LAMENT

A toast to you, my brother.

DYLAN

DONNELLY

1989-2009

You will be in my thoughts till the end of time!

You were my twin-soul,

one of the last of a dying breed of free-thinkers and for your loss I grieve.

I will never forget the great times that we shared!

VIVE, VIVA DYL!!!

Sausage Egg & Cheese Makizushi

Despite what you may think, it was fucking delicious!

And quite easy to make provided of course you have the necessary tools

(bamboo makisu mat, sushi rice, nori etc.)

We used Jimmy Dean pork link sausages, fried up a small tamagoyaki, and then topped the hot omelet with cheap white American singles

(the tasty cheese-like product we've come to enjoy in those artery-clogging breakfast sandwiches we love oh so)

The roll was particularly tasty slathered generously in unagi sauce!
A staple in the house of goats...

Perhaps next time we'll try for a stromboli nigirizushi or mole mole oshizushi or some other strange and unusual combination.

I'm convinced just about anything wrapped in seaweed and sticky rice

would be awesome.

Until then...

Thirteenth Step

Tonight you will all be part of a social experiment...

I present to you with blistering enthusiasm

neoteric versification extracted just moments ago
from the illusive Biblioclast manuscript.


Take once daily with food.

Dispense with enclosed patient information leaflet.

See side effects information before you begin treatment.

Keep said contents out of the reach of children.

You may begin, when ready.

ANDROMEDA LAPDANCED (Molly)

From behind the divide, she threw over the edge of the mulberry shoji screen each article of clothing in chronological order of acquirement.
Pant suit, then fire engine pumps, peek-a-boo basque, the epidermis, strands of musculature, cold bones and old organs---her circulatory system matched the curtains and added a certain ambiance that would put Martha Stewart to shame.

-Alostrael “The Womb of God”



[MECONIUM]
Molly, dei of moony atom empathogen bathes…
The reverent, irrelevant world renowned ingenerate-invertebrate high-test unleaded medulla of daft flutter and fanciful surge.

[EMPUSE]
In the honey-crisp striptease of razzmatazz calamus billows over Eros and Psyche and their bulletproof brainpans spill praline marrows and
Masonic shake unbridled hands in dissolute New Amsterdam’s.

[ANHALONIUM LEWINII]
Molly, I don’t know if I want to fuck your pink naptime tot asshole or for a split second languish in Assyrian lunar tide and lay them down to sleep with lays of mass destruction as you often do.
And wash over the scalp vested shrill of mimetic somnambulistic ballerinas as they curb the 9th cloud.

[VULGATE]
Molly, you are my hydrogen bombshell.
Of stasis and catharsis, in the Saturn-natural sheep clothes of cosmic nocturnal’s
I embellish short-term memory
As an apostle of placebos in the Simian simulacrum automatic adagio

[PHOBOS]
I will die your ADAM and EMPATHY if you melt the moody pupils of all those who believe in a scythe of earth bled spurts of soot and sod and pigtailed tresses of asbestos.
Sojourn in the bald- spots of “Alabama’s homunculus weed whisked by a million guillotines” and the hunt of heads will never be my lyric nor my rune as long as she talks a dirty talk through a busted champagne flute to the volute and coil matrix
of my minds eye.

[HECATE]
And this isn’t about Molly,
or all that black shit on her eyes,
her gaunt and jutting trilobite bone structure
or omega Casanovas coughing supernova with sex.
And this isn’t in, or noise-core, sharp pop, fine art, mod, current or an inflated ciao or namaste away from new-school heroin chic.
This is not about Florestan & Eusebius or half & half triads of deviant peptides or delicious head.


[CASSIOPEIA]
And I am not a reverend of radiology’s ion sprung and andromeda lapdanced.
I’m ultraviolet fusty violent fast-acting post-modern no-nonsense shoot-to-kill
low-calorie cerebral martini prowling, tailing, snooping, stalking, trailing, chasing, tracking and haunting that very special someone,
the one that doesn’t press charges.









Footnotes:

Molly- a term for pure crystal MDMA; often in capsule form.
Florestan & Eusebius- Robert Shchuman's imaginary friends
Adam & Empathy- Names given to the first batches of MDMA produced by Merck Pharmaceuticals

Your Temporal Lobe is Shaped Just like Rosalyn Carter

A belated entry, originally written hastily with a green chisel sharpie in notebook #213 through the yellow windows of the evening train...




