lab chapter 5

Hey guys, it's been a while, so here's an update on what's happening between the mad scientist and the weary soldier. Remember: scientist = bad guy with crazy potion that transforms people into monsters; soldier = ex-partner now trying to stop him. Oh no, what's going to happen next?!

...and, starting tomorrow, get ready to crap your pants!

But first, the next chapter of lab...


chapter 5 – man in sky
As the air fell around his face, Jacob attempted to stare at the flaming halo of his plane. The terse touch of the sky was devouring him. He watched as an unknown chunk of debris – what had cause the death of his ship – plummeted just beyond, screaming through the atmosphere. Jacob could not help but imagine a wonderful world, where falling is akin to success, and that to die was to be promoted. Tears rounded up his face against the will of gravity, caught in the gale wind. He told himself it was right and proper to flail and to scream.
The following moments stretched into hours. Lifetime flashes and deformed clouds, the tattle of no-god hissing sweet nothings. The pulse of the wind came to be his own as his bones bounced and his teeth chattered. He wondered how long until the verdant underneath caught him. He thought of abstract hands composed of vegetation, of god in the endless no no sighing, of a little woman in an apartment burning his cloths. Jacob fashioned a prayer, but it had little sense and its function was dislocated. Pray instead, he sobbed, of endless blue, of gravel and locust, of arbor and moss and highway blacktop. Jacob closed his eyes and prepared for the great kalamazam.
He felt a twitch upon his arm. He swatted and was shocked to feel there another man’s hand. Jacob instantly opened his eyes open and gasped. A man, bespectacled and shocked in white hair, flowing along, falling too, strapped to some form of jetpack apparatus, was holding on. He was laughing. Jacob shouted questions but they were lost to the rush of the fall. The man in white frock and flame handed a blue bottle to Jacob. He motioned for him to drink it, then leaned in and mouthed, “Take this and it’ll save your life.” Jacob was completely astonished and nonplussed. He grabbed the bottle, understanding nothing, and drank deeply. Jacob understood angels to be querulous creatures with bulbous faces and nerd-beam eyes. He knew miracles to flow like water and drag not in doubt nor fear. He drank the damned thing and tossed the bottle into the grip of the fall. He felt a tug in his corporeal form. The mad flyer smiled, hissed, “I am the scientist,” and fluttered away with his magic backpack.

Jacob watched the glitter chrome lift away. The strange, starry sensation continued. His stomach became hard to place. There were bricks – no; horseshoes? – kicking about. Farewell, thought Jacob, and he caught a final glimpse of his bamboozled plane tumbling. His final plea was a call for an airplane savior to hoist his creature back into the sky and let it dwell there for the rest of time. Jacob begged for his life too. His lips became diaphanous, his hands useless parachutes, and his legs roman candles. Jacob finally let out a wail and felt his body transform just before the thud.

--
Jacob felt time stop. At least he thought he felt time stop. He smashed into the
earth and died. His body was gnarled, gashed, smashed, twisted, and bloody. But he was not dead. Jacob lived. He had become a mosquito. He flew off. He buzzed away into thick distant foliage. The sounds of life sounded heavy. The breeze was a deep muffle drone. The sunlight was a razor blade window pane. Jacob rested in the shade. The sun began to set and he took to the air anew. A thirst for blood came. He became mad with searching. He landed on the head of a young child playing in dirt outside a hut. The mosquito feasted and felt the evil of a previous life run through him.
A mating urge tapped him. He had become a female. A swarm of male mosquito's buzzed in the air. Jacob yearned to feel the orgy of the swarm. Jacob raced about the currents, intent, of course. Tis a sad death to be repeatedly born.


--

Before the greedy mosquito succeeded its ability to lay eggs in the rainforest, the soldier came along and collected the monster in a glass jar. He looked upon the former Jacob with pity. The soldier had black bars painted on his face. A hunting knife sat at his side. The soldier had watched the wreckage of the plane dip into the canopy previously. He had seen the scientist truffling about in the atmosphere, flying mad with white frock and hapless hair-do. The soldier saw the poor body of the man Jacob transmogrify in the glory/chaos of impact into his mosquito form. The soldier again glanced into the jar and made a quiet promise. This will not be your last life, he thought, and tracked into the interior of the undergrowth, searching the other mysteries awkward abundance might provide. The scientist was not alone; the soldier was unfastened.

