Just like one line or one shot was supposed to kill me? Had a better chance of outliving half of all smokers, & that was when I was mixing coke & smack. Of course coke and smack wouldn’t have rat poison in them if you knew your dealer but every drag you take is chock full of delicious arsenic & benzene. I mean I shot speedballs dozens of times a day hoping to end it al in a glorious sleep from which I never wakel & half you lazy, hazy buggers get a slow, horrible way out, impotent, holes in the throat the type of cough that never shuts off. The warning is on every box but still I am the one who’s going to be stealing your meds while you struggle to swallow them. Don’t worry, I’ll never teach a friend to shoot. I really don’t care either way, I just can’t stand the gas-nosed, coke sniffing, self-methylating & speedballing with the one downer you never ever mix health trip. Ten years, half on the needle. Even the shittiest hard drugs are better than the best mass-manufactured bottle of beer & box of smokes. Like stats? Half of all smokers will die because they smoke. Combined between IV smack heads & speedballers I still got an extra 12%, more pleasure than you could handle without puking & dram keys to new dimensions and I don’t even want to be here tomorrow. I’ve had cigarettes, smack, ice, blow, nitrous & weed. What’ve you got? A 30 second head rush & a tiny dopamine trigger gives you a chemical pat on the head? No real rush, no right red blooming from the veins, no 5 4 3 2 1 7 the subway train hits the station. Jesus son? More like Jesus’ daddy. Not young no more. Poor cousin 18 years my senior left behind two kids after a few days against cancer. Odds are that old age is a thing of the past.
We’re all beautiful and immortal when we’re dead!
I’m Johnson! I’m Jones! I’m Hank the First, Hendrix, Janis & Jim.
I’m Kurt’s used spoon. Death makes us immortal.
What? I thought you liked danger. I always fell for the ones that dressed bad all in black, ripped jeans booze & anything you’d do I would JoanJett’s, Brody Dalle’s Patti Smiths… Lydia Lunch’s
Punk Rock Virgin Mary Magdalene’s & I was just a virgin carpenter.
Teens like the idea of rebellion. I was a stay at home loser who found
Themselves used to a dull personality in lines of white,
In coloured pills & needles.
No one else but Jake n’ Mikey had it in them.
If you’re going to do it go all the way, or stick to the plan.
9-5 pay taxes, drink to sleep all week, do blow to stay up all weekend.
Rinse & repeat.
Quiet & peace until you look like a joke out wasted with your single best friends & you chose it. Mix it up, take a girls, take a boy, pick a fight,
But every mainline is a round in Russian Roulette.
Hoping each shot will be the one to shut these people up.
If you’re might not die then you’re not living.
I see my cocaine & raise it 24mg of hydro.
My bird’s heart is flying north & fleeing south at the same time.
Flag, thick red vein blood push, too wired for tired to strung out to care.
One ends another gets prepped, I add an ampule of liquid midozolam,
Handful of beezo pills, old OC & some free Montreal speed.
I wonder if death will be the only cure for this dull night.
Getting buzzed, stoned, intoxicated was boring by the time I was legal.
Each hit should be enough to kill yourself, each failure is just another chemical in the chamber, fentanyl & ice.
Death walks by three times daily.
I feel pity for the ones invested in TV & pop music who want more than
Just rehashed resin.
I used to think Bob Was crazy for quitting Sonic Youth.
Found out he quit, & yes Lydia is a far better kisser according to B.B.
Who’s been in NYC since the factory days.
When I found Dylan the Velvets & Patti were the next to blow my mind.
Then Sonic Youth Death Valley’69 Lydia’s demented orgasmic blood curdling shrieks.
Sonic Youth went indie-grunge trying to get their favour back for taking Nirvana on tour in ‘91.
The Year Punk Broke, directed by a teenaged Dave Markey, an acquaintance now.
It broke because SY had the talent, Nirvana had the soul.
