Friday, February 27, 2009

The Atomic Bombs 5.mp3

You know what I like about Friday's? Well, here's the next post of the audio poem The Atomic Bombs! Non-sequiturs!


text:
the atomic bombs 5


the atomic bombs
were

said to have a sound unlike
much
of
the rock that was going around in
sock
hop
manifestos and
radio

buzz bins;

instead
of
the loop of surf induced
fuzz
and
contortion,

the atomic bombs were composed of solid
riffs and
slow beats and
a monotone singer
full
of the blast and fission;

they named themselves
such

that it would inspire posters
to be hung
in
blacklit rooms

or

under caution signs

Wednesday, February 25, 2009

LAB 4 - Little Boy

Hope you didn't forget about the evil scientist and the stalwart soldier. They didn't forget about you. By the way, how's your bottle of water? Words by Savage and Daily. Drawing by Savage.



chapter 4 – little boy
The little boy stumbled through the emptiness of the jungle. The heat had convinced him that he would grow into a leopard and terrorize villages of other small children. His jealousy, of course, was from his lack of memory. He did not know what force had set him loose and alone into the jungle. Only, he was thirsty, and he was becoming desperate.
The boy's hands were innocent and shaped like palm fronds. His hair was rakish and lingered over his prickly ears. His knees were shabby, laughable. His ribcage sprouted through his chest. His eyes were marked and bright. His shoes were red cabbage leaves. All of the child's management was loosening. And in the distance he saw the wreckage of a medical facility. The boy grew hopeful and began to run.
The remnants of the laboratory told no stories. The black magic had been distilled. The mystery had been slain. Seduction was no longer part of its mystique, yet still the child entered and still he thirsted and still there were lingering plastic bottles lined on shelves. The boy glanced upon the rows of life sustaining liquid kept prisoner in plastic and he pounced. The feral nature of the child gave way. He snapped open a bottle and gorged, water slashing down his face and throat. If heaven was a conceit, it would be such as this: the child fell asleep quickly, peacefully, in a sense of security amidst the crash of all ending chaos. This was disproven, however, when he awoke and was not a child at all. Something else.

His finger nails had become claws. His teeth fang. Long tangles of patch splatch hair covered his body. But he was no pedestrian horror movie creature. No, he wasn't even an idealized jungle cat. He was just himself except uglier and older. He aged into the strangest of men. The little boy lost. He stood up. The clothes he fell asleep in were torn. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. How long was he out? He walked out of the lab and back into the jungle. The jungle seemed less special to him now. The trees were just bland sticks of aged brown bark and the leaves were dull green. It was as if the youth's eyes turned from digital love to radio decay. The day was overcast. The old boy began walking, crunching on twigs and leaves and mashing into sludgy muck. His mind remained the same. He cried and cried. This world wasn't familiar to him. His body was foreign. Everything felt wrong. He had been walking a few hours when he came upon a lake. Should he take a swim to cool off? Should he?

Instead, the boy sat upon the bank, staring at his reflection. He began to imagine what he saw as the face of his unknown father; perhaps even his mother. The old boy started chanting to himself, “You are free now, you are free. You are free now, you are free.” It seemed to help. Beneath the water he could make-out tiny flints of fishes frolicking in the swim. He wanted them, to be the air they breathed, to find distillation into the air, and to never cease rising, even into the empty void of space.
The old boy fell asleep that night, but he did not expect death. He dreamed grand dreams of tiger paw and the feasible defense of an imperial castle against fire. He had dreams that contained songs he’d never heard before. When the old boy awoke, he decided not to despair. He was the king of the jungle; how had he forgotten? With a roar, he pounced sideways into the brush, chanting his unknown name over and over and over. Some of the jungle would be changed by this. The old boy smiled.

Are you reading the news?

some quick topical art and rough draft lyrics...the headlines fucking suck...

Raise a Hand

There aint much work to be had
There aint no more workin’ songs
What's the point of doin right
When everyone at the top is doin wrong
Is there any reason to go on? 2x

Rise up &
Raise a hand
Help me understand
What happened to our promised land?

There aint much heart in the heartland
I cant hear a strong enough beat
The people are good it's true but
The music doesn't get 'em outta their seats
Is there any hope for rock n roll? 2x

Rise up &
Raise a hand
Help me understand
What happened to our promised land?

There aint nothing private about this life
Our every move, every thought we’ve ever had
Available for all to see and comment on
That aint good or bad, it just makes me a little sad
Is there any magic left at all? 2x

Rise up &
Raise a hand
Help me understand
What happened to our promised land?


Tuesday, February 24, 2009

the atomic bombs 4.mp4


You didn't think we'd forgotten about those darling Atomic Bombs, did you? Words - me; music - Jeff Daily and Chris Daily and David Feil and an ipod. Get it!

text:
the atomic bombs 4


the atomic bombs’

frontman
was
named

darren dar;

he grew up
outside
of Michigan
and

read books by
Einstein
and Oppenheimer

and he left his school books in the
pool;

his mother had a flock
of red hair;

she beat him with a belt;

his father was
unlike
a block
of
ice

and refused to leave the bedroom
sometimes
when darren was
thirteen;

later
in
his teens,

darren
took off for Detroit to form a band

Monday, February 23, 2009

drawings and new work

Hey guys, some more drawings for you to end the drawing week, and also, here are some new poems I wrote today. A little background: I was reading an article on Donald Barthelme in the New Yorker. He is a writer that used found sentences in his work to borrow elements of collage from visual artists like Robert Rauschenberg. He was trying for experimentalism. So these two new poems are a bit, I think, in the milieu of using found sentences (or even something similar to William S. Burroughs' jump-cut method), but in place of found sentences, I used randomly generated thoughts that came while writing in a hyper-kinetic style. So it's a bit of a mash-up (to use the parlance of our times!) of poetry (and some prose too). Hope you guys like. So, drawings first, then some poems. Happy Monday!


a hand



and
range version 4





untitled 4955


it’s easy to adapt
to
a lover

and peel her new flesh
around
a bathtub drain.