2001 2 6 and 2001 2 7

Hey, here's two more of my poems that pay homage to the amazing film 2001: A Space Odyssey. The screen captures are from 'the light show' scene. And...two days left...until...




2001 part 2 6


the great ocean of time
rests in
the midst of my
being

and I drift through the absence
of space

upon returning to my future
and my children
I chanted
the best of us will
be stardust

creeping into cosmic
wells
of time
and space

and you will know that it is
blue blue

when I raise my hand upon your spine
and hiss the one
word
of god that you shall
know as
law and name
and
truth

my dove
my

space metal
wife




2001 part 2 7


heavens I saw
a nuclear
explosion
end our lifetime

and in the wrappings of dust
billowing about
the face
of the planet

I heard the cry of starburst novas
in the past

reaching us too late
and knowing

oh knowing

it is ever a frost on the tip
of a window
that descends into
the valley
of the infinite

for time is ever present and
we
as such beings that eat radiation
and destroy the
spin of atoms
are ever
present

one more for the road

Hey, here's the last batch of untitled poems celebrating 5000 of them. Thanks for reading, and, what could this mean?
Dada is the groundwork to abstract art and sound poetry, a starting point for performance art, a prelude to postmodernism, an influence on pop art, a celebration of antiart to be later embraced for anarcho-political uses in the 1960s and the movement that lay the foundation for Surrealism.
—Marc Lowenthal
Beware the ides of April...
but for now, untitleds!


untitled 1417


the steps so large
and
frightening

were ready for witnesses

and bouncing balls
.

the cobblestone streets
beyond
.
we’re not ready for either;
cars
drove precariously upon
their
surface

like ships sailing into
the
mystic waters
of
dreams and deaths.

we stood there
and
confused everything
as
human;

others
passed us by with
their reckless
abandon
,
but
we’re reckless too.
we go where we want
,

wakening.



untitled 2664 (new generation bottle rockets)


a curved smile spine
waits on
the lonely cowboy girl.
she has a green hat and works at the counter drug store.
she drinks the cough syrup for fun.
her boyfriend drives that old beat black truck.
it has rust in the tire drums.
it has ice under the dash.

a sweet precipitation
comes down the hills.
we
are kids yet again.

sweet summer time,
chase fireflies and bottle rockets.

she doesn’t know that she’s
pregnant,
he doesn’t drive so fast.

entertainers,
innovators
alike,
play your brass band music loudly.
last
chance.



untitled 4606


new still night
of
no old
men

chanting the rhythm of the
taxi
cab

in their corners
street

lamp indigo

we are cool
saxophone

entities
digging
dig

the sidewalk the
lady passes
the

crescent moon
crooked as an
eye sore
and shut

half wondering when oh when
will love be had


untitled 4390


believe in the rain windows

storm drain
faced

girl in the spider web

I shot down the airplane
and
it landed in your backyard

and it killed your
garden

and spit flame cool across the dash
of your

station wagon

go off the wheels
we fell
in the ditch.

point away
point

away the name of your old
boyfriend who
drank
himself to death



untitled 4201


words
ooze
forth bugs

and excrement

she runs across the parlor
and gropes the door
of her
lover
licking and kissing

away
the heart

hey, dave, is that untitled too?

Oh, why yes, it does happen to be untitled. I hope you enjoyed the spontaneous post featuring a titled poem yesterday as well. Hey, okay!


untitled 836


“Mommas
mommas
mommas
,

take care
of
those

before

they grow
to
distant”



untitled 1592


I shooed her away
with
the
empty cards
.

and then this:
you
can’t
quit
when
you
feel
so
guilty
.

she made the bed,
again
,
and I sat alone on
an
orange couch.

but I’m the whole
universe
.
I’m the fool
.

she’s the lovely young thing
and

I’m the one who
runs
away
.



untitled 4451


E has had love
in her belly
for

some time

drinking fire
and

the moon saws

her jawbone
in half

with my t-
shirts
wrapped
upon
the balcony
.
she
drinks rainwater
and sleeps outside on the rooftop



untitled 2795


I’m the murderer and I am
draped in a white
coat of
the finest cloth.

I can eat at your table.
you are pruned
and full
of desire.

but I will not sit in the chair
beside the glass coffee
table.

