-beloved moped vanished in the night yesterday (or, I guess, night before), so we spent yesterday getting the ride situations worked out, went to the police department at 10:30 PM to finally report it (after we both got off work); got home around 11:30, watched an episode of Twin Peaks, and then Chad went to bed while I stayed up til nearly 2 and finished it. Then, this morning, we had to call the insurance company to start a claim, get a ride sorted for him tonight, and now have a call with my new buddy in about 20 minutes, then work from 2pm til around 9 or 10. This is not the sort of busy I like to be, ha ha. But, hey, I edited 68 pages of material, so I feel pretty good.
Gosh, a vacation sounds wonderful. How long will you be gone? And also so wonderful the theater piece and novel are progressing.
I really am getting curious about the subconscious/God connection. I know the Christians around here are really big in letting the Holy Spirit speak to you in a small voice within your soul, and I remember when I left the faith I had come to the conclusion that everything I might have felt was very much my own subconscious, often telling me what I already know but also, sometimes, sending contradictory signals (I lost my faith around the time I was 18, and if you show me one 18 year old not suffering from massive shifts in impulses and contradictory desires and fears, I'll show you…I dunno, a dead 18 year old). But yes, I need to pursue that idea further. Lynch says we all come from a single ocean of consciousness, and his work with Transcendental Meditation is all about allowing him to tap into that consciousness and catch ideas. I think it's pretty cool.
But anyway, yeah, writing seems to be the way my subconscious understands itself, and it's a wild experience. By concentrating so deeply as I do when I'm at work, my mind continues to unlock doors within doors, and even though I don't believe the novel is already there and I'm just uncovering it, as some do, I do think that the raw material is there, and a huge amount of my work, especially on the first draft, is excavation of the materials necessary to construct the novel with. And it is also, as you've said several times, a potent drug.
Does that make sense? Much love today, talk tomorrow,
J
Dennis, that's not rude question at all. Yeah I ran out of money until September basically, so I'm back in this town where nothing ever happens. It's boring as hell here, I feel like I'm going mad but it's a good chance to get some writing done. In London it's always go, go go. Yeah loads of the Vegas hotels are pretty depressing. I kind of love The Mirage, that's probably my favourite but it's still distant, like it's not really attached to reality. Vegas is such a weird place, it's inspiring though because it's so alienated, and it's such a heightened experience just being there. I can't imagine living in Las Vegas, I think that would be mighty depressing.
Dennis,
You’re running out of barrels to scrape the bottoms of! Jk. Printing these out to read over on the subway. So far the John Weiners especially caught my eye. I keep meaning to order his collection.
On my new novel, thanks for the enthusiasm, but it isn’t that easy. There are a bunch of projects that I feel are important that I am working on pretty constantly. I write regularly for a small but significant readership about black oppression in the U.S. and caste in South Asia and other questions like that, and I’m always doing related research. I help Sujatha with her book (she has another two big volumes to go, plus probable revisions if the first one finds a publisher). I keep my anti-caste blog updated. My purest of treats blog isn’t such a big deal, but I enjoy it and there’s some time and effort involved there too. And there are always side things I do out of interest (right now Lynch research, improving my French, other reading). I know you’re always juggling projects and that may not sound like a lot to you, but there’s no limit to how much time things like that can take up if you’re trying to do an adequate job. And, you know, I have to go to work, I have to get a little exercise. So I’m already stressed out and squeezed and struggling to prioritize my time, and adding a novel to them is not a small consideration. It’s all right right now, when I’m just gathering ideas, but when the actual writing starts it will have to be the main focus of my energy and other things will be on semi-hold for a couple of years. To produce something that, let’s be honest, has very little chance of reaching a readership outside of a few people I know. It’s not a such a rational, pragmatic thing to undertake. I know you’re not my therapist, thanks for letting me get my feelings out in words like this.
I finally have some good news on the writing front: it looks like I'm going to be interviewing David France, the director of ACT-UP doc HOW TO SURVIVE A PLAGUE for THE L MAGAZINE. This pitch just got rejected by another magazine yesterday and has been ignored by The Village Voice, so I'm really happy.
Man, if only I could get to Europe.
Thanks for giving the new work a shot. I actually had to fix some formatting stuff this morning since I forgot how blogger doesn't always publish exactly what it showed you in the preview.
A couple of people mentioned Indie Game the Movie on the weekend. I would totally recommend it if your'e interested in what the new landscape of games and game makers looks like. It features FEZ quite prominently.
… Must … Resist … Cannot … Resist … Blog … Pulling … Me … Closer … Is … Time-eating … Vortex … Will … Lose … Job … And … Neglect … Child …
Oh fuck it. I just can't help myself.
Wow. Every single one of these is just utterly wonderful – so fucking impressive, I'm in awe. The one by Amy Gerstler needs to be screamed out loud, in my head, very, very often. And Kevin's one is (as always) perfection. Wow.
P.S. Right back atcha, lovely Jax! So glad everything's going ok!
