to

December 23rd and 24th

Jeff Bennan, Nicole O'Brian, Casey Bracket, Debrah Morkun, Linda Thea, Victoria Tran, Austin Wylie, Khalil Smith, Hal Bernstein, Jenn Washington, Chelsey Del Castillo,

Baby walrus. For entry hit glass here. Get the mind away from reality a bit. Like Casiotone. I miss happiness and the white folks aren't the ones to provide it. Sida is a great beverage. What if it was the only suicide spot? Such a struggle to find Maine babes on a flight. Post-Thailand I want to pilot either a plane or a ship. To see the sunblasted clouds every day. I love the noisy rumble inside the plane's midflight cabin. It is gray. It is concentration. I'm drinking blueberry beeah. I could totally see them all on meth. The silence. Think about all the places that don't get any light at night. Cepelinai. Lithuanian dumplings. My belly is finally back to obesity. I was going to walk into the woods and blow my brains out just to see what it would be like but Robert bought a gun safe. Remember Ice-9? When's that gonna happen? Over a river and through a wood to grandmother's house I go. Bring in a training manual. Westbrook reminds me of my longing for you. And my bulging choc gut. Trojan horse it. Find me a black babe that's turned on by young fat white guys so I can fuck the checkmark away. Wish I had money for Z-d. Wish I could teach an acrobatics class outside of Munich. I'm glad I like olives now. Post-feast depression. Jamming to Patsy Kline. Fatpick. After tomorrow my diet for the break is going to be whiskey and coffee and lettuce. Just shat a horn of Lucifer. Happy Holidays from America featuring rum and eggnog. The dog opens presents. Hold yer muthafuckin' horses before I explode in joy. Choose my own adventure little pony. Feel like jabba da huh-it with this gut right now. You deserve it for being a sweetheart. Fat and happy in Maine. You should have rejected the gifts. Ironic broadsword. Zero. It's actually clear as glass. And the air is so clean. But it's Maine and pretty much horrible. Yah doo. Get some cheap whiskay 'n' walk roun' to find cars to spit on. Find bars to talk to strangas outside of. Pussy monster? I poke her face off and now she faceless and I just made her face need a face lift. Young moola baby. That's beyond my control now.

from

December

Jeff Brennan, Hillary Galvin, Steven Silverman, Hal Bernstein, Khalil Smith, Eugene Vaynberg, Bess Friedman, Victoria Tran, Linda Thea, Daphne Koek, Austin Wylie

