Had his happiness been anything but a dull stone bell,
He could have heard the ringing in his ears.
But instead, He brushed it off as he waltzed about the campus bookstore: varied and varyed in his approach. Swimming with only himself, drowning in slowest motion like a worm in honey (-more likely whiskey. oh. Ok. Whiskey it is.). Looking endlessly for a reason to have fun (and the means to do so) had brought him to many a place. Today was different: business premises for business purposes.
Spilled mind apparent, locked; feathers entitled to the wind, surely his confidence was his confidant. The beautiful women everywhere… They smelt his grief. Gave him china-dolled stares. Maybe it was the sordid state of his hair, which to him looked like tragically tangled whisps of Gene Wilder’s worst days. Whisper/whimper down the alley is the game? He mused over what the portly black cashier was laughing at him for, turning his fingers endlessly in his wild locks and pocket as he waited to buy his single keychain. My god she was surely a pig he thought. Her eyes struggled to stay open amongst all layers of morbid flesh. His pants bulged noticeably as he approached the front of the line, to which effect Joe blushed openly, set down the keychain… and his exit was most abrupt, pensive fruit Leaving forgotten rottens in his mouth.
While he sucked down the cancer sticks outside the store, the sky gave a shudder and let another wily cumulonimbus pass. November now. The cusp of winter; a pile of firewood wisely chopped and sorted is a requirement at this frigid time of year.
He had the hatchet, but no firewood. The middle of Philadelphia prevents such endeavors from taking place.
So Joe walked home and made sure to take short strides when passing the police station, lest his pants gush secrets and broken promises like he had done, so many times, all for naught. This secret was different.
“It’s been a bad year for apples” Joe mentioned, as a white picket fence evaporated forcibly before him.
Painting the slightest of concrete, cauterized, coiling in the sweetest of colloquial October, he. His grandfather’s bland cow eyes winced at the thought of his stoop betraying color. Selecting only the most gray, he and his set to the unfortunate task of painting the concrete once again. His grandfather set to work sipping the last of the Mennonite cider.
They and the rains came every season. They and the cheap paint.
Merciless, Joe ponders the immediate choices his grandfather made. Angry not, no… not at the obvious and oblivious idiocy that is incessantly painting a concrete step, subject to elements: All.
In accordance with the disgusting brick-wall blindness: Fucking disgusting imbecile.
His mind peruses into the red, white, and blissfully open blue. We never bought American, he mused, glancing at the Chinese of window openers:
We never… had the money to make us respectable.
We had choices and chose to be ignorant. We paint the weather gray.
We made money and squandered it on food and family.
We made sense and decided not to.
Paint cheap, mind slackened, fangs ebbing in anticipation, he dips his fetid shoe into the poor man’s cliche advice (Life is the gray)
slides his shoes amongst the stairs,
and ignores the cheapest of cries (short syllables only; attention on lay-a-way)
But the work still went oh so well,
and the black and white took over: Relief.
He knew again that the evil and the ignorant were reflexive.
This is the sound of your vision carving moments into tangible images.
Somewhat akin to that single glance that lets you see every last fucking grain of lonely, despicable straw by the way-side of the road, leather blaring hot, as you couple rubber with road at speeds only the law could imagine. And as you begin to wonder how they could ever keep track on all of us, all the time, you lock in on the satellites directing your phone towards the next great amusement park known as your life. No matter what, surely the rides will be too short, the lines will be too long, and the food will be dramatically saturated in unchanged vegetable oil, stealthily considering the bill as irrelevant.
I live in America. The year is 2011. And we are all fucked. Freeze the frame of passer-by and realize some things:
We peddle our ads to peel back our layers. The pretty-poppers, uppers and downers, vending machine love; non-decaffeinated. When your layers are felt out, your motives and fears are pinned to the table in open, whoreish fashion, we can assimilate you. There is no loneliness. There is a product to match the needs of every man or woman.
I am morbidly fat. Overweight. Unhealthly. Probably over 200 lbs by now. Unbecoming. A piece of disgusting lard, and nobody will want me. I will end up alone, addicted to salt packets and KFC. I can see myself wandering the Wednesday nights, howling at the moon in agony and ecstasy. For more MSG. And along with all this… I moan, bitch, whine, complain, fire, fake, and fill myself with utter pity, self-loathing and unmistakable arrogance. To couple such increasingly contradictory feelings is the most American of ways. Us cowboys don’t feel the sudden, painful twinge of this here… ‘logic’.
I am worthless, yet I can’t possibly be worth any more.
I can be sold. I can be bought.
Because I am so fat I need some sort of product. Or maybe some service. To take away the fat, to deal with the feelings of guilt, of hate…. to spend the greenbacks is key, key, oh so key.
I need blossoms
I need branches
I need Pound
I need more faces.
Problems are only as….
I will call you now and I will get free shipping. I will not use money order. This is real. This is so very tangible.
I can be free, I can be happy, this can’t not not not work!!!
Sprite spirit come forth, come listen, come play;
Unto oneself we find none less than the most becoming of days.
What is this?
sleek, contrasting typography, celeb endorsement, catchy slogan, contrasting colors, full and complete morals.
Next spring, Lissy Trullie will finally build on the promise of her 2009 debut EP, Self-Taught Learner, with a full-length, self-titled set produced by John Hill and TV on the Radio’s Dave Sitek. Here’s our first taste, “Madeleine,” a Holly Miranda-by-way-of-Velvet Underground slow-burner with shades of last year’s “Pale Blue Eyes” cover from the Kills. You can grab the MP3 over at RCRD LBL and stream it above.