I never never.

the story goes:

in the rain two indelible lovers had a fight with umbrella fronds and struck it rich while spilling down a storm drain; I think they have a small kid waiting in a smoking room with his father’s coat draped elegantly over his face; the world famous writers believe this too; they shock and awe agape as the boy goes to the window and turns the light off; his parents, of course, are still oversized in the rain throwing punches bitter, loving, and incredible; if this too, toss and step and gently close the door to the bathroom and turn off the lights.

I image greater still
a man falling

forever into an abyss of eternal

light.


untitled 4954


the smoking umbrage
of
the after after

so jolly wit
we
can wicked
if

we so so
.

want the lust of the white
page

for me

and write a trilling sonata
I

dance in the doorway.

Friday, February 20, 2009

drawings drawings drawings

Hello Friday fellows, here's some more drawings from my hands to your eyes via computer and all that jazz.


lipid 1



many

Thursday, February 19, 2009

the atomic bombs 3.mp3


Here's the latest from that band you love to not remember. Click the post title!


text:
the atomic bombs 3


the atomic bombs
turned up in china
years

later
with
scars and bullets in their
ankles;

they played in small
bars

and hid under bridges
and

smoked cigarettes with abandon;

none ever married or
had
kids
but

there were a lot of women
coming and
going

and soon enough they were in australia

grin and bare it

Hey guys, my computer at home has been humping my leg, so's I been's lax in my post's's's's's. Here's some more drawings!

intercut


and

red fields

#11-13



Wednesday, February 18, 2009

Ant


Carl Borromaus Andreas Ruthart
Adam Naming the Animals, 1686, oil on Canvas

Adam,
this is ugly
those creatures are ugly
this is a terrible task

the things dads make sons do

I had to wash the car
and clean my room

Cat
You aren’t very creative.
Beaver

What about
Yoda
or
Pikachu

To think that if you weren’t so boring
Pikachus could be
real
and dads would make their sons
walk them

“Having and taking care of a Yoda is a good way to learn responsibility”

In actuality, its 1686
so someone else
is making you out
to be boring

that’s a big ‘ol rock
that’s a weird little horse
and you’re naked

Monday, February 16, 2009

drawing week!


Hey guys, here is the commencement to the Savage Week o' Drawing! If you have drawings, and they're scanned in to your files, and you want to be a sweetheart, well then post them up on the good ol' blog and we'll have a fine jamboree. Jeff, I hope you still have some more pictures of those cut-ups Walt and Stan, too. Kowabunga!

The Atomic Bombs 2.mp4


Here's the second in the series of audio poems of 'The Atomic Bombs.' Did you ever hear them play? Quite good, my friends. By the by, just click the link to hear me, Jeff, and Chris Daily give you sounds of the past (or the present (or the future!))!


text version:
the atomic bombs 2


richie salkind
was
in love
with

the songs of his favorite
band

the atomic
bombs

and he sought to find
their
lost
trail in Korea;

he
fell in love
there

and had three kids;

they wore
striped
neck

ties and danced in the evening heat;

and the air of the forlorn
washed over richie’s face

when he saw the atomic bombs again

Saturday, February 14, 2009

the atomic bombs 1.mp4


Happy love day, love freaks, we love you all. To prove it, here is the first of a new series of audio poems from us to you. Words are by me, music by Jeff and his brother Chris. Got to love rock'n'roll, you know?


text version:
the atomic bombs 1


the atomic bombs
were

a rock and roll
band
from the fifties
that
wore white
pants
and

broke their guitars
over

girls faces;
they

were full of hot
gusto
and

had the loose recoil
of
an
empty pistol;

they were enlisted to fight
in
the Korean war and
disappeared
for
many years

Thursday, February 12, 2009

the return.mp4

Hey guys, its the return of chant poems at the blog here. The poem: The Return! Who would have thought? Just click the blog post title and escort yourself to some mayhem and wonder.

Also, check out:

talkhardindustries.blogspot.com

for the latest in dystopian Austin ruminations. It's a great site and a great zine.

Celebrity Magazines


dont believe in magic
like pressure

A forest of levers
and their
potentiality

where
we are but
haunted bodies of
appetites

tangled in a static web
of power lines

heavy and transmissionless
above our heads

connecting living rooms and telephones and empty t.v.s
to emptier outlets and sockets and chords

all entangled
in toadish homes

under ugly broken trees

to more

gray paved networks
of unknown neighborhoods

Wednesday, February 11, 2009

and lo it shall come to pass

that a picture poem will lead them. And it will feature a chair! Hope you guys like.