Just realized that everything in my stomach today has ended with ine. Bucks is going out of style. Wish I could lose my whole body and just be a nervous system on a me-sized i.v. Rack. Who needs bones even if they are this lovely? The train is late. The train is late so we clear the benches--like someone's hit a deep fly or a fight's starting. When I murder-suicide Don DeLillo make sure they put our ashes in an urn of our composite busts and shoot us out of a great cannon into deep deep space. Suicide is just obvious symbolism. It's people converting to everyone else's fiction. Just talked to our Koss representative for way too long. Told him about the headphones I bought at Trax. Told him about the retards. We set a price point. Let's get jobs as Santas and every culture's Santa analog. Ho ho ho. See the world. Asian women seem to only write about Asian women identity. That airport employee camper is back. Blaring on her cell phone. She's my official enemy. She's "at work." She's the reason people hate unions. This place is the march of the monsters. Suit doo koo? Just had someone return White Noise because she hated it. The awesome thing is that I sold it to her like two weeks ago. My biggest regret about this job is never finding that fucking phantom. Sidelong in the R1 window the all-biology part of my eye is moon-sical. Cheekbones. And that all-shnozz that enables safe passage everywhere but Gaza. Or race-blind plantation united under substances and nameless movers. Angel in the snow. Love that babe too. Abandoning poetry. Too much like a magic trick. Too many black-hatted rabbits. Besides my lines are just the meaningless stuff I forget to text you. Who put the lam in the sham a lam a ding dong? Gotta fly international to explore customs. Flagworld is recession-proof. It's freezing and we need oil. Ethical. My pants ripped when I popped a boner while reading the word of the day. Got sent home to change. Today is the day of the kooky old ladies. The most extrovertedly depressed person just bought the Road. You're gonna love this, I said. That's like meat day. I love meat. Sunglass Hut has babes in every stage of decline. These soldiers are so young. Let's write a movie about butch lesbians serving in Afghanistan. No red coat? And what's with the fisheye lens? You're fancy. How unethical. You're red as you need to be. I'm at long in the tooth. I can't do music and booze tonight. Feels like an all jack hammer fueled construction crew is digging ditches in my head. Most defeated el group ever. Obscenely sad. Get Josh or Steven and come do fake fighting with me on the dance floor upstairs. Trainage wreck. There is a light and metal bird are both tracks. Can't kill myself at least until it leaks. I guess I should've gotten wasted last night so that I'd have to pass out at your place then would've been able to make snowmen . . . duh me. More powered turds. Typical. Space heater. One of those heated water bags. Long johns. About to fuck my. Just left Trenton. Should be back around midnight. Let's get a drink at Inst. Kind of want to walk around in the cold ash castle. Moving snow is one of the ways the dark ones control us. Dark because it's night not because they are black. Lost baggage. This is a crazy trip oh my God. So yes I am without anything. Quirky ticket seller told me it would be happening. Late to work. Love how my client's family did not shovel. I love the part of hunger with the weak leg back tingle and you say things like healthy sexy vagina to healthy sexy warmly dressed babes. How's that baldness coming? I think the number 4 is my favorite to draw. Confronted my enemy today. Can you buy booze with your food stamps? I can pay you back in real money. Skinny tastes better than any food. Remember it. Today is the day of insane phone greetings. The key to water gun fights is to aim for the eyes. The key to soccer is call-movement. The key to Borders is not caring. The key to the airport is emergency. The key to happiness is rough sex with people you're only loosely invested in and ascetic eating habits. In the spirit of the coming Christ would you like to donate a book to sick kids? How can I offer my assistance this post-solstice evening? I am an evil forest that could kill a man on the day his life seems sweetest to him. Let's follow up our novel of obsession with a novel of forgiveness. Really nice wasted red necks. How'dja know we's fixin na go to Raleigh? I can see your future. Driving in your car that has sand everywhere through the low sun-bleached snowbound Maine twigs with a cigarette going and listening to something acoustic because what else does a guy like you listen to at this time of year in Allen's country. The sperm is the only cell that has a tail. Production begins at puberty. For females, production of eggs begins before they are born. 2 million! I hope there's some snus in that dragon tattoo. Wanna burn one down and throw some stars? No drying rack. And the glory of the lord shone round about them. Best part of that magic. Imagine having a relationship like Eugene and Alex and having to kill it because you are us. Let's throw everything away and become back-alley abortionists. Gonna document my enemy. Timestamps and everything. Just quit food. Odwallas and Zyrtec-d are the diet. Where is the supporting picture? Thanks for making me feel special. I will show you the iron discipline I've learned in the AIR FORCE. We can make dirty Frenchmans. Wine and olive juice. At least there aren't clouds of foul smoke floating around like Smelladelph. You fly there? This is the lonely Christmas with Morrissey. Gonna try to fuck a stranger or someone famous tonight. Grizzly like Ed Gein, make her face feel face pain.

Weezing Geiser

I am without feeling now, says the sparrow.
I am without feeling and my wings are like ice.

But then I spotted a second sparrow walking
away, down the ice ring, around the circle.

It's hard not to think about the job you perform.
Big moolah for your molars.
Baby.

Buildings felled in every direction.
The hands of a stone giant captured on my digital.
When we were teenagers we would sneak around.

Self-complexities. Reaching around to your neck.
Your neck brace was made with gold.
I am the sparrow sinking into quicksand.

He didn't know how to draw a bald eagle. He subdued.
The train kept coming. Over and out again.

Positive Integer

Thanks to Greg for editing.

