|Wednesday, February 13th, 2008|
7:23 am - Kerouac - whispers from the road - pt.6
Blue skies from here to eternity. Cold snow fields like white blankets across the horizon. The wind howling a soft serenade. Here I sit inside this black truck with a thermos of oolong tea and a silver plated revolver, heavy on my palm. I sip from one and caress the hardness of the other. The familiar suit feels so good across my bones. What do they say - you can take the boy out of the hood, but you can never take the hood out of the boy. Like a fish to water, like a whore to a cock, like the crack of a whip across an ass. Somethings are just meant to be.
I step outside and feel my nipples hardened. You ever get the feeling of a thousands eyes upon you with no one in sight? I wonder who stares at me with more greed - heavens angels or hells minions. It's an easy coin toss. I hear the unmistakable roar of a 350 engine in the snowflake slaughter distance. Time to play brass knuckle twister.
(Light My Fire)
|Tuesday, January 15th, 2008|
3:04 am - The Ghost in the Machine
What has become of you, where have your words gone? She asked. I've been doing my downpour in red ink not in world wide net. It's long and complicated, this absence. Easiest way to explain it is to quote Wattie Buchan:
Don't let the bastards
Get to you
The future is chaos
And chaos is you
Life oh so delicious and vulgar. This past year, my fist have been doing all the talking and my lips all the fucking - a signal of angry dismissal. Sometimes the hardest thing to do is say yes. Yes to the need to set myself free. Yes to the urge to rectify the lies that were swallowed like gospel. Yes to the pain that runs naked through the halls of torment inside my head. Yes to the fair cunts that drip for a fucktoy with horns. Yes to painting it black and back to white again.
I'm by no means near absolution. So I pop open another can of dement and swing with a cracked smile across my face, knowing full well that my time is coming. I repeat what my old man used to say before leaving again: I fear no man, but every man fears me.
Enjoy the break of silence.
Wishing Well Apostasy
(3 Sparks | Light My Fire)
|Tuesday, June 6th, 2006|
1:27 am - Deliverance
(1 Spark | Light My Fire)
|Friday, April 28th, 2006|
3:38 am - Hasta nunca angeles muertos
Amidst all the madness that is this mortal coil of mine I sometimes get to smile the idiot smile of a damn lucky fool. I've been surrounded by the one thing I love above all else, the beauty of the dame.
A demented parade of beauties have marched through my lens this week. They've bathed in blood, others have choked on rotting meat, some have gagged on rubber, while others have crawled on top of the dead, a few have fallen with grace, some have even gone up in flames... all the while, the look of satisfaction on their goddess faces. I've spent time with one of my most cherished partners in crime, La Loca. Along with her vato, we all laughed at morgue stories as fire slithered down our throats. Went shopping with my aussie sheila neighbor, cute horror look on her face as I handed her a pair of 6 inch stilettoes. I accidently bumped into a few relics I hadn't seen in years. Tales were told of the idiot pitfalls of some of the boys from the old crew. It's grand to know I'm not the only fuckup. I pounded a ghost into submission twice, a bit of the old ultraviolence always wets my loins. Got rid of some unnecessary shoulder weights, it's a blessed thing when you see the true nature of a beast. And the best part of it all is that every night, I've come back to Pretty and Tommy. We've had too many laughs, too much thai and way way too many nutter butters. It's been brought to my attention that I'm a bit of a wacko for being OCD with asian cusine even when I'm out eating Italian. How do I reward this kind ribbing and hospitality? With a black cat inside a coffin. Who's your daddy now?
I didn't think I would miss this place, it's nice to know you can be wrong sometimes.
Now it's time to get back to the old.
"I won't give up - it wants me dead! goddamn this noise inside my head."
(Light My Fire)
|Sunday, April 16th, 2006|
3:01 am - La Cuidad De Los Angeles Muertos
That's the weirdest looking palm tree I've ever seen. Pretty laughs at my rubeness and tells me it's a cell tower painted up fake to appease the locals who were complaining about what an eye sore they were. Trying to cover them up, makes them look shittier - like a dog face dame with too much makeup and not a clue. I breathe the surprisingly fresh air as we drive past the congested highway and the giant donut. I start to wonder why I ever called this place home.
I'm back to my torture, my sin, my city of dead angels. Pretty leaves for work while Tommy and I hang out. He's grown fond of me, like they all do, so much so that he rubs his furry ass on me as often as he can. I don't mind. My sinuses on the other hand do. But it's not so bad, besides Tommy's just lonely. I can relate brother, so rub yourself wicked. While he stares out the window and salivates at the pigeons (i.e. rats with wings), I prep for my first round.
