(Somewhat Subtle) Noise Songs For The Past Two Days #129 and #130.
By
on
March 30th, 2009
Boredom: intended or not. Oh Charles, Mother of Robes, when will you be assumed. When will you stand on an island and be worth anything. I do not think it is ever going to happen. When will they blush at you and turn red with an overwhelming sense of embarrassment. Though, I think that will never happen. take place. or anything else like that. When will you remove your sunglasses and become an integral part of the diverse, ever-changing, fickle youth. sign up in the broken down cardboard, it is expecting you. anyway, to a tangent. Get your bottle and its note that fills it. stand out by your medal and display it with all the arrogance that surely follows, accompanies. The pavement will not bother it, it does not become involved in such things. the green soft is being placed on you. Do the children see what is wrong with them. Ah, I doubt it. Find the house and go into it. the architect is anonymous. you will not find any lights. bookcases. chairs. kitchens. foreign furniture. closets full of hard shoes. nothing. You will find people, from the past and the present alike. though, they will be silhouettes waiting for it and you. the door opening will reveal their faces for a small second. The black shading will transfix some and not so much for others. Crawl past the window and see it: a variety of gypsies, thinkers, artists and so on. they are all just sitting. Taken in the viciousness of over purple and decide the behindment is not aware of its complete and total emotion. This is awful, terrible, uninspired. stick this in the fireplace and set it ablaze.
http://www.last.fm/music/Thurston+Moore/_/Queen+Bee+And+Her+Pals
http://www.last.fm/music/Sonic+Youth/_/Shoot
So.
Oh sir, those were very much so intended.
Paperbag [Yorke Bro] says:
I had multiple orgasms reading that. I’m exhausted. [Oh no, a TD. There must be a prude in our midst.]
Good songs, love Sonic Youth.
P.S. Gibb, become a Yorke Bro. ASAP.
March 30th, 2009 at 3:56 am
Jack Duluoz is Back in the USSR says:
I awaken to the dim grinning gaze of junk incarnate that foolish gap-toothed smile yearning for the golden honey of junk that is in reality nothing more than a grey mass of slush to be shot sluggishly in the ass thigh arm, searching for the right fat worm-like vein to inject that chilled serum for waves of reclusiveness and giggles in the shadows under balconies and alleyways parkways highways and corner streets bars cool lush clubs that sparkle and jive with the echoing cries of “Go.Go. Go.” the spastic groan of golden fire trumpets in the eternal city glare under the pale excuse of the moon, fat and plump and hanging suspended with no other mission than to dimly illuminate the night, much like the junky. He wanders the streets illuminating the many careless gazes with his own dim-witted gleam, half-lidded and sleepy the ecstasies of slushy heroin in his veins like fire. Over time he ceases to move and only when he moves is it time for a fix, a massless huddled clothes hamper shambling about grinning dumbly at brick apartment tenements and speaking softly to the mist easing up from under the sewer grates–”Why hello, you spectral junk ghost, I love you.”–and so he goes until he finds his connection and it so happens that I was with him on the night for his fix. His connection, a burly German with coal miner etched on his forehead and frowning glaring down–he must’ve been 6 feet tall and 3 inches towering over us (me 5 feet 8 inches) and my buddy who used to be a spright tall young man but the effects of junk reduced him to a humming fool of 5 feet and 1 inch, lost 55 pounds and had bloody bandages on his feet he had no shoes he had worn away the soles long ago wandering the city pale and forlorn, an unsightly wretch hacking in the purple dawn American flags whipping religiously in the biting wind. Needless to say when his connection exposed the junk boy went crazy, hopping and hooing and drooling madly just easing from one foot to another with that stupid dim grin and missing front teeth “Come on come on”–to pull forth 20 dollars 20 smiling georges happy little crisp green, and the golden slush is dropped in his grimy hands and he squeells and turns away to hurriedly hobble down the street back to his dry hollow apartment to shoot up and lie once more in a hazy stupor for a week and a half not moving just gazing out the window tracing breath ghouls on the cracked pane. And outside ride queer motorcyclists revving down the street over cobble stone bridges and barking like hounds with the scent of homosexual madmen young students smoking weed and easing up to these closeted fiends who greedily eye these young ‘uns and think “easy meat, boys”–and one tried with his gasoline roaring bike to ride me down for a sexual fix–I raced out of sight and down the streets.
I like the songs, too. Great writing, man. You are skilled, you have talent. Quit doubting yourself and Write, man. You have it in you, I see that now.
Peace.
March 30th, 2009 at 4:47 am