Pastor Tyler was stuck in transit. Stuck somewhere in the forgettable New Jersey night in a place he’d have to consciously think about remembering only to remember more original thoughts. It was the abnormality of forcing typically-subconscious commitments. And he’d have to personally key into his sub-history the sidereal mutant orange from the New York his crumpled ticket promised, data-log the sense of public trappedness. This was the apathetic community he shared with fellow budgeted passengers, the cell-phone talker in the back, a slurry of slang-crusted Spanish, the girl seeming nice right next to him, how courteous with their shared dome-lamp she’d been, the noxious clouds billowing chaotically, birth-defected, in contrast with the cruel symmetry of the wrought-iron estuaries that spawned them, the Ionic lattice works with Clinton-era bunting, pithy revelations: we make refrigerators here, this is where Teflon comes from, sand production, glue gun ammo. It was all illuminated in some fake way by the unblinking sodium bulbs refracting in the glassy quiet of the inbound winter. But then again if the mind only deposited what was essential then what the fuck had he been doing all these years?

At least they’re paying.

He took what was always his own advice and prayed. Prayed for his family, his neighbors, his steadily swelling readership, industry friends who came through when they told him they “knew people,” who told him they’d get him noticed, you’ve got the look, the message, you’re what the people, the people you want to be reaching, are always looking to find. He prayed until he cracked that smirk, the one that shone only with reflection on his mission's greatness, on his aptitude as an instrument, His instrument, a sense of self/creator-satisfaction known only to the premier fraternity of prophets.

I’ll bet Falwell isn’t carted around on busses.

He drifted out the window into the fleeting immobillia to catch some industrial chimney’s vigilante flame jet disturb the late December cold: such dependability, and the permanence. He passed between these worlds, the frazzle-wired metaphysics of the beleaguered self and the observable external world, the subordinate exogenous one of plural egos, ecosystems, of seemingly random variety in the hidden creator's dominion, all serving as proof of some disparate genius.

Book deal...lecture tour...eventually national radio syndication. My message can travel beyond busses. It can travel without them. That’ll be alright.

He saw the other cars. He eyed them suspiciously and wondered what their drivers read. Maybe they had headed into town to see him to see him, or catch a matinee of some tawdry spectacle entering the sixth year of its run. Bring the wife, kids, and then head over to the talk. Come to hear him, get his books signed, one per person, it's included in the ticket, shake his hands, smear tears and makeup into some brackish ecstasy .

He thought of the branched nature of experience, the entanglement of narrative possibilities for those beings imbued with the radical capacity for free-will, existing in a society of others. Willers, id-abusers, megalomaniacal super-egoists, atheists…

He liked the line and wrote it down for his lecture. Audiences love personal experiences. You introduce a thought as “On the way up here I was thinking…” and it has gauranteed success. By demonstrating personal incompleteness the introduction provides authority. It provokes an endearment in the listener, a disarmament strategy. Really, it is grounding. Really, anyone could write this stuff. It'd been around for two thousand years. Everyone was paraphrasing from their forebearers. It wasn't the content so much, but delivery, showmanship, the verbal magic-tricks, the rehearsed idiosyncrasies, the self-caricaturisation necessary to become digestible through personal fiction.

The bus crash could happen so suddenly. Exit 8, I would die right now thinking about Exit 8. The Parkway of the Garden State.

He thought about his best friend in sixth grade, Andrew Mason, Andy, who lived on the small, Connecticut street, whose mother died of breast cancer, her ashes scattered in the family’s backyard garden. He thought about the way Andy cradled his head in his hands for a week after the wake, how he couldn’t attend the service, how, after returning to school a week later, Andy was greeted by being absorbed into the popular kid’s group, sitting at their lunch table and smoking cigarettes and learning about pornography and all those weird sex moves that you only ever hear about in seventh grade on the bus ride home and how Andy eventually abandoned his once best friend to join the elite caste even though they lived on the same street, even though he’d been the only other person in their grade who really actually knew his mother really as a person rather than some harrowing event, and how she drove the two of them to the bus-stop in the winter even until the last days, listening to NPR, Morning Edition, with the heat was on high, wasting away under her body’s betrayal and the chemotherapy, and how they even went sledding together on the day of her passing, down the hill in the woods behind the house, where the property lines ended, and back under the rope swing, where talking seemed redundant. How he was the only one who didn’t talk to Andy about it and how this was the major mistake in seventh grade. The green sweater on the day of the funeral. The snow-laden evergreens. How there were teachers in attendance: Mr. Lossey, Homeroom and Math. How after the service in the wood-paneled basement the two of them played soccer on Super Nintendo and how Andy was much better because it was his game and he knew how to do a bicycle kick and he wouldn’t tell anyone how to do it: “Figure it out,” he said, “like I did.”

