Violent Waves

A diver falls deep into the pressure of thought and sense and breath, and he waits. He waits until a point that will almost sever his spine, a point where he is bowed by gravity and falls to its pull for fear of caving and snapping suddenly towards death at the bottom of a silent ocean. The pressure of depth overcomes his courage suddenly and he is without blood. He feathers down to the bottom becoming tiny pieces, fragments of photographs, vector lines.  In my dreamthought he can fly and breathe in the waters that consume his heart. but his breath is slow and labored. He breathes in the salt and minerals, the animal fragments, and seashell shards that pierce his lips. Moves change into waves and lead us up on the way down. Of clouds, we are helpless, slapped by the presence of composite goddesses. Is it your desire now to conjure yourself transformed from earth to a crescent waved water god? 

CAMPARI CON SODA

First and foremost I would like to thank the ever adventurous Clifton Hyde, whose interest in the finer libations of the world has brought me to my new standby drink: CAMPARI & Soda. Made with quinine, rhubarb, ginseng, orange peels and aromatic herbs, I am happy to say this bittersweet aperitif

is favored by Italian men awaiting death and now by yours truly. I recently went as far as purchasing three rounds for three friends at a show, quickly converting everyone to the drink.

The slow burn of the herbs and aromatics makes it less likely I will get too drunk too quickly, that said I may indulge in lots more of it because it is so damn interesting in flavor. I savor the moment it hits my palate and indulge in the image of old world Italy, where old men stumble home on their bicycles on cobble stone streets.

I recently found this simple recipe and will have to try it to as an enhancer to the original soda mixture.

We're all going to die, so indulge always.

Bicicletta

Ice cubes
2 ounces Campari
1-1/2 ounces white wine
1/2 ounce club soda
Lemon slices (optional)

Fill wine glasses with ice.
Add Campari, wine, and soda.
Stir to mix.
Garnish with lemon slices, if desired.

Future Sounds of Love and Magic

Two summers ago I began a journey into the world of complete feminine independence. I met a beautifully strong and equally ravaged woman named Teresa Colomonaco. We walked an entire summer holding each other's spirits by the hand, blessing each other's foreheads and playing music for the gods. I cherished that time very much because I was given the opportunity to become a nurturer to my fellow woman and in turn grow stronger in my own feminine magic. The stage was set and when she departed so abruptly, I cried knowing that for the first time in a very long time I had found a sincerely brave soul. One who not only shared my crazy lust for life, love and art, but who could equally wilt like a delicate orchid. Today, I want to share her music as I sometimes do when I feel the nostalgia of the old world pull me in. Teta's sounds are a cry in response to a cruel and devastating world. A past of exploitation in many forms - tribal - family - magic. She is luminiescent and flows over you like a dusted mist. Breathe her in and exhale your wishes because they may just come true.

As for myself, I will one day share all the strength and power I have acquired that began with our chance meeting with Teta in person on her home turf, where she is cherished and nurtured by the land and music.

Teta Mona

"As is Painting, so is Poetry" - Horace

Dreams ooze from their pores and into their phallic strokes. I can't shake them, I try and continue to hide but hit head on into them, swallowing those sharp daggers one by one. Slaying myself continuously. But I would  just as easy be the sponge they're looking for. A soft gooey fluffiness that lives inside their loins.

You're the one who paints the world's figure flat and you're the one who writes desperate illusions in your sleep. I am a sacrifice to devour. A loving meal upon your feet. Your features are rugged; creatures who don't give a fuck but feel so much they ache with all sorts of desires. Babies, young and stupid babies.

In my mutterings: " a minor allowance from these is a form of sorrowful affection."

It is a bitter  aftermath collision that stutters for days. All I can do is eat and drink to plug a void they leave behind in their slimy get away car. It is a phantom void, one that I see walking next to me and not living inside of me. Skin slapping on naked skin type of affection. Supple lips, the inner thigh, a warm beating heart, the sweet of the neck. Who was Jesus Christ without Love?


I am hungry. I ate and ate this weekend purely out of anxiety and boredom. When I return to New York I will do the opposite and feel light again. The Burden of walking down crowded streets. I think I want to sink into a bowl of cereal. Someone once loved cereal. I don't remember who. But I care enough to write that I don't care at all about a stranger who I know for a fact is a breakfast cereal whore.

What is your favorite cereal lover? I myself prefer to fast. Anorexia on me, vomit all over your face. Such a pretty picture of boredom.