She tells me she hasn't slept in 2 days and was out doing lines till 6 this morning - oh boy. I cut Cokemon a HUGE amount of slack because of the magick we conjured the last time we shot but I already know we won't be having a repeat performance. She makes me laugh though, especially later when we're having dinner while a gay pride festival is raging right outside our restaurant window. Tons of meaty boys in assless leather chaps - Tom of Finland surely sporting wood deep in his grave. Cokemon spies her hairdresser among the crowds of meat lovers. I drink my Thai ice tea and grin at how animated she is. On the stage outside, a pair of dame trapeze artists are spinning on ropes, wearing tiny dental floss undies and feathered hats. Sexy asses in the disco sky - you spin me round.
As I listen to the soft snores of Pretty next to me and the even softer purr of Tommy as he sleeps comfy on top of her head, I realize that being back doesn't feel like it. I get up and go to the window ledge and stare out onto the hollywood night. This place isn't home anymore. The fire I felt in my gut when I first landed here has completely been snuffed out. It's a good feeling, one that I hold on too as the dawn breaks and my eyelids scream to sleep.
'what have I become my sweetest friend - everyone I know goes away in the end'
(4 Sparks | Light My Fire)
|Thursday, April 13th, 2006|
12:00 am - Kerouac - whispers from the road - pt.5
I was laughing like a krunk clown on speed with a serious case of the giggles this morning - soon enough I started cackling! The culprits: LDS and their tiny little minds.
I'm driving around Salt Lake City in a big ass truck with 'Little Frankenstein' strapped to the back, trying to find my way to Saltair. I'm unaware of the stares till I hear a car screeching. This dame in a minivan (with her man and 5 kids - your standard mormon family) almost plows into a gas truck because she's rubbernecking my way. Soon enough I notice a few others doing the same. Then it hits me: "We're not in Gomorrah anymore, Toto". I'm in awe at how easy it is to shock these fundamentalists. I'm at a stoplight and all around me people are staring with their mouths wide open, the look of complete bewilderment on their pasty faces, even a copper gets in on the judgement action. He pulls beside me, shaking his head trying to stare me down, that's when I start to feel this insane urge in my gut to cry up a laughing storm. It takes over and I lose it. Copper gets behind me and starts following. I see his little pink face through the rear view mirror as he's on his radio being all dramatic - hands flaying, banging the steering wheel, spit flowing as he yells at some invisible nightmare. He's really working up a hissy fit back there. That makes me laugh even harder. I'm cackling at this point, tears running down my face, spraying my specs, my ribs stabbing at my sides. As I'm thinking about pulling over, the copper overtakes me on the left and speeds off. I bet he was pleading to get the ok to take me out to some cornfield and put a few rounds in the back of my rat bastard head, all in the name of Jesus of course. I control myself enough to pull into a church parking lot (how perfect). I get out and yuck it up as loud and hard as I can. There's these two little dollies riding their pink bikes on the lot, they start laughing too. They ride up and ask me what's so funny mister. I tell them 'life is sweethearts - don't ever forget it', they look at me like I've got cooties on my forehead. Aside from the artwork I'll end up making due to this trip, this laugh riot will be the only other reason why I was glad I came out to god's country. It reassured me that I'm still on the right path.
And now, without further adue. Ladies and Gents - let me introduce you to the star of the Utah Follies: Little Franky 'The Hellspawn' Wheelchair (sexy drooling gimp not included):
(2 Sparks | Light My Fire)
|Monday, March 13th, 2006|
1:45 pm - Sitting target...
Sitting waiting... anticipating nothing.
Here I am again, exhausted, nauseous and a bit lost. Looking out through a cracked windshield and the gore splatter of a hundred kamikaze bugs, wondering what's out there beyond those fields. Waiting. The Clash is on the radio with their punk rock lullaby. They're playing my song:
Somebody got murdered
His name cannot be found
A small stain on the pavement
They'll scrub it off the ground
Drove through a sandstorm earlier, for a few miles I was trapped inside a grainy violent world. Sandpaper kisses all over my truck. Howling torment in my ears as I wondered how easy it would be to glide across the divide onto the opposite road. Would my face look good covered in glass? Probably not. It'll look a lot better covered in red lipstick and the bittersweet cult love of idolatry.
I'm stuck in the middle again for reasons that are finally making sense. Still, I curse the day my old man died. It's getting better though. I swallow that obvious lie because without it I can't focus on what's waiting for me on the other side of the blood red rainbow.
There they are. Dragging a cloud of dust behind them as they bump and jerk through these backward roads. I open the glove compartment and smoothly finger my loaded angel. Are we going to tango today - she whispers. I'm reminded of a William Wallace quote: 'They fought like warrior poets, they fought like Scotsmen, and won their freedom'.
I'm not a poet, nor scottish, but I sure as hell want that freedom and it's about time I won.
(3 Sparks | Light My Fire)