Tyler’s message is simply about positive thinking. Sure, someone is always going to be telling us how horrible things are. People like the horrible, they need the horrible. But these wants and needs are all the evidence required to understand that this revulsion to ourselves is itself a vice. We understand there is a Perfect. We are part of that Perfect. We march toward that Perfect under our cross, under the word, under the Lord. With this message Tyler has inspired thousands. You can change your life today!

How easily this bus could crash. How quick it could happen. How at the second the driver loses control, you’re at the mercy of some foreign, depressed machinists' engineering of a more productive decade. Notice the integral force of whatever you’re colliding with. Notice there are no seatbelts, unlike a Greyhound. These fuckers won’t even pay for a seatbelt. Do they salivate while pondering post-mortem sales?

Out the window again, into the world of arterial soullessness, inter-state transience, the windowed world who’s lifespan corresponds with the width of cool plexiglass framing peripheral limbo. The closest we could get to understanding Earth’s rotation. This is what they call the empirical world. It was labeled thus by the maniacs busy smashing atoms together, dropping pennies off observation decks. Yet we only observe everything you’ve already heard, everything that’s already obvious, everything that coheres.

We pen mental forecasts to ourselves in the now and call it experience--half the sum-total of human philosophical endeavors--or wisdom, that taste of the unobtainable omniscience men like himself, like his followers, those with eyes open, slouch towards, like in that poem, toward the tragic asymptotic truth.

He wrote this down too, for his audience, his flock. They’d have to love him now. Yes, now.

Hopscotch

Post Moles reading/performance

First of all let's not forget Fatima performing Nina Simone.
Let's not forget the voice as the most beautiful musical instrument.
Let's not forget sturdily-structured architecture from Jacob's 1860s.
Or chair rearrangements.

There was a fabric'd mousy woman who talked about electricity.
And another Jen who knew Futurism and other nonplus activities.
There was a hatred in the air toward personal experience isolation.

Kim and Frank were there, smiles sincere, they lightened our lives.
What it means to be from Philadelphia and engage in dialogue.
What it means to talk about Invisibility and radical daughters.

Jeff talked about the elevator and Tower of Terror perf-romps.
Rattled. Three bulldogs. Hounds moving along the windstreets
with a white slaver and their slouched faces acting beauty.

We saw hopscotch on Master Street in duct tape.
The storm was coming in according to Carlos's wife.
Underneath the El there was the El Bar and an old shimmed building.

He took my dollar and we talked about Chile, Copenhagen, and Spain.

We road home and I, encouraged, talked about vaginal bleeding
and Sammy being raped by three guys: there was Lil Walter too
and the Dome knowing seizures and knows it's giving us seizures too.

We fire cruise missiles at things we don't understand.

Only one thought of suicide this evening; do babes bring
malefaction? Or is it the empty beer cans rested with
digital audio recorders that remind me of pints of water?

I sit here in my ink-stained glasses, shirt, and remember We.
We should transform ourselves into Raiders and seek shelter.

A Basis

In our lives I am hunting.
There was once a feral field.
A boy and a girl shared flowers.
The past has was yet to come
forward, but we were to believe
in it, when time has ripened.

For us, love occurred to make do.
On the will of the rain, serenity.
There are natural things that are.
The exchange of stems between hands.
A purpose is known yet is not.
In the collective existence only history.

Some moments only have the self.
It stands in the wind facing uphill.
Other moments there is plurality.
A decaying brick that our eyes stare at
shudders like a guitar strum.
Instrumentation defined by one maker.

My music shivers and is acknowledged.
I am the sound-boy made into magic. Selfish?
The earth always shifts with the dipped spade.
A grip makes the insert and then a path exerts.
Life itself is corroded when pursued.
A quest occurs because there are examples.