Things I've seen, heard and done in the last couple of weeks

SEWN LEATHER @the now defunct Champs Cafe 

For those folks who forgot that shows/concerts were meant to be the smashing ground for our collective soul.  Yes I like dancing and Sewn Leather absolutely conjures the energies of a spinning dervish smashed with the aesthetic of an  apocalyptic trash punk. The energy is 100% sensitive to the misery and grime of our time. Please go see him live and let him drag you down, slap you up and win you over with his magic.

  

More SL

Sewn Leather dancing to DJ Ratbeef 

 

SHAMS @Silent Barn 

One of my favorite performers, Shams fuses mysterious apathy with genuine shake your ass tracks. If you want to dance he takes care of you, if you want to trance, he does that to. Sometimes he sings like a banshee, but maybe on that rare occasion he might just get baptized on stage with a saxophone in hand. Not to mention, some of the best locks I've seen on a man in a while.

 

 more Shams

My deconstruction of Shams at Silent Barn

 

Below are a couple of my projects, check them, talk about them, and let me know what you think.

 Alt Country Singer Laura Minor & The Talented Jail Birds

My arsenal for Laura Minor. My official title is texturizer. I'd like to think of all my trinkets as different gradients of emotion that I use to fill certain songs. A melodica for a French revival tune, the viola for the swamps.

Helped style the girls of Supercute for their latest video shoot.

teehee

Rehearsing with Juggernut - I rip up roses over the setlist to set the mood. I also perform as a human sperm,  while trying not to become the performance art whore. Safety first as they say in AA. 

FIN

: MASCA : GHOST : TRAIF : UNCLEAN

Those things we are not supposed to eat. The unclean meat, the sacrilegious skeletons of a poor jumbo shrimp. I love the untouchable. The dirty, the vulgar, the foul. Like my friend Sam says, "if you can't stand my musk then I guess we are not compatible {animals}." Very simple, very clear. Complexity, I need to drop that word for a while. It gets me into more trouble than is worth handling in my tiny body. How about a slip and slide. A good meal. Interesting conversation. Lace leggings and no bra.

Too much television did not hypnotise us, convert us into zombies, flatten our eyeballs. It opened our brains and taught us to process many tiny things at once to create the illusion of one singular big idea. Pixels vs picture. strands versus coif. Little lines on a map, none too important as to make them the ultimate WAY. But all flowing into some way.

A wig fits nicely on top of a clown's head. Bare feet may get you a broken toe. Not flossing is not essential to the cause. Having too much fun is always acceptable. Not calling your mom is typical and not very nice. Years and years and years will go by and you will still be friends. All of you, trust me.

If you can't make it to the BBQ you should dance at the poetry club and make new friends. One big orgy we are all afraid to attend. Don't yell at me, don't touch me, don't look at me.

Then why all the makeup? Why all the adornments, why all the smiles and laughing noise. Mix medicine signals and you will end up with a soggy sandwich. One person always left unsatisfied, unfulfilled, ignored. On the other end is the suffering darkeness. A fevered siren waiting to devour your insecurity. Blah, Blah, Blah. Girls can be so damn Katty. Blech!

Aah, I'm not interested in fighting anything except this impending fever I smell in the back of my throat. Too much alcohol, too much too much and still never enough.

On my way home I will buy a book that will unlock a song that is stuck in my head on repeat. May also buy some more masks. Maybe not tonight, the cold is looming inside and I must hurry home and fight it with a warm blanket, my uke and some campari and soda. The drink old Italian men have while they are waiting to die.

Repeat after me: (these are probably the lyrics to three different songs) ugh. words.

I am fighting for YOUR lifeless words, more moves, less give a fuck.

who will heal the healers

from the shards?

broken knees

broken backs

slip-on vomit thong

thorny thorny

horny teens

slide, slide, slide

bump splash slide

slide, slide, slide

bump, splash slide

who will heal the healers

from the morning light?

Who will heal the healers?

Pray for your mother



Today





The Bat The Rat & The Spider



As she has always had you in her prayers. Even though her superstitions perturb you, there are moments throughout your day where everything inside you rattles. It jolts and shivers. Could this be her prayer shooting life into me, waking me up out of death into a living dream? She loves to hear your voice. Although sometimes the burden of listening weighs heavy on you it is nice to hear her talk incessantly about a puppy she met on the street or how annoyed she is with her mother who calls her everyday. This makes you smile. To see yourself in the past as a grown woman and imagine that future of an old soul you are becoming. When old souls return to a present they are playful, vulgar, disrespectful, misunderstood and possibly a little dusty.

A rat turned bat a combination of terrestrial and celestial. Ocean Skies. Cloud Islands.

By the way where did the spider go?