I am a fool,

you are a peasant.



untitled 3188


you could have this whole world,
I’ve seen it, Erin,
waiting on curbsides, dangling from one bedroom apartment
window like
seasonal Christmas lights.
the streets are broken. hobblers cripple the sidewalk,
defeating their legs against the wind,
shining and shrieking at the city buses, at the make believe
goodwill lenders, bankers and shrift suited business men,
opportunists striking their fiddles.
but Erin,
in your small timely frame, your lust for feeling, your absolute trust in the sadness
of man and dimension,
you can be the conqueror.
ugly vixens don’t believe, they rub red velvet between their crotches
and stalk prettier someones.
but you live in denser fog.
yours is not reality to devour;
it is far sweeter, dynamic, scary, amazing, bright and luscious.
fantasia, the girl in the blue sweater, drifting in and out of dream
with all reason and sincerity.
I’ve seen you;
laugh and cry, strike out with your elbows,
dance in your rhythm, the sky is green, the grass below may
be brown, whistle your song for the birds, roll in the dirt.
great destroyer of the modern world, girl with a face covered in revolving
locks of hair;
harmony
sinks deep down
into
your
heart;
that is poetry, shifting grains of light
wafting across your
hands.

not untitled

space




to indicate is to inform and to do so is to point out and bleh!

indicate here something new for a blog



soda pop is the name of a titled poem from Christopher Savage

(soda pop


haunted houses in the springdale
burb

go awk and scant
the

girl with her reed ring looks in the direction
of
a red fire hydrant

you
know

in an old factory rests all
broken
glass

we are awash with joy you
are
new

and to silence silence
is
a grand misery girl

shrinking away from me sat on the other side
of
the shoppe
window

soda pop)

soda pop is the name of a titled poem from Christopher Savage



indicate here something new for a blog

to indicate is to inform and to do so is to point out and bleh!



space

the name of the untitled

More from the vault for all of you lucky lovers. Yeah! 5000 untitled poems!


untitled 1082


no the robot
reaches
up into the rain

and looses his
circuits
.

yes the magician
climbs
through his roof

and slips off the
tiles
.

maybe the man
eats
away his dreams

and chases his
vanity
.
)

waste time in
the past

and
stand
under

a blue waterfall
;

both wash up
and
wash away



untitled 1420


just pure honesty in the morning
.
if that colors
your
eyes

the same as mine
,

give me a fancy hello.

everything else
only

wants to be something
different
;

you and I were meant for
fusion
,
not fission
.

)
the world was made for us



untitled 1738


many people
,
laughing in rows of the movie theater
,

know little of
movie
projection
,
but they’re happy,
they
taste the fullness of being.
I
me proud to steal
from
them.
watching all the faces, different
and
tangled,
mingle. one sound
and
soul
.

it exists here.
peace
.

I’m certain of that.



untitled 3080


my girl and I played catch with the baseball today.
I had to instruct her
seventy two
times on how to pitch.
she stared away in the sky and pointed to a cloud.
I threw the ball up and caught it
too.
she stepped with every throw; I said no
no.
I can take care of you but only if you close
your
eyes
.

my glove absorbed the sweat of my hand.
my girl’s ribbon hair flittered with the wind.
I couldn’t know she was blue;
she
kicked her shoes from her feet and stood in the dirt.
no one wins this kind of game;
for fun, silly,
she called out,
and I heaved the seamed orb away away
into
the
street.



untitled 4374


to come home again
amidst
fur coats

and women who
have
given me golden wristwatches;

oh it’s
no such thing

he says as such it was
once his domain

and goes on to
believe that as long as gunsmoke
is subtle

well
and dry it is
fair

to believe that heaven exists just
beyond a concrete
dam

untitled so so so

Here are some more of my untitled poems to celebrate the arrival of my 5000th one!


untitled 4404


ocean breeze
of
coolness
across my chest

I am twenty
two

again and
in

love and

the sand

and the mist and lost
debris

drifting under starlight



untitled 4133


I remember fondue in your
hair
the apartment girl Candace
removing her
teeth
for the night
sinking
in red cushions on the couch
shouting
about good god damn
the neighbor’s
lights

so bright and pretty
I am the boardwalk
but the beach
and the lost kid
with one shoe
tacked

down above your bed
you have
a map of the world with
Zimbabwe circled in red
like

dust from the lotus

I should have watched you walk
out and
get on the bus and
tear away at the grey sky



untitled 3770


don’t wait til
morning,
the buses run slower,

girls in suede skirts

look taller,

ugly dogs prowl meaner,
and I will
be steadfast asleep
under the
lunar quilt.