Took the metro north to the big uneasy last evening with Nee to catch the Mars Volta.
They were to play when the hand graced eight in the stretcher-bonded alcazar that is the
Roseland Ballroom.

Here are just a few of the many strange and exciting
things that transpired that fine day:

* We eat quac carnitas the size of cow fetuses and drank pitchers of dark french coffee and mystical wheat-grass juice bar potions until we trundled from subway platform to platform like porcine tourists in a hurry to catch breakfast at the local drive-through.

* I was mistaken for a hesidic jew in times square by a rabbi holding an overripe avocado.

* We were dragged into the M&M store
by about twenty five Japanese excursionists in vintage clothes
where I could not help but ask myself the pertinent question

"Does the world really need a variety of 145 colors for single unflavored chocolate button?"

I wonder what the cerulean or sanguine maroon buggers taste like,
oh that's right, they're all the fucking same.
You can have yourself the milk chocolate ones , or milk chocolate ones , or milk chocolate ones,
or milk chocolate ones, or milk chocolate ones or milk chocolate ones with peanuts! How novel.

Call me ignorant to M&Mlore but I truly do not understand the point. Forgive me Jesus?

* We visited a mirrored sex shop complete with nudey-booth nickelodeons owned by forelorn Arab men and saw a six foot seven turquoise real-skin jelly dong in a glass shadowbox.

* The first shuttle we took got hijacked by an aqualung in a double-breasted houndstooth suit coat lugging an empty office water-cooler tank and begging for change for his newly assembled 'non for profit charity organization' titled "Christ Food for Children."

* Spent a good seventy minutes looking for my mates Buffalo Dyl and his drummer Mr. Joe and in the process ran into a chap that looked like Angus Scrimm after a discordant klonopin smoothie fueled bare-knuckle boxing match.

The vagabond informed us that "the po-po wasa tryin to kih hiz hawse!"

and insisted that we should

"Do drukqs and drinqz and drop out ov skoolz and be sumbuttyz wit uh leaffz!"

* Gave fifty cents to a puertorican with an overbite pretending to be deaf in a Jamba Juice.

Can't go wrong with New York!

Our concert experience began with two hours of standing in breezy autumnal twilight on partitioned sidewalk fins near a 50 foot billboard depicting scabies magnified and vicious that read in thick negro trebuchet "NEW YORK HAS BED BUGS!"

The tang of raw sewage, Chinese takeout, trash, nurtured car exhaust and cashews candied in dirty molten sucrose maneuvered like a spectre through the sting of metropolitan ozone.

The clocks hand struck eight across its freckled face like a tyrannous tyrannosaurus loan shark
collecting phantom debts with the use of biblical violence.

We shuffle in with bright white lights in our eyes, tickets between our fingers, bags open, tongues out and hands in the air like fresh detainees at the leucotomy farm.

The main floor becomes crowded quickly as hundreds of martians flood the club to see techs playing chords and testing sound equipment.

Women in canary yellow blazers hand out free blueberry flavored condoms drenched in spermicide once you've reached the bar and balcony sections.

A backdrop depicting the "singular cherubim" Proginoskes from Madeleine L'Engle's novel
A Wind in the Door hangs behind the amps and instruments.

We stand shoulder to shoulder, ass and genitals jostling each other like it or not for forty minutes.

Condoms are blown into makeshift volley balls as a powerful emanation of dirty bubblegum and juicy durban poison pushes through the stockades and richocets above the audience.

The house axed the P.A. abruptly in the middle of Pink Floyd's One of These Days and
Ennio Morricone's Fistful of Dollars signaled the arrival of the Omar, Cedric & company.

The fan howls drowned the intro as the band took to the stage and their weapons with enthusiasm.

The club was suddenly overcome by a rush of darkness and we lost our minds as their complex laser-aided backdrop unearthed itself and they began jamming.




Their set was as follows:

1. Inertiatic E.S.P.
The show began with the Son Et Lumiere segue detonating
into a frenetic kaleidoscopic rendition of the first song from their first LP.
It was a real treat to hear this oldy once more especially with the energy the band exuded.