Apple

Clumps of Dirt

My A-freek, steeling of calm: steal, stealth
(fowl missionary posits--
positioned satellites, 101 course images:
en route to ward porous cashery, the rendezvous twice tripped,
laden with gold, cramped-crimp fingers: delusional parents)

I forkful mushing meal.
I put on my old brown shoes.
I put out the fire in the stove.
I take the last sip of the coffee.
I move through the rotting door.
I feel clumps of dirt on my cheeks.
I understand the fame in the wind.
I believe in the lack of skill.
I scream into air like a wolf.

Ouched and outed into the howl;
I will forgive their grinding machines.

(a dirty sunrise, moors over bluffs; chastisation
while a widowed daughter buries her lover using rusted shovel:
we are haunted
by what remains
to be archived in the earth)

Indifference

Too bad Derrida died
before the Blackberry became so popular.
He could have done commercials
about there being nothing beyond the text.
People would like to see that creepy Frenchman
(no one to them) huddled over a device
and mention things in a funny way.

Light Logic

How far the city lights skim space.
Distant presumptions of occupation
and life- yet there is no necessary link
between light and life.

With so many lights on
you could forget the dark
that's always there
and unknowing-
better to assume the lights
are on for someone.

Mid-Coitus Considerations

Early morning in March on Spring Break:
role over and she's there and she makes
the request and the mechanics of stimulation
go into effect and the sheathing and the slow breath
rear-entry penetration and the slow movement
slow breathing all in and towards the it.

She breathes into the sheets, quiet breaths
there's no one else in the house she had said
I wonder about it as rubber and flesh
stir liquids and that all-desirous nothing
seeps from white torso, bent legs, hidden face,
hair by the sheets moaning.

Mid-coitus and I look away, still acting,
but then I begin noticing the clay pots
on the sill, opposite side of the room
resting in the morning shadow, small
clay pots. And I wonder when they were
put there, their contents, their intent as
decor or utility.

Rubber and motion
these coated joys toward nothing,
continuous mechanics.
Clay pots counted, and morning shadows.
Fucking bored.

Cabin Pressure

For cigarette prohibition

You, yeah, you
You're with me
We're going to destroy the lavatory smoke detector
or at least tamper with it

the hangover, the Snus, the psuedoephedrine

look at our University system
          our Boeing hangers
          our train tracks

take in the cloudscape
the world's sidereal temple garment
the bleached hurricane paper shredlets

elementry foliage, forclosed canopy
that we figured was too big to fail

The authorities report that Mr. Polanski
must remain in his Swiss chalet

"Remain in your Swiss chalet Polanski!"

Mr. Polanski confessed to giving a 13 year old girl
Quailudes and then raping her in the ass while she cried

"Remain in your Swiss Chalet Mr. Polanski"

FYI, I'll be fighting you for your flotation device
in the event of a water landing

the storm extends its Dracula phalanges
the vapor becomes something countable

I wonder: "How many Barack Obamas high am I?"

the visible world again, the final descent
understanding everything shares the bend
the arterial infastructure
the outlying mountains, found earthworks
Graphite romantics, the subjects of screens savers
the shared logos of forgettable things
                           of summers
                           of worms
of the moving sidewalks of life where they've prohibited smoking
for the children
because they eat the future

Colony Collapse Disorder

After the inaugural Wrestling Night

Alright, I'll believe in your magic for another minute
just promise me you'll remove the boots.

There's a cold science to traffic
that we're always in the process of understanding

the quiet times, the nurse trash times, solvency

One can't help but pity
the Australian highway system
their inaccessible middle
their clog-hearted coast ribbons
their black ballroomism

water colors into bruise swirl puddles
into unnameable nudities
we requisitioned by not improving anything

here's to grappling, to the head-tap
that your unconscious response
let's me know you aren't ready
for me or the bees
who were so horrible who
we want with all our atoms
to come home.