Update: As it turns out, the aforementioned Holly Miranda is on backing vox.
Being a worm, plump and dangling,
He spun webs worth telling to others.
Tales of the fantastic,
Broken star needles leaking salve of
The pisspoor posterchild
Of drama itself.
!+’ and he swore that the message would fail. Nobody would understand. As expected. Nobody bested, never exposed to fire.
We fear the discerning opinion that knows: there is nothing wrong.
You’re your own worst enemy brain.
Doctor instead prescribes,
The ripples crest,
Towards the glip-gloss white sheen his gazed tossed, in morning; nouveau. Glare windows slowly rise out of the sun, vex’d. It was around 10, and his was a cautious expression, his fingers blithely wandering about the air. Fractions of morning noise, half worded-wounds, slammed doors, began to stir the air. Arise. Endlessly, the stream of kitchen appliances flew. For once he saw the unbecoming, crumb laden structure….well…all best bets were certainly off.
Delicately, his father pressed all his own jam. A stolid statement on the sordid affair fruit seem to be in. Neglected by nature as once nectar, their potential seems rooted within themselves. Similar to human beings, but altogether more genuine (and juicy), his father preferred sour cherries of all. They grew in during the late season of summer, right before the work seasons flourished, when sacrilegious frost may afflict the occasional lawn early. Grouped with the proper piece of bread or bun, the jam worked wonders. He slathered grotesque globs of the stuff on a lonely slice of white, and chewed.
His crest ceases, and stands; replete. Surmised he, the mind buckles at imagery, between bites. Sweet suckling bits of sucrose cherry followed his tongue, a fair taste of home. Afar, the sky grew.
He had observed the shortcomings of god’s designs. Everyday life was evidence enough.
Knowing that all he could think about was the the finished product, the great and simple jar of jam, gave comfort. Life was the simplicity. Life was the bottling of contents, cheap metamorphosis, and a dramatic revealing. Finding comfort, a sense of friend, was the toaster to blame? This enigmatic feeling of positivity was overwhelming to him, as he ate the rest of his carb-saturated breakfast. It was… so proudly rotund.
Find him weeks later, with little on his mind save the certain sheen that slick appliance produced. Fastidious in purpose, shapely, and how it stuck out like a sore thumb.
For it was true that he would go home on most nights, and find a different place to plant his little friend. A total fiend for position was he, slapping at the bland white-shirt corporate world by day, and laying alone at night.
For starters, to put the toaster on the floor made no sense, it just resounded on the flatness of the carpet. There was no element of surprise, no suspension of disbelief. It was vaguely familiar and yet childish. Other experiments endured. On the TV stand, the toaster blocked out his favorite game shows, and this was something altogether unacceptable. The couch allocated space, but no reasoning. Thus spaces were beginning to disappear. He knew that the positioning of such an item was vital to his undertaking. For within life, almost all things related to imagery.
Pain and confusion was observing his parents fuck in the raw
his mother, curls toes…
his girlfriend take another man in, pleading for it. His brother’s blank stare after hearing all there was to eat was oatmeal this week.
Comfort was a quiet night with a cigarette, birds detached in their thickets, embers rolling deep.
His bathroom was tiled conspicuously with total and apparent blankness. Forgetting the other sections of his abode, he ventured he may find the perfect place; albeit in another room. Of course using the actual toaster was not the concern here, no. It was the symmetry of movement. In lines, in color, in space. This was perfection.
Observe: Four corners were cut from his every hour, his every day. As tasks moved at paces unmatched, the unmoved mover never gave more time to the day. And so our obsessional imagist printed his codes in color, handed the memos in and took his coffee black. He knew how to consume daily, and that the human race prided itself on its ability to use and misuse.
He knew, that there was little to no way out of the stresses of everyday life. The unrelenting toil of work, the hateful ignorance of his daily world. In truth, life was difficult for every human being. The bills, the taxes, the classic in-laws, the memories, the wife, the heart, the ignorance. The hate. It was self-obsession that plagued the worst of his depressed comrades. They were a callously immature lot, who knew nothing but their own pain. They bathed in their brine, soaking up their every last sentiment, as if it would ever really matter to anyone but themselves. And then there were the well-adjusted. “Normies” as he would call them. The movers and shakers of the world. Backboned, hard-working, salt of the earth type. They grew, fucked, and died as simply as they lived. They went to work smiling, already giving up, but theirs was a stolid disposition. And so theirs was a lie. A game of giving up, but never giving in.. for the population had to breed through somebody.
But he, he was one of the few. A third category of people simply at the whims of passion. He pleaded no ignorance, knew well the horrible indifference of life, complained little but saw far too much. Confusion. Utter confusion was the worst sentiment he had garnered from life. In truth, it was also one of the only sentiments he had garnered. This fertile confusion had planted certain seeds. One of them sprouted into a very supple idea.
That is, if he could just re-gain his sense of moral balance, his veritable equilibrium through this spacial inebriation… the denouement of his life would not be so very bad. Or at least, so very self-absorbed.
Friend toaster had balance. He never deserted his sleek, post-modern cube appreciation. He simply had to plug in this object, and it always worked. Like the beauty of math, its symmetry was its life, and any answer received was unquestionably the one and true answer. Something that could never, ever be derived from the confusion around his persona, his life.
And while the toaster had balance, the water was tepid,
and the ledge of the full tub
most certainly didn’t.
Follow singe-soiled blossom of circuit bending bliss. Absolution.