(to the phoenix)
My brain is a cup of black coffee, cold and waiting in the sun for the flies to arrive or the half-naked boy shaking off his hangover with anything and everything available to his limited power as a man (usually reserved to the staples of porn, cigarettes and some hair of the dog that bit the shit out of his swollen ass the night before and somehow managed to hold on through the morning).
Though it shouldn't be.
I've been told coffee's one of the worst things i can do for my body these days (though i'm sure the drinking really doesn't help all that much) but it's hard for me to give a damn about that when the air is bright and the day lies huge and possible ahead of me.
Because, damnit, i need it.
Need it like i need against me. jingle jangle screaming emphatics about new sensations well-passed rock and roll. sinking floridas and revolution in three-chords, the truth and a fractured voice i've been longing for longer than i even knew.
Not like those ad bands. fuck them (save the smush. smush? tika, etc. who brough the legitimacy back to a night of shticks, cheap costumes and tired ironies as disused jokes told at the party too late to sound like punchlines anymore). fuck their projected future. fuck their glass awards. fuck their afterparties. fuck their words and fuck their trade.
I just don't have time for it.
Not when rocktober's just around the corner and i can goddamn assure you all the sweat will be flying from the backs of bands that mean every note more each time it comes strangled out of burning amplifiers. hot snakes. crooked fingers. mclusky. blood brothers. against me (of course). etc.
Men on the verge of shimmering collapse. trying to make that perfect sound. that sonic whirl of faith in the power of a chord. a sound. a break in the doldrums that bind our pop culture to the slow end of western civilization, the great expansion that made us whole.
Men who bring it. men who break it. men who burn only to rise again every night on a dim stage before the screams of the few who finally fucking get it.
I can't wait to be there, eyes tight and fist pumping mad in the air.
Though it shouldn't be.
I've been told coffee's one of the worst things i can do for my body these days (though i'm sure the drinking really doesn't help all that much) but it's hard for me to give a damn about that when the air is bright and the day lies huge and possible ahead of me.
Because, damnit, i need it.
Need it like i need against me. jingle jangle screaming emphatics about new sensations well-passed rock and roll. sinking floridas and revolution in three-chords, the truth and a fractured voice i've been longing for longer than i even knew.
Not like those ad bands. fuck them (save the smush. smush? tika, etc. who brough the legitimacy back to a night of shticks, cheap costumes and tired ironies as disused jokes told at the party too late to sound like punchlines anymore). fuck their projected future. fuck their glass awards. fuck their afterparties. fuck their words and fuck their trade.
I just don't have time for it.
Not when rocktober's just around the corner and i can goddamn assure you all the sweat will be flying from the backs of bands that mean every note more each time it comes strangled out of burning amplifiers. hot snakes. crooked fingers. mclusky. blood brothers. against me (of course). etc.
Men on the verge of shimmering collapse. trying to make that perfect sound. that sonic whirl of faith in the power of a chord. a sound. a break in the doldrums that bind our pop culture to the slow end of western civilization, the great expansion that made us whole.
Men who bring it. men who break it. men who burn only to rise again every night on a dim stage before the screams of the few who finally fucking get it.
I can't wait to be there, eyes tight and fist pumping mad in the air.
posted by Kid Swinging at 10:24 AM
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