Divine Lorraine Demo Release

Download Here (Let me know if the link expires)

======= DIVINE LORRAINE ========

-- Walpurgis Nacht --


Walpurgis Night, Good Friday morning
in your bed, in your spider web
at dawn, with the AC on

me only seventeen, you showed your face to me
made of smoke, but you never choked
silk tongue, like the yarns you spun

we chilled the bile, we toast your child
to wealth, and the best of health
to fame, but let us stay the same

we ride, at night
sure thing, but let me hang the ring
close your eyes, and learn to love the red red red red light

-- Gasoline & Lime --

A Asus2 D

Look Alive
the battles in the jeroboam tonight

hit the lights
we're feeling through the family tomb it's right

C#m Fm E D

Were you born an anarchist
without a place to hide?

do you fear the fetishist
or the beam of light he rides?

It's alright
your treasure chest is safely stowed inside

behind
the men we made of frames and sturdy twine

can you smell the river now
or is it all still ice?

are you on the pills again?
I know it's not my life

babe
I am o.k. I am o.k. alright

i lied
this skin you see's all gasoline and lime

but if you think i wrote this song
and coded every line

then you need more help than me
more help or more white wine

-- The Artists --

C E Am C E Am C E Am C E Am

we know who we are
born beneath pale stars
running laps toward the light
houses liquid night
and the black bubbles in
just as thick as our sin
just as thick as the crowds we've left behind

F G C E Am F G C E Am F G F G

dissolved with our blue-print minds
at sun rise the shadow both lives and dies

We'll be dropping our bombs
any day now
we'll be snaking your drains
implicating Mao
and all that that once was
lost to summer's buzz
and some kid breathing dirt breathing soot

breathing air while God's own voice eddies his hair
think in lines and get straight your alibi
sit for moi, we're artists we're NOT bourgeois
note the schwa WE'RE ARTISTS WE'RE NOT Bourgeois

-- (Old Me) --

G B C Cm

The old me wouldn't take it so lightly
cold beneath the shallow dark of birds above the wires

A D C Cm

On fire: who sing without their eyes
and wing into some sky

And bold: the black ones make a game
of unlearning their names

you told me this dirt would make me holy
three/four weeks pass before the bears come out from hiding

their babes who only want to play
they only want to play (and lay)

and get old but wrap your face in gold
and horde your bones in holes (with souls)

you know me a still villain of cracked glass and white lies
know you're free to leave behind your pretty window eyes

and sleep, sleep out on the sand
that's spilling from your hands (and glands)

and rise, to meet the blue of noon
and mend the milk-wet moon (to choose)

the old me wouldn't take you so lightly
the old me throws no leaves or thorns upon your already kicked fire

-- Peggy-O (Traditional) --

G C G
As we marched out to Fennerio
G G/F# Em Bm
As we marched out to Fennerio
C G
Our Captain fell in love
G G/F# Em
With a lady like a dove
G C G
And he called her by name, Pretty Peggy-O


Would you marry me, pretty Peggy-O?
Would you marry me, pretty Peggy-O?
If you would marry me,
I would set your cities free
Free all the ladies in the are-o

I would marry you, sweet William-O
I would marry you, sweet William-O
I would marry you but your Guineas are too few
And I fear my mama would be angry-o

What would your mama think, pretty Peggy-O
What would your mama think, pretty Peggy-O
If she heard my Guineas clink?
Saw me marching at the head of my soldiers-o.

Come a-steppin down the stairs, pretty Peggy-O
Come a-steppin down the stairs, pretty Peggy-O
Come a-steppin down the stairs
Combing' back your yellow hair
Bid a last fair well to your William-O

For if ever I return, pretty Peggy-O
If ever I return, pretty Peggy-O
If ever I return
All your cities I will burn
Destroy all the ladies in the are-o

Sweet William he is dead, pretty Peggy-O
Sweet William he is dead, pretty Peggy-O
Sweet William he is dead,
And he died for a maid
And he's buried in Louisana country-O

As we marched out to Fenerio
As we marched out to Fenerio
Our Captain fell in love
With a lady like a dove
And he called her by name, Pretty Peggy-O

-- Scarecrow--

Intro: G

Am F

THE SCARECROW
IN CINDERS

C G F

there are two suns above your sharpening stone
we lost your pretty pearl in our house of bones

