Friday, October 31, 2014

el día de los muertos

Composed by William Correa (Bobo), Melvin Lastie. 
Recorded at Van Gelder Studio, Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey.
Produced by Creed Taylor.

WILLIE BOBO: FRIED NECK BONES AND SOME HOME FRIES from "Uno-Dos-Tres" Verve (V6-8648) (US) 1965

Tuesday, October 28, 2014

a nod is as good as a wank to a blind horse

Fig. 1 (deleted)




Pablo flicks his tongue like a checking pencil. Convinces himself the tooth is more or less intact.

The girl in the yellow sou'wester regards him suspiciously. Pivots on a pirouette almost as the pail arcs low, kissing plastic. Conjoined skeletons and noodles raining down, loitering in shaman's margins.

I should give a shit.

Seen Paterson lately ?
Not three days since.
Rosetta sniffs. Fishes in her anorak for pen and scribble pad. At half past nine between the roaches.

Bless me father, for I have sinned. 
Three days and thirteen prawns since I last dropped a dime.

I am no good at the readings. The surmising. The bleeding on the unicycle.

Faltering trajectories.

My fingers are rosy only from moving saucepans around. Dishes.

I live only for the wine. Those little courageous smiles. Fluttering above soapsuds while cutlery drowns.

Rosetta is a motherfucker. A window propped ajar. One thing or another. Nothing.

I listen to the plumbing roar. Idle. Watch the woman across the street crawl out her window to administer to birds.

No one squeals around here. We are tight lipped. Focused. Inured to distress.

They can all go fuck themselves. Gargle the blood of Christ.

It is October. Crisp. Folded on itself as linen with eyes carved out. Concise.

Sunday, October 26, 2014

Monday, October 20, 2014

c.c. rider

Composed by Serge. 

Arranged and orchestrated by Jean-Claude Vannier. 
Produced by Alain Hortu.

JANE BIRKIN: KAWASAKI from "Di Doo Dah" Fontana (6325 305) (France) 1973

Saturday, October 18, 2014

gimlet garden



THE BRIAN JONESTOWN MASSACRE: KID'S GARDEN from "Spacegirl And Other Favorites" Candy Floss (CF009) (US) 1993

Wednesday, October 15, 2014

orange skies



Dr. E'weerd Yijji, allegedly, is a teacher of Asian Studies in South Carolina. Prior to this he lived in Bangladesh. Aside from studio collaborations with Mission of Burma and Volcano Suns, the good doctor has also forayed into occasional live performance with Sun City Girls.

This solo release, a vinyl issue on the One Tree imprint in 2007, was originally visited on the discerning listening public - a severely limited CDR run of 32 - through Feed and Seed Records one year previously.


ED YAZIJIAN: ORANGE SKY, BLACK CLOUDS from "Six Ways To Avoid the Evil Eye" One Tree (6WTATEE) (US) 2005/7
ED YAZIJIAN: ORANGE SKY (SLIGHT RETURN) from "Six Ways To Avoid the Evil Eye" One Tree (6WTATEE) (US) 2005/7


Tuesday, October 14, 2014

infected mushroom

He possessed a hacking cough. The kind of cough which cuts one off at the middle. Empties one's chest through the mouth and nose in gales which starve one's brain of oxygen until the head lights up like an open refrigerator.

Strings of phlegm hanging in ropes like green nets off the side of a boat.

A barking cough, on the other hand, while by no means less startling to those in the pink, lends something of an imposing character to the invalid. A suggestion of stately decrepitude which elevates the offender above the pitiful. A booming sovereignty to cow disapproving stares, or worse, wanton sneers of disgust.

This, sadly, was not the case.

His particular condition, then, reduced him to the level of the untouchable. The sneaking pariah stopped in its tracks by bout after bout of cacophonous disability. A ringing of ears. A wringing of hands.

Mouths falling open. Aghast. Enraged.

Hither and thither he slunk, mortified, waiting to be casually beaten to death. Or arrested, at the very least. And beaten to a pulp he no doubt would have been, were it not for the very real potential for contagion. Infection leaping from host to host as a leprous spore.

And at his toilet he simply cowered, smote with the stench of latrines. Pricked like a balloon on the precipice.

Deflated. Burst. Anointed.


DR. STANISLAV GROF: WHY IS EVIL IN THE WORLD ? from "Instant Insanity Drugs Collective: The Trip Receptacles" KPFA | Berkley (US)
TERENCE MCKENNA'S RETRO TIME VIRUS • SASHA ON KETAMINE: YOU'VE GOT ESCHATOLOGICAL FEVER from "Instant Insanity Drugs Collective: The Trip Receptacles" KPFA | Berkley (US)

Sunday, October 5, 2014

a good kid

Before he met with his aneurism, I came across him at the foot of our stairwell. Seventeen years old and me already feeling the strains of something more rusty than middle age.

My forearms ached from setting down the garbage sacks. The skin of my knuckles lit red from the concrete. The steel of the bins.

Fit as a pit bull under his hooded vest, he greeted me politely enough. Weaved away to sit in the rain. I sensed he had been crying, had gathered himself momentarily, and I could think of nothing comforting to say.

Cold rivets rolled down his bare chest to puddle in his navel. The balls of both fists pressed tight to his skull.
All right, I said.
Halfway to a question.

I paused for a second before starting back up the stair. Unsettled. Awkward. Him only a year or two older than my own son. Intimidated by the sight of him sobbing like a welterweight condemned to take a fall; aggrieved by my inability to engage him.

There was plentiful cause for demons. He had had a rougher childhood than most, I knew. But I was unaware then of the physical pressures inside his head. The scrabbling and clawing which would leave him for dead less than two weeks later.

Passed out in his sleep, a blunt between his teeth maybe.

Even now, I wish I might have said something beyond the banal.

The kid was okay.

Wednesday, October 1, 2014

norfolk court

The air in the narrows
makes tidy museum pieces
of rotten fruit, spilled fluids.
Oldenberg. Jackson Pollock.
Shriveler's Block.

The smell is not pronounced
but stutters, pops
like yellow buttons on
Mickey Mouse's pants

Close to the floor
emptied
flat as a foundling floor show
unable to flee

Even the paint on the wall
reminds one of spoiled flesh
traumatised, distressed
Halitosis. Piss.

J.K. Rawling on a bad day
beset by dowts
crowsfeet on linoleum

All the wizards are dead
There is no turning the corner.