P.S. Confessional Poem has had me in stitches! Apologies to Ed Smith – the whole thing was obviously incredibly traumatic. Have you read Ham on Rye?
Hey Dennis! Wow, great selection of stuff here. I love that Silverchair poem of yours, so it's nice to see it/read it again. It's a really great mood that that particular piece carries. I've said it before but your poems are always really something special. Also awesome to see stuff from Elaine Equi, Kevin Killian, Amy Gerstler, John Ashbery, of whom I'm a fan, obviously. So yeah, thanks for digging this stuff out of the wreckage! Really enjoyed reading through this stuff.
So I hope stuff is going good with you. Mega exciting to read that you're working around with a possible new novel idea.
Oh, I'm about to send you an email once I finish posting this comment. It's something I felt more comfortable asking you off blog, for whatever reason, so yeah, I'll send something to your inbox in just a tick.
Talk soon,
Thomas x
"Nazi punks fuck off!" I had not heard them, I just read the lyrics to that song. I thought they were maybe like way political. I don't like the background vs. vocals sound in punk. I love pop-punk and I love The Sex Pistols and The Germs. I guess I like punk that is pure non-sense. What's that Japandroids, "Post-Nothing" LOL. Tender age awe. Dude, you were there in '69? Sartre's awesome, if for no other reason, "Nausea", otherwise he's the man. I think the early Existentialism out-modes most the current "oral-tradition" of the more psycho-analytic philosophers. It's idealism at worst, maybe a sort of sensuous ontological-political sort of epic. "I am the Lizard King, I can do anything." I think there was at least a thread of 'fuck the mode of production' in Existentialism. Leary was in fashion when I was a teenager. There was a cool like hologram CD, he had a few books, his website where you could tour his bungalow, cyber-culture, etc. Which leads me to think, where's my VR glasses etc. "RU Cyber" LOL. "Take his mark and eat his food." A priest, that's kind of freaky. I don't want to think of it. I'm always in the Texas Chainsaw Massacre since seeing it at a drive-in as a kid, so playing 'death comes to dinner' was kind of dumb or funny. I'm really glad I went to La Defense last time I was in town, it was a fresh breath. So, ok I'm a dumbhead, is Marais like Hotel De Ville or like the antique shops/hospital thing area, I don't know left or right bank. My friend in Paris took us out to gay bars in an area that was really confusing. Those are like non-Mansard roofs right? My Dad bought this apartment/store in the ghetto one time and turned the store into apartments, kind of reminds me of that part of TMS. That part got me to thinking of Phil Spector too. I could be way off, because I don't know the relation between the House and the City House, is it like, a no escape kind of thing? I was so high when I read ARG's The Golden Triangle, thank God. TMS is fucking spooky! Impossible Princess rocked it! LOL I've been reading Dodie Bellamy's Letters of Mina Harker to balance my boners when I ride my bike. My cats talk way more than my boyfriend, it makes me want to explode. I'm gonna learn to write like Queensryche! Maybe I should try to score some poets. Have a good one DC, later
Nick Stahl flees rehab again!
Ask him about the other AIDS docs, steevee.
I really liked Trinidad's Mod Squad poem. Mods… as a young kid I was a wannabe mod and I've definitely kept some in my genetic make-up. Such as the importance I place on clothes and music, only now it's different clothes and different music. Mod wound up becoming a very conservative subculture, all about nostalgia and a canon of accepted tastes, but it's short for modernist so I think mods would do well to remember this. A mod revivalist is a contradiction imo.
Euros update: Tonight England played badly but won, while France played badly and lost. It means that France play the favourites Spain on Saturday, and England play the less-fancied Italy on Sunday. I'd still tip France to beat Spain though. Spain ain't all that. How England will fare is anybody's guess.
That's two coincidences in two days – and that itself is a coincidence.
Green Lantern wasn't great. The others weren't 'great' either, but I'm much less judgemental when I watch on big screen TV DVD rather than in the cinema. Avengers was the first I'd seen in a cinema for ages. I'm sticking to IMAX or DVD from now on.
Jax I haven't seen Prometheus yet but I feel as though I have after reading so much about it. Will get the DVD in three months from the library.
Joe Meek knew Brian Epstein – he rejected the Beatles. And given that Orton and Meek were toilet trawlers (or 'well know cottage dweller's as Dame Edna labelled some old closet queen on his show) I'm sure their paths probably crossed in some London underground urine-gold lake.
I love that Meek got his protege/boyfriend Heinz to die his hair blonde after seeing Children of the Damned.
@David Ehrenstein–Sure.
I downloaded a Cockney Rebel album a few days ago. So far, it strikes me as more a curio than a lost classic, but I'm fond of the intersection of glam and art-rock, a la Bebop Deluxe and the Doctors of Madness. (I think the Doctors should've waited a few years and emerged as a post-punk band instead.) Steve Harley's voice seems like an acquired taste.