Am G

THE FROST ROSE
FROM THE OXBOW

stars shake, famously burning slow
strung lights in canopies have blown their bulbs

Am
DESERT BLOOM
F
THE NEW MOON
C
THE SHOW ROOM
G
A STONE MOVES

We hold you
and robe you
then crown you
dethrone too

and loathe you
bemoan you
and stone you
alone

the scarecrow's
skin shivers
still arrows
in quivers
not taken
or blown gone
or strung up
and so on

-- Predatory Lending --

C G Am F G C

we all know your face from your mistake your flims have broken in your grave
a grand jury your fiancée framed photos from your fathers wake

C G Am F C

wake wake your eyes,
sleep sleep sleep sleep sleep your alibi

spent fall on fire shoved round the wires that leak and tweak into your bane
it's not the same this acrid rain corrodes and roasts the amber grain

OLD OLD OLD YOUR NAME
NEW NEW NEW NEW NEW NEW NEW YOUR FAME

a new roommate warrants all states commands demands from conscript knaves
conflagrate back draft to face our cells wilt down like paper...


Let's explode this maze and drive the porters off their barricade
all those blood-forged barbs all turned to shards that skitter down the palisade

flee your bleeding mind mind mind mind
mine the bread crumb trail you leave behind
check for cuts and lumps
your two heads fuse fully to one

-- Deaf and There --

F Bb F C F Bb Dm C

She was deaf and there folding her proteins
as they spoke of the symbols they found in their wet dreams
jilted and jaded tornado eyes over her paper
scanning the pages and all other titles and labels

she was deaf and there, despairingly empty
and the lines round her eyelids curved circularly
their tracking told stories of worlds she should fear
but it didn't consider all those who can't hear
so their tales of terror fell only on ears
that were painted like white spots upon baby deer

she was deaf in the dark in the light of a bright screen
watching pictures and adds pinks and yellows and pale greens
and they screamed for attention but got no reply
as she closed the windows and then closed her eyes

she was visited strangely that night in a dream
by a soothplaying satyr of sweet melodies
then a choir of cherubs plunged from the sky
and crushed the poor player thus ending his life
all the cacophonous clamor of all of their cries
the wreckage spat splinters in all of their eyes
the rumbling tremolo of old oak's demise
ruptured their eardrums which served to baptize
all the innocent singers who finally realized
this was the most beautiful song she had heard in her life

diaphanous smog of the party let no one breath
the evening was waning and new lovers started to leave
a white silver crucified christ hung between
her white silver breasts that had gone sight unseen

she spotted him there in the corner his mouth asking please
his hissings of lust wove sibilantly
a drunk irish catholic boy: the new philistine
but goaded by contact that all of us need
she turned down her hearing aid, nodded, agreed
and they traipsed back together both dumb and lonely
and she tasted his sweat and smelled his disease
romping and rolling their elbows and knees
all the spinning and skinning, exposing her seams
arrested by the mess she thought of her dream and in

agony she spoke, and choked, it's too real for me, it's too real for me

I wasn’t ready to see

-- Lorraine --

E B C#m A

The holy ghost is slowly headed home
can't you see him
all image and bone

the glade and spring are mixed beneath the snow
we got what we needed
now give us more gold

C#m B G#m A E F#m A E

highway signs for
paradise
but we can't find it on the map
so I guess we'll just turn back

Let's get depressed and change our names!
"I'll call you peter
but I'm staying Lorraine"

let's don our capes and save the day
"give me the signal!"
"then get out of my way!!"

your soft-spoken heart's broke
cause two years is no joke
and then
this is how it ends

transz

Hungarian-Transylvania Kányádi Sándor's VÁGY has been translated into the English by me. It's my first translation--in Hungarian or otherwise, and I apologize for that. Going to try and find a previously-translated version soon.

The Original:

az esti folyó illatát
aratás idején
a küküllő esti illatát
aratás idején

s egy marék vizet
hogy arcom visszamosdjam

Translation:

Desire

That nighttime river scent
approaches the harvest here

The night trash scent
approaches the harvest here

and a single handful is diluted
so to remember its core