2. Goliath
Next, they played a slower more condensed version of Goliath more akin
to its predecessor Rapid Fire Tollbooth. Omar improvised a tasty guitar solo at the end and the overheads went down once more as distorted licks and ambiance marked the transition.

3. Cotopaxi
A track from their new LP Octahedron was fantastic live.
Visceral sound with a hunt and kill mentality.

4. Roulette Dares (The Haunt Of)
A usual show opener known for its manic celestial energy and Floydish chorus refrain was instead used as an almost coda to Cotopaxi.
Instead of chugging guitars and Zorn-esque noodling they stripped the deloused anthem into a vulnerable soft cell cerebral ballad with echoes and sweet sex vocals.

The crowd seemed confused and still at times making an attempt to digest the new direction.
I'm ecstatic to see they are still experimenting and not compromising in the least bit their creative animus.

5. Viscera Eyes
The dance floor barreled like a crown of maggots to the Latin tinged riffs and Omar threw up two tight solo's before sound manipulation bore animalistic screeches and electric arc's.

6. Halo of Nembutals
I have mixed feelings about Halo;
Fans and bootleggers can trace its origins to a live version of Omar's solo canticle
Jacob Van Lennepkade which would later progress into a prototype of their epic twenty minute
Intro Jam (used to open several shows including Melbourne and Amsterdam.)

I am absolutely in love with Intro Jam and really wish they would incorporate some of the solos, bass and drum tracks in subsequent versions.

Lately it has appeared live as it did on Octahedron,
as a paired down straight forward 5 minute zeppelin-ish ditty.

They continue to play it safe, short and close to the studio...but I'm optimistic for the future.

I will say though it was really suprising to see Omar sing backup (ex. "Communion Shaped!")
for possibly the first time since their days in At the Drive In.

7. Eunuch Provocateur
One of the highlights of the evening for me!

Eunuch appeared on their first EP Tremulant and they haven't played it in years so it was really incredable. Pridgen's drumming was impressive and eclectic while Cedric dazzled us with extensive blocks of improvised lyrics.

8. Ilyena
"When the chants have cycled! How can I go wrong? There will be no Eve for Adam if your apples have gone gone gone. I need a brand new skin! Incarnated debt!"

Cedric sung beautifully in acapella.

This was my second time hearing Ilyena live and I most say they've perfected it with a interstellar outro and scattish vox and delivery.

9. Teflon
Pridgen set the pace with a battery of gunfire and the "Story Teeth Rotted For" sample slithered from the amps like a futuristic punk soul thirsty homonculi.
Nee's favorite song from the new album was breathtaking to say the least!

10. Drunkship of Lanterns
An epileptic strobe of rainbow accompanied Omar's riffery and marcel's furious slap of conga drums, Cedric danced up a storm with hand-springs, kicks, and an occasional swing of the microphone.

They jammed a bit in the middle otherwise it was a pretty faithful technically flawless homage to Deloused in the Comatorium.

11. Luciforms
The Volta teased the audience by grossly extending the intro riff until the rabid bellow of fans beckoned Mr. Zavala to begin with a delicate whisper of
"How much do you make in that death factory?"
and the crowd went batshit insane!

Luciforms was no doubt an improvisation playground for the band and was really brought to life in the fashion of Day of the Baphomets or Tetragrammaton.

12. The Widow
The Widow is that one song that even folks that don't like the Mars Volta like, its their Roundabout, their Lucky Man and impressively it was able to slink onto MTV's late night rotation and contorted airwaves shortly after the release of their second album
Frances the Mute;
a fete very few of their songs have achieved.

I first saw this number live on System of a Down's "Hypnotize/Mesmerize Tour" and was pleased with the accuracy and musicianship exhibited. I was expecting a tight, short rendition but was instead delighted by a five minute bass solo by Juan followed by an almost acoustic variation.

13. Wax Simulacra
This micro-cut marked the end of their set and another show down.
No more Toltec bones or idle teeth...
A bow and stage vacancy ejected bodies through vomitoriums and to the merchandise table.

or Raven's Excrement...

Here's a new poem which will appear

in an upcoming publication I'm working on called The Biblioclast.