--

she is reeds and ponds,
hair
of one thousand angels,

a crick in a neck of a tall
gentleman.

I asked her to please tell me her favorite movie,
but she
just smiled.



untitled 2330 short 2-2


the song of the highway on the edge of
the Blue City
still sings of war and wasteland,

but we can only make it out to be
epic and tragic
and

lost



untitled 524


there was
a street fight
blossoming
in a City garage
,
trucks and cars
buried all
around
,
waiting to be revived
.

“I’ll kill you”
said a man
to
another

and fists became
like
raindrops
.

weapons were brandished
like car keys
and
little people were screaming
in
large voices
;
the skyscraper in the distance would have laughed if it could
.

the City Destroyer
stood near
the
man with the matches
and
together they watched
,
one laughing
while the other
shook his head and
his hands.

the mill is untitled

Hey guys, here are some more untitled poems celebrating my 5000th one! A week of untitled poetry for you to eat. And go by Ruta Maya on Tuesday for the open mic why don't you?


untitled 4642


collected raindrops
in jar
containers

will resonate after two
weeks
of a grand explosion

says a tom cat
faced
miscreant

into a tin can tied
with string

and across the way in night
and
heat

a little girl giggles
and
imagines a mushroom cloud



untitled 4166


you would know who is young
and womanly
in the evergreen fields
of
the winter

when she brushes oh
so tender
aside your hair
and

takes you in
the flesh
for

all the sins you have
committed
behind the backs
of

old matrons and disgusting
gentlemen



untitled 3827


oh jesus I must have never
loved
the days of my longing

but

but

she asks for one more chance
or I ask
to begin again

or she tells me it’s never over
for
such as us

--

and we live in a nice kingdom,
elegant,
proud and true,
and she sleeps softly
and
I do not speak so loud,
and all blood,
all memory,
flows towards the center of
our bed
as we undress in
candlelight



untitled 3126


if he knew hunger, he hid it well.
the boy in black hair sat in the art gallery.
he did not moan.

when we die, our dignity flies away in ringlets of light.

the boy ruminated about his job.
a hollow existence,
he chirped,
then scolded himself.

a bulldozer awaited outside, wrecking walls, pulverizing concrete.

I am something akin,
he hisses,
and thinks about the life before this one.
I was a child.

the daylight creeps beyond the window pane to touch his shoulder.
he jumps and startles;
he is not aware of the tawdry woman in a black dress stood beside him.



untitled 2816
Christopher Savage

down the slopes.
my
rented flip flim
flop skis

were red for love, darling.
I didn’t care

how crashed and white
I’d become.

velvet earrings waited inside the mountain.
as was a god.

search them out,
have them,

keep them
.

I do not fall in love with meteors that
shatter the Earth.

we can dwindle like candles,
baby;

we eat our
inferno
.

the whole world's untitled, baby

Hey guys, it's been a while, but I wanted to leave the picture poem up for a while for SXSW. Now, however, it's an untitled world, baby. That means I've written my 5000th untitled poem, and all week I'll be posting a ton of them for you guys. Call it a celebration of the written life. And just wait for April, oh me oh my. Have a funky good time!


untitled 5000


it is not our place to save
the world even if there are monsters in the midst.
we
have
love

and is that not enough?

carry me under a pink horizon
and I will
sing to you of old iron factories.

there is nothing sweeter –

Sunday morning or other,
a prick of violin and some biscuits,
an indigo bedsheet,
the last thrust of lovemaking,
the phone ringing,
a computer on a coffee table,
and sheets sheets
sheets of paper.

we can be a forest ourselves with strange
fruit,
and we can consume ourselves,
and
we can collapse.

sigh, and clap, together, once, now, my love.


