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Admiral Grey

Cheap & Plastique Magazine


Admiral Grey photos by Violet Shuraka

Admiral Grey is an artist, musician, playwright, and performer who creates music and extraordinary live spectacle.Heather Morgan, painter extraordinaire, interviewed her for issue #11 of Cheap & Plastique

Heather: Full disclosure, I am a huge fan of your work.  When I feel frail and overwhelmed by the grind of artmaking in the metropolis, going to see one of your boundless creations is as revitalizing as a trip to Xanadu.  What are some of the sources of *your* inspiration, what goes into the stunning array of characters you create?
Admiral Grey: I have been stockpiling each and every experience or person or moment or artwork I’ve ever witnessed into an enormous Atlantis deep within my consciousness. I build the inner city with these materials. A beautiful castoff seen on the street, a stolen moment or expression on a stranger’s face…

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Princess is somehow lost

By Deja

She hides in her own world

Full of dreams

Just like Disney

Trying to forget this tragic thing

People call reality

In her mind

He’s her Prince Charming

And she’s his Cinderella

Dancing the night away

In pretty dresses and tuxedos

But love like that

Only exists in stories

When you’re young,

They continue to say

Instead of a ball room

It was the stands screaming

His name and number

With all the air

Her lungs could take

But somewhere in the back

Of her broken mind

She felt like she wouldn’t

Actually couldn’t

Be his typical dream girl

Blonde hair, hazel eyes,

Pale skin, small waist

With a butt that

Truly absorbs her pants

She just didn’t know that he was

Fighting to be let into her heart

He earned it with

Killing the demons

Who tore her down

With words of self hatred

While she’s in the dirty stands

Crowded by people

And the mixing smell

Of popcorn and must

She hides in her dreams

To where she is his princess

Dancing at the ball

When in reality her feet are glued to metal benches

And a mouth so dry it feels like she’s chewing cotton

The only thing the same

In both totally different worlds he was still her

Clumsy knight in shining armor of shoulder pads

And green jersey and she was his Princess

In a black shirt and dirty green shoes.

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23 at Ten in the Morning in the Sundown of Society

Television is seeping into reality,

Starting to dominate and control it.

Inevitable Idiocracy coming up

Faster than our worst nightmares predicted.

Everything, everyone has become so dull,

So boring, so predictable.

Is it just me, or is it really happening?

There’s a reason it was called the American dream.

Writing is like playing guitar,

You can learn every song off by heart,

Hit every note in a pleasing sequence,

Command every chord,

Or take a page out of Lou Reed’s book

And throw away the book. Teach yourself.

Inspiration is key, inspiration, experience, nature.

A good writer absorbs the world like a sponge,

Subconsciously filing away ideas and impressions.

Write every day they say. T.S. Eliot barely wrote a poem a year.

The Lyrics to Blowin’ in the Wind took Bob Dylan five minutes to write.

What happened to the spontaneity? The fires are burning out.

Everybody’s having babies and pretending to be grown up,

Parent’s drug habits preserved in pictures

For pretty much anyone to see. You must be proud.

Lying in bed strung out rambling going nowhere making no money.

This is the life of the voice of the poem.

I make no apologies. I bury my regrets.

 

Tj Brown, August 11, 2014 10:03am

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I Wanted to Start a Novelty Band.

 

“I wanted to start a novelty band, but I wasn’t creative enough to start a novelty band, so instead I started a four-piece guitar band. Fuck you Eddie Vedder, listening to Pearl Jam made it impossible for me to start a novelty band.

My four-piece guitar band wasn’t working out too well. We couldn’t get past playing slowed down covers of Mumford and Sons songs. As a result our output was rather boring. I started thinking about what to do next but was side tracked when I began to worry about how vegans intimidated me. They make me feel ethically inconsistent. Hi my name is Holly and I’m ethically inconsistent. Hi Holly. Things often affect my thought process like that. One day when I was trying to write an essay on Political Realism, I told you Eddie Vedder had stolen my creativity, I started thinking about whether my desire to meet an alien had something to do with my being an atheist. Like my atheism had made the world too boring, too rational, too scientific and my belief in aliens was a reaction to that. I couldn’t get my mind away from this topic for hours, naturally the essay on Political Realism didn’t eventuate and I still haven’t met an alien.

I eventually left the four-piece guitar band to become a painter. They didn’t seem to mind too much and told me they planned to continue as a folk pop trio. Painting has a romanticism to it that didn’t exist in my four-piece guitar band.

I was quite a good painter; I used cardboard and off-white paint almost exclusively. I would begin the day with a coffee, black of course. I would then watch an episode of Seinfeld. Following this I would paint. Every now and then I would watch two episodes of Seinfeld and be sidetracked by wondering where I could find clothes like the ones Elaine wears in the early seasons, you know the big long dresses and huge jackets.  Anyway, once I had finished a painting, I liked to paint fast so I would often finish 3 a day, I would leave them on the street for someone to find. I hoped this would create a little buzz. I figured soon enough everyone would be talking about the mysterious artist who keeps leaving his or her paintings on the street. I did this for two months; I thought that was enough time to create some significant word of mouth. I then approached a gallery. I walked in, acting very nonchalant and said, Hi my name is Holly and I’m that elusive, mysterious painter who keeps leaving their work on the street. The gallerist just looked at me with a blank expression and turned to greet another visitor. My plan had failed; maybe I should have waited three months. To add to my woes my four-piece guitar band turned folk pop trio had just signed a record deal.

At this point I had become very disillusioned with painting, with the whole notion of being an artist. I blamed Eddie Vedder. He did this to me. I needed to find him, to tell him what he had done. I went to Google and tried to figure out where he lived. The search engine had nothing for me; apparently it didn’t know where he lived. So I turned off my computer and watched another episode of Seinfeld. I had reached the later seasons by this stage, the ones where Elaine dresses in tighter, more basic clothes. I suppose this was somewhat of a consolation as now I wouldn’t have to think about where I could find clothes like the ones she wore, you know the big long dresses and the huge jackets.”

By Holly Keys

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Bed Of Bones

by Lisa Russell, 2014 ©

 

She is the serpent amongst the grass,

a bare skinned girl in the forest of teeth and nails,

a butterfly trapped in a hornet’s nest,

the ant stuck in the sap dripping down.

She sleeps on a bed of bones

between the walls and inside your mind

in your nightmares.

 

She lives in a home of crumbled walls,

tomato plants growing in the bathtub,

that stench never washing off

always brings her back

something like a skeleton

walking from this bedroom to you.

 

She will never remember what she chose to forget

but that choice will haunt her the rest of her days,

holes eaten from her brain like moths in her skull,

cigarette burns through faces in photographs.

If you name the monster the fear becomes real

and the tears will flow

like the blood from our wombs

welling up only to burst.

Freedom hangs like stars in the sky

she can’t feel the heat of the sun on her face

and she can’t help but want to be consumed

warm in someone’s belly

just for a little while.

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Time flows as the

River does and she

Mirrors herself in the sea,

percolates shades of pink and green

Transitioning, unfurling

Above me.

“Where are you going?”

She asks the water.

Where are you going?

And water catches on…

Playful as they are

We’re surrounded.

Shimmering granite skies

Beneath the yards of depth of thought divine.

Horrified, I always wanted your hand.

 

By Ursa Minor 2014 ©

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