The Biblioclast will feature six compositions divided each into a series of 'blocks.'
Readers are encouraged to rearrange these 'blocks' thus creating new and derivitive works.

HUITLACOCHE

~For Petulance Elm~

[TARTARUS]
From the black ice of Asmodeus I black out in the bootleg collapse of the black-hole cleft in your wives panic-room pudendum;
and my suits and holes are matt black on the back of a missing milk carton.


[EREBUS]
On the backstabbed back-brace of your ten-spined black-hand diamondback psyche
lurks the backlash and backbite of a
glass-eyed megaton of Metatron’s meta-melatonin myrmidons
meandering through the blue mutation pustules of Paul’s prudish cornstalk elytron elegies
that flap but fly nowhere.


[THANATOS]

Sneaking past the widow's peak of carburetors!
His rocker forewarned in summons of mexican chocolate pocks,
I'll pang nonstop for the kiss of your clot
and it blundered “I am the calx of Thanatos!"

[THE SQUARE ROOT OF GO FUCK YOURSELF]
"For you are the bereft or marvelous machines of my magnificent era."
Gimme homesick,
Gimme vervain,
Gimme salt peter,
and quixotic glass-jaws of canopic chests.


[IXION]
Gimme sapid seraphic bonfire libations
served uncommonly at conflagration sanctification’s or bust.
Love me or hate me I’m still in your living room
with a stonewort and skull candied billyclub/macuahuitl.

[INOCULOCIONES]
We caught her anklebones in a corona of steel wools, and dispensed a methylene blue booster shot of pre-chewed corn smut brewed to subdue and Indra’s net rips the taxidermy mount of our splendiferous pinup beast with two backs in Eucalyptus and madrone.


[VERITAS]
Oh how I love the way you wear that riot helmet…
Or I am the serum of the Ganges! Pink as the snub-nosed lichens,
and I’ll see to it that you kiss and tell and kill for me.
Or I am the gurgle and bouffant of lateral exit wounds in the wax of your mannequins.
Or My vengeance will plastic-coat your locust, cherry and rose in a fustet fraud of juggernauts bound and canoeing in blood-blistered newsprint.

[OR RAVEN'S EXCREMENT]
And the frostbite of my tidings is wed demimondaine in
Steel-toe combat boots and spray-tanned birthday suits that scotch-kiss electrons in echelons of Jane Seymour’s shallow Amen‘s or the sexy throaty sputter---her spit in a kiss for me in the marsh-gas that trounced the black of your mass with microbe muses, horselaughs, germs, and a lick of dioxin polish on the nails of her toes.


[CALL GIRLS & MOURNING]
Regurgitated through human agency but with no real urgency.
She dressed like a collusive gold-digger at a gravedigger’s funeral (and that’s alright.)
And she wrawled erupt Santeria candles between its santanas legs,
stick your hard candy hand of glory in the gloryhole of gloriole quicksands,

[CALL GIRLS IN SWIMMING POOLS]

Cuz I think my tutti-frutti tissue negligee may just bring a trivial tear to your eye.
Cuz somewhere a sensitive transistor sister of blunt and toothless scissors in assless chaps off pumpkin spiced gloss grizzles in a land of embalmed hiccups and extinguished light bulbs and sips a half-flat lukewarm but thoroughly satisfying can of 8 year-old TAB and skips despondently to her cardboard gazebo dateless to enjoy solitude, the piracy of mutes and beasties.

[CALL GIRLS IN BODY BAGS]
Ogre resins hallow playing cards, soft spots and minefields in
14 karats with a single missing chromosome.
What befell in public pools, a cold shower of snake wines in the latte foam and shores of my skull where birds would sometimes nest; All but goodnight ghosts and empties.

[CALL GIRLS IN LOVE]
Will I eat or be eaten by her fender telecaster?
I decree, I’ve read its mind and its strings want to garrote me...
(And I will not stone the flora of her guitar with the blood we sometimes share)

[PIANO LESSONS & YOUR WIFE]
I declare, I shampoo my hair with nettle, milkweed, and Woodstock and rub the bones of old birds deep into my scalp and always end in sleep.
And that is why I do not play spanish steel string guitar like the terminally ill
in a Tarrytown train terminal.