untitled 4999


I who am not so wicked
yes
as my chest is a furnace
and glows I chase
around

old beaches attempting to reunite
with ghosts and memories

but
not to worry

I have the ordinance language carved into my feet

so imagine
sand
and imagine poetry and

there
I go


untitled 4998


tell me again I am leper but god lying in gutters and know him beautiful ask and answer he replied but empty newspapers and lime colored dumpsters and to speak instead of the world blue downtown center commerce bank and puppets’ pink pajamas and the old factory biting dust distant and a miracle of course eating ourselves in mirrors and removing in the evening to drink brown liquor and sing song angels that exist pin pricks and telephone calls and god me to buffoon of course is easy and the secret cities across the pages of happy magazines and an entire float stream of piss underneath my feet the moment midnight in the scrounge life


untitled 4997


oh we wretched few

have no names
and are
listless

shadows

emerging
from
bars at the end of the night

chanting
god oh god
is dead
he
is
we have beer soak and whiskey
prattling
and
god oh god
is
kind benevolent timid
insipid and blue
beetles oh
ha

and we lie upon broad mattresses
below frayed blinds with
hope for the sun’s bright
touch;

the morning tells us we are
children
but

we don’t listen.

we have hearts of the magi pricking
the fabric of the ever
want
want


untitled 4996


hey funny valentine,
be
a dead pharaoh,
be a book unread
and be the door that does not slam;

hey,

take your time listening to your father’s
music;

he had a lisp and a lithe gun in his
pocket;

oh wow oh

go boom
go bang


untitled 4995


shoot a ruby slipper and tame
nothing

and open a doorway;

hey,
it is spring;

hey it is summer, hey;

hey, it’s fall again and we have
flesh colors on the balcony;

I think of jumping to reach something
but
the radio tells me

hey, hold
on,
it’s winter

streets of austin (again)

Hey funsters, how's the ol' town? Enjoying your week of shenanigans? Well, I know it's only started, but here is a brand new picture poem from me to you to kick off this musical, film(ical?), interactive(ick-le?) festival. Also, hey, wow, what a world, what a guy: out now is a little quickie version of our lit zine, Boho Coco (this one's called 'Boho Coco guide to being'), and it's coming out on Thursday at Little City, the Hideout, Domy Books, Spiderhouse, and several other undisclosed places (call them 'secret' locations). Feature in this handy little zine are myself (Christopher Savage), Richard Guerra (the amazing auteur of TalkHard), Ryan Criswell (photo-gal extraordinaire), and Jak Cardini (of the fancy Gold Count Paper Mill). Okay, enough with the mouthful. Time for some pretty pictures.






































thanks for reading

2001 2 5

Whet your whistles on this, and then come back in the next few days for some exciting news (and posts)!





2001 part 2 5


spectacles
of radiant
white cosmos haunted
stars
dance
the blue
distance

I flew so fast
that upon stopping I had
come to the past
and
saw that the earth
was
much more than a froth
of muck
and
mountain
face

I saw aliens dancing
the midnight
swan

and I saw them take away their faces
and lay upon
meadow grass
and dream us into creation

we shake, we rattle

we shake, we rattle
and
it doesn't matter

in the void
of
oh oh

the world is solid
and it
is
good.



3 things
then
in the sky:

one open moon left hinged in the cliff
of
sunlight;
an old baseball seam scattered
in orbit;
liquor bottles strung together
with Christmas lights all
a twinkle.

2001 2 4

God is watching and he is us...


2001 part 2 4


careful lest you see
a reflection
of your life
in
the sweet dissonance
of
the ever abyss

I reach for
you
lover

and it is god that shakes in the cold
of the darkness

it is we that
shake with the firmament of
gold
and
lust

the atomic bombs 9.mp3

Hey guys, here's the last installment of 'The Atomic Bombs.' Jeff and his brother and a friend did the music and I did the words. Ah, they're still out there, somewhere now, those cads in the 'Bombs.' Rock and roll never died; it just got lost in the fifties.


text:
the atomic bombs 9
Christopher Savage

those who had seen
the band
play

remarked that the men
resorted to
abandon

over cool;

they were

fables brought in
sports jackets

chanting about
life under
heaven

where good kids can’t go wrong
by
burning down
trees;

those who loved
the music

would tell stories of how the singer tossed his pocket
comb into
the center of the audience
and
laughed, screaming for
everyone to chase
after it;

the atomic bombs played
a song together
as
they happened to meet up in Korea towards the end of the war;

they joked that this
was the height of the world
and ventured a gaze towards the Pacific

something to sing about

this is not a poem about death:
be a bird instead,

take flight, auger the wind,
bite the flesh of the night
and taste vermilion:



here, then, a list of reasons for living:
all
the moon and its soldiers in their
imperial garb so simple and redundant
oh how
to hate them is so satisfying;
a kite in the halo of
a thunderstorm,
or struck by lightning, or given
over to the ocean:
something serious, of course, a rabid piece
of child stuck up in an elm or
even a mad scientist thinking
of his dead wife and licking
glass;
or this then, even this then,
this:
to be a buffalo on the range and eating
a thousand leaves of grass
and whitman and all
mania of williams and ginsberg.

whack off the branch of a lonely
tree and keep the limb with
you and
when you step into a pond later
in the evening some years
from now
cry
as the twig drifts in the drink.