Dennis, well, with Beebz I ended up getting the standard version and the "Deluxe Limited Edition," which came with a 76 page magazine and some collectible trading cards. The magazine was a disappointment: no shirtless pics. The album itself was just kind of meh, but that wa spretty much what I was expecting. Even Nicki Minaj was wasted.
I also ended up getting the soundtrack to "Moonrise Kingdom" and Emeli Sande's "Our Version of Events" (you know, that singer that Misa has been pimping to you, as recently as today)!
Finished "Spreadeagle" today. I was very impressed with it. I haven't read all of Kevin's work but this one is easily my favorite of the ones that I have read. I'll have to e-mail him my thoughts about it soon.
DC,
thanks for the poems! Nice range, too. I laughed at some, and withdrew into myself for a few minutes with others.
Yeah, I think you would enjoy "the gift". It's this crazy hybrid of a book… unclassifiable in the tradition of Joseph Campbell or Hawkins–just a mashup of sociology, myths, common sense, literature, religion, art, marx, corporate finance, and anthropology. I mean, what else is there? The fact that it's in its 25th anniversary reprint says a lot, too.
I just listened to the bookworm podcast with Edward St Aubryn about the Patrick Melrose novels. I heard a nice parallel with your work in that both you and he explore language as a weapon.
Also, I watched Gummo last night. First time i'd seen it. Been thinking about it all day. Dreamed about it too.
d-
ahhh so many great poems today. i really liked kevin killian's first one, the name of which i obviously can't remember now.
yeah father's day was ok. my dad and i get along much better now that i'm older and don't live in his house and stuff.
hahaha, when i saw the hidden post, and the disneyland thing, i thought it was going to be about the crypt that walt's frozen head is in under the haunted mansion (true story). i'm going to find it one day.
um. so. re: TMS. i totally didn't notice this before but the cosmetic surgeon who works on didier is christophe, yeah? the more i read the book, the more i'm convinced that francois has a lot more to do with goings on than otherwise made clear in the book. like, the narrator seems to be clueless throughout, where the father, francois and christophe seem to be the masterminds of the whole fracas. am i missing something, or am i on the right track?
in other news, i need to find a new job. i'm still employed, i just fucking hate my current work situation. the shitty part is i can't think of anything that would help me make a living that i would be happier doing, save playing music, which, unfortunately, isn't enough to pay my bills yet.
the last few weeks have been really difficult, as far as the whole 'depression/feelings of worthlessness and suicidal impulses' thing. i need a vacation. i need to get laid. i need to take a lot of drugs and destroy something big. at least, those are the three things i think will help most with my current mental state. i met a girl over the weekend and she's cute and she invited me to a party and stuff but i don't think i'm going to go. like, i go out now and i see people laughing and having drinks and a good time and i just feel like even more hopeless cuz i know that i'm not going to be in on that good time and that it's only a matter of time before i start to lose my grip on reality again and start turning back into the self-destructive asshole that i've been for most of my life save the last few months. and that terrifies me. that it's only a matter of time before i start blowing up at people and trying to stab myself in the shower and overdose at work and things like that.
forget it. i'm losing my fucking mind. talk soon.
-me.
also,
i remembered reading that you maybe said you might be making it stateside in august-ish? cuz did you see the lineup for fuck yeah fest in LA this year? that's in september. and like every band in the world worth seeing is playing it basically. so maybe you should put off yr visit until then.
@Hyrule Dungeon: hats off on the new writing, the blog looks really cool…somehow I saw that Goya painting of Saturn devouring his son when I was way too little for it, like a little kid, and I still feel a bit frightened by that painting, it’s so intense…
Hey Dennis, I love literary days like this…I didn’t get a chance to fully read all the poems today but I’ll definitely read through these and do some investigation tomorrow…the Ben Kopel reading was great, really happy to have his book in my hands now…a bunch of us went to get some drinks afterward so I got to hang out with him a little, he’s an intensely nice and friendly guy…anyway I said hello for you, and we talked a little bit about MFA programs and books and stuff, it was fun.
I wanted to send your way this short poetry ebook that came out today by Carolyn DeCarlo, just because I really liked it and I thought it was interesting…it’s sort of like meme poetry, I guess…do you know, is there a name for when someone superimposes a poem over a picture? I don’t know what to call it, but I’ve been seeing a lot of internet-based writers doing that lately.
anyway take care Dennis, have a great day…
http://upliterature.files.wordpress.com/2012/06/youre-not-my-daddy-but.pdf
man, lots of good poems! (kevin killian, if yr lurking, love "fly.")
i need to pick up a volume of james tate, that feels my speed this month. where to start? just grab the selected if i can find it?
mark doty linked to this (new, i guess) frank bidart poem today on his facebook. it's starts out a little something or other, but it all sets up the last lines which are PERFECT.
http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/23018
Hey.
Hi Dennis
its my girlfriends show : ) but i dont think youve seen the name before.
drinking way tooo much coffee, its too easy to make.