Hey guys, just read an article on David Foster Wallace. Suicide sucks, and god damn it, us writers are sensitive. It's a wonder sometimes we all don't just throw ourselves in front of a bus. But, geez! Morbid!

the atomic bombs 8.mp3

click the post title and listen in to the pentultimate chapter of 'The Atomic Bombs!'


text:
the atomic bombs 8
Christopher Savage

a lonely boy
named
saul pettigrew

first heard the reissue of the atomic
bombs’
first album in his early
teens

and didn’t recognize darren
dar

years later when he bumped into him
at a grocery store in
Texas;

the former frontman of the band
had
gray locks and
deaf eyes;

saul would have
shook
the singer’s hand

but it was too late;

the atomic bombs made an attempt
to reunite

a little after

but derrick was already
dead

and jules was
fragile
as glass;

darren, later still,
died on stage playing
new songs with his daughter

sad town

Hey guys, a friend emailed me this article about the state of foreclosure in Cleveland:

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/03/08/magazine/08Foreclosure-t.html?emc=eta1.

I grew up in Cleveland (I left when I was 14), so I wrote this poem in response. I really do love that town, and god damn it, everyone there deserves better. City of steel, man! Birthplace of The Man of Steel and Rock and Roll!


Cleveland


I saw a city made of heat and steel
and
lost old men waving
broad canes
of oak
in the drowning canal.

oh Eerie, the lake of the
only
ones, the eerie wake of the breeze
of the salt children,
the cracked and forgotten
pile of broken metal
nail files hanging
in the abandoned hot dog shop.
a coffee
shop too, or some
ordained pizza place, a groove
of loose hoppers

flying about in red zippers, zapping
cars wheels
and taunting the lonely girls
in their cop cars, riding shotgun
next to
empty fathers and belting
out the siren song of crime-be-
good-and-crime-be-gone.

I was a cricket in the lap of some hobo
and
he set me free in the baseball stadium;
I was a box of
rice on the windowsill
and did I oh too eager
go wayward across clotheslines falling;
I was the little
boy in the beat-up wagon hoping
to catch some city lights;
I was the tip top of the
leery bleer beam;
I was the dead sailor arriving
truncated and turned
out
in the bowels of a maroon ship.

and my mother
had fastened
for me the fascination of leaving,
and waving,
and the homebuyers sitting
on picket fences parading empty
shoes,
and
the lack of the entire ones, chirping, playing
in pools, summer
time sonatas and shiftless
bastards walking into banks with brass
cuff links.

all this time, chants the city,
all this time,
you will be mine,

undergo the status, and the shake,
the quotient is to
be and to be
is simply a ride on the rapids
around the city common and
shout with the shouters
and love with the damned.

Cleveland got it right first
when they
stumbled and ate mortar;
the rest
of the world merely
needs to learn such grace before
it too can perform
such a dauntless task.

oh Cuyahoga, I’d rather imagine you as a god
in the clouds than a drainy
rain bleaming geek in the pantry
tripping over bags of rice.

perhaps you’d rather imagine me as
the mayor of no
no
no and that if I unfolded
my secret key and map all would
be well.

graceless couples kill their
kids in broken buggies,

but the best of us
still line the streets in order to
wave them on.

the streets are endless
and we
to echo have
become sheets of fog;
beauty, if ever,
rides low in the rumble between
empty homes and
laughing
dogs.

the atomic bombs 7.mp3

Hey, what's going on tonight?! I'm talking about tonight!? Howl, baby, take off your skin and howl! Here's some more Atomic Bombs to show you how.

text:
the atomic bombs 7


jules latour

was the
guitarist

for the atomic bombs;

he was a short man
and
his hair was utter
black;

he fell in love
with
a girl in California

but

after Korea he
felt he
never deserved true love;

in the war
he
had to saw the foot off
of a fellow
soldier

so the two might escape from
an oncoming assault;

later,
jules
would live in Bulgaria
and
marry a lovely village girl;

his playing style was
described as neon
bulbs crushed under the heels of a taxi
cab
but he preferred to think of himself
as silk

anonymous has it again

Hey guys, here is the final poem in the "thinks to say" series. Hope you enjoyed. Also, go see Watchmen. Don't cry for Bubastis.


of the things to say, oh nevermind


of the things to say, oh nevermind
that
you saw an alley cat fall
onto
a piece of glass
and

your parents’ marriage was a laugh.

you should be dancing, or
if
no music, you should
be stomping your feet.

I will say:

the thought of going to work and eating in a break
room
and shuffling every morning to arise
at a similar time and to take off
my shoes only when I arrive home
and
to be ousted and dissatisfied for
complaining that the eagle is caught
in the razor wire,

well,

imagine that I am a large rock sitting in a wooded
area
hissing as the breeze fecklessly graces
my hide.

if it wasn’t so gentle,
you know?

pictures!!

Hey, have some photos on me.










and...
a poem for you too.

not knowing
how to eat old newspapers
is
a skill akin to
falling down elevator
shafts,
or,

akin to unlearning the specific
arc
of
the bridge that leads away from downtown.
now, all this is to say
that
the left of darkness
is
an old basketball floating in a swamp;
or
a dizzy soup can spilling
over
a brick wall;
or leaving a cigarette
case in a bathroom
after two am.

not knowing is simply
dust atop a cd case.

anonymous has it

So, according to my last post, an anonymous person wants to see more of the 'things to say' series. Well, anonymous, here's some more just for you. Love and kisses. (also, really cool about the Staple thing, Jak; a friend's going; I'll tell him to stop by your booth).

of the things to say, oh


of the things to say, oh
one
old woman began to beat
her son
with a frying pan
and

until he began to bleed
he
imagined himself upon
the gateway of heaven

and to enter there would
not be
treason.

I don’t care;
if your hair
is
curled and in those loops
go leery the bugs
of
an unseemly apart,
I don’t
care.

do you hear me?

do you?

It's ok to delete this

I'm on a mobile so I couldn't contact you any other way but

The gcpm has a booth at staple

You guys can go there and give out free bohococos if you want

It's today, Saturday from 11am to sevenpm at the monarch convention center

It's five bucks at the door

Please, just free stuff it would be too hard otherwise

Deuce

Jak

grab bag

Hey guys, I've been writing a lot of things in series lately, so I thought I'd share several different ones with you. If any strike you, just comment and I'll post the whole series! Whoah! Which will it be?!


the broken jaw gang: elliot


don’t call me eli,
I didn’t like it then,
course
I don’t like it now.

just call me li, that’s good enough, I guess.
and if you really
got
to call me, well,
just ring a bell. I float light, kid,
just
like a whisper.

you know, I’m the kid. I got
dynamite
in
the philly lilly dill
dill.

oh, you know, just once I’m gonna’
be
the carousing god,
romping a romp through the garden and diggy
dig.

did you hear about loud susan?
she ate some shark –
then –
shift, bang, boom!
she was dead.

I ain’t gonna’ be dead. no. not me.
I eternal and
xanadu and partridge and
all
and all.

well, home be love, I guess if you got to
call me one thing,
just make it Elliot. I got love
coming,

know what I mean.
I got all the lovey
love

in the spider wick whittle once
world.

give me something, oh, you know, I guess,
just

go drop the lolling leaf from the edge of the world.
call me
after.

the broken jaw gang?
yeah.

I guess.



unhappy generation: rolo


first off,

thank you mom and dad,
thanks

for the calendar days,
thanks for ice cream,
thanks

for old trucks in rusty parking lots.

do you remember?

rolo was only two when he split his lip
on the staircase
while

holding a glass of milk on his head. do you
remember?

second,

thanks a lot to the men
in the big
buildings

eating construction cranes and industrial waste:

you who do not fly in the small spaces of
the loft where the keyboard rests
on a bike seat,
you who do not watch silent films in
Paris in New York,
you who
rarely leave the city and think of the path of
pebbles
dabbing the creek bed.

the unhappy generation is a thankless
creature roiling in the
modern sun,
eating its children,
wearing fashion
on its numb fingers, and applying
makeup to fire
hydrants and
old queens.

I eat your bread,
I sleep
in your car.



of the things to say


of the things to say
there
remains only this:

give me your
flesh and place it in
a brown bag
and
draw a face
in black marker
and
ring my doorbell.

I am a noble savage
digging
in the wasteland.
isn’t it fine?

isn’t it just?




and we'll throw an untitled in there too:
untitled 4966


one year ago:

today I see Heracles jumping
the river bend,
waving to me, whispering that he’s
not coming
back.

today I see the black dragon in
the sky,
blowing past me, cavernous
and dutiful,
hungry, passive and impartial.

and today I see the old woman
selling madrigals by
the old hardware store,
collecting dust from glass to coat,
asking eagerly of the passersby
the time.

I am, as in all things,
a fool,
a lover, a gambler,

and, despite my bravery, I am now, today,
able to assail a fence, climb
the pole, muster a leap,
and land very near to nothing
in the adjacent graveyard.

there is another girl composed of fine
black marble,
and if in carving her I forget
too much,
then I am forgotten.

it rains
and then it rains
again, and the day, like the locust,
is gone, hastened and lusted
after, yet a mirage a mirage.
I see finally,
too,
the adventurous couple venture a walk
past a neighborhood playground
and a snarling grunt towards
those who play
and swing.

begone, I say, begone.

somebody loves you out there

Hey guys, I've got a few more of these little sweet pieces for you, so, hope you didn't forget:

postcards from a dead ex lover 5


Oh my god, Cindy, tonight I found this wonderful little dancehall and spent the whole evening just shaking it. I know, I know, it sounds silly, but really, it was the most fun I’ve had in ages. This town I’m in now, it’s got a real pulse. Such a tremendous lifeline, a force, and it’s just overwhelming me. I know I’ve said this before, but I wish you were here with me. We could dance all night together, like we used to, way back when. I think I’ll return tonight, even, and try to dance up a storm just for you. I swear, I must have drank an entire river of booze; but I’m still kicking strong. Oh Cindy, whatever happened to us? Sorry. I’m just loose right now. Well, I gotta’ go. Gotta’ get some sleep. Hope you’re doing well.

Love,
Cael

2001 2 3

Hey, here's more from my not oft posted opus to Kubrick's amazing lightshow in "2001: A Space Odyssey."



2001 part 2 3


yellow whiskers
of

abandon across
your flesh
make
marks

in time

in time

when all the world is
now old
and the water of our
eyes
has
turned red

the blue devil of flame and eternity
will
nest upon
our

homes and crow and lament

this universe was
once

tons of satellites lifting
themselves into low
orbit crying for love
and
old shifted space stations twirling
the sake of rainbows
and
nuclear blasted furnaces
eating and devouring
and
children banging their
sweet faces across a vacuum tube
begging begging to
be touched
by the one true
sonic god of dust and stars
and neutrons and
infinity
and
sad men with arms tripping
over white cords
and
the rest of the tune of mankind
gently resting
beneath monolithic stabs
of scrapers erecting
themselves on
towards Olympus

the atomic bombs 6.mp4

Hey guys, click on the post title to link up with the latest in lost legends of stereo!


text:
the atomic bombs 6


the fiction of their
original
drummer’s
death at the hands of
an angry crowd of
musicians

was made up by
their

true drummer

derrick unley;

he grew up in Michigan as well
and
worked as a mechanic
in Detroit
where
he met darren;

the two began writing songs
and sleeping
with the
same

girl and late one evening
they
got into a fight and fell
two
stories into a bunch of bushes;

derrick could not read or write
so
he composed with
scribbles and pictures;

he would later be killed by a speeding car
somewhere
in Germany

time doesn't exist

Hey hey
delay delay

we who sit in coffee shops speaking in
circles
oh
there's a girl over there
and I've stared at her strawberry bangs
lolling in front of her forehead.

what's
oh
what's it in the center of a fugue
laughing ca
ca in the gristle thist?



now now
we
settle down, an ivory day,
cool clouds and sex,
be be
be

the thief in the canopy
hoping to harm
an heiress.


give it up,
left love liar,

the undoling pistol fist of heaven
is
erect upon your thin
chest