Meanwhile in the dirty downtown NYC clubs where this music is at home
Pussy Galore, Boss Hog, Jon Spencer’s Blues Explosion, Chrome Cranks, 8-Eyed Spy, Lydia & Rowland. These Immortal Souls.The Contortions, Suicide, Richard Hell, Robert Quine, Swans. SY went major label & Pussy Galore choose a name that ensured they never would. Murray Street or Orange? The Cramps, Chrome Cranks, Royal Trux & The Gun Club make post Bert SY’ look like Pink Floyd sans Syd. Good, but almost too good, too polished & polite. SY is with Hole, Lydia’s with R.S.H. I can’t listen to Goo anymore other than Lee’s songs.
Lydia interviewed Thurston one of man times & opened with “So, whats it like to be a pop star?” he just laughed. He knew better than to engage. They left their VU/Stooges roots behind to Croon Karen Carpenter covers with Sgt. Moore in complete command of every overproduced note. He shoulda stuck with Bisi. Most sampled producer of all time and most people don’t even know he exists and still works for reasonable fees, if the work is worthy of the man who did Bad Moon Rising, Evol & Shotgun Wedding.
Change your opinion if you want but at least have the guts to admit you were wrong.If I get charged ten bucks to see a concert I am gonna go anywhere on the floor I fucking please. I waded through pits malnourished & 90 lbs. If she wanted all the guys to the back then she should’ve charged them $5 each. When Grazhdanskya Oborona had to rotate members because they were being executed or sentenced to ten years in the Soviet Gulag their shows were about standing together against real oppression. Often they were just PWYC. They recorded on the run from the KGB on old x-ray prints. Kathleen Hanna grew into her fame at the height of western economic global power and the insinuation that girls all too small or not tough enough to be in the front of the pit is sexist in and of itself. Some of the roughest bruises I’ve got have been from passionate punk girls in the pit. They didn’t need the singer to tell them where they could go. Its a punk show, anyone gives orders you tell em to fuck off. And come on, marries a Beastie Boy after losing Kurt to Courtney? Courtney wrote better songs. ‘Suck my left one’ is tough and catchy in a fuck you kind of way but Asking For It? Cake? Jennifer’s Body? Violet? Pretty on the Inside? “They say I’m plump, but I throw up all the time!” Donita Sparks wasn’t perpetually pissed off so I could listen to her points (Points Patti, Excene & Lydia had been making since 76′ When Lydia had to turn tricks to stinking old cab drivers just to get home from a gig.
I am a musician & poet and if you pay for the ticket you take the ride. No pricing. How did she check anyway? Strip searches? Thats not punk its reactionist headline fishing & she knew it. Then acted like the mistres of the scene. Joan Jett? Blondie? Teenage Jesus, 8-eyed Spy, Shotgun Wedding all came first as well as most of Smith’s musical catalog. Ironically Sublime’s Date Rape helped many women come forward because before that song they didn’t even know it was ok to say no. Overplayed, no Suck My Left One, but it helped girls sleep easier at night. I aint saying girls aren’t still oppressed, but money & oppression go hand in hand. The old blues singers used to hang with kids like Lou Reed & Sterling Morrison, shooting smack & getting into knife fights in orchestra recording studios. (my grandma went on a date with the dinner, His Grace, Duke Ellington in the late forties. She could also hit a bird from a moving convertible with a revolver so people kept their whispers down. Hanna was white straight and married to a member of the highest selling rap group of the entire 1980′s, she’s living off of Fight for Your Right to Party while her still-living forerunners struggle to make a buck to fix their equipment for another show. No shoutout to Weny O. Williams who did it 25 years earlier as a non-white girl. How about Poison Ivy from The Cramps? Janet Weiss of Quasi & Sleater Kinney? Distillers were a bit later but they were punk & feminist as fuck. Every singer wants a gimmick and hers was shirtless shows (also.. plasmatics late70′s…) with simple slogans & girls to the front because I aint tall or big, most I weighed was maybe 125 and the 25 is gone. I’m not gonna give away money to not see or hear a show that the band doesn’t want me at. L7 used to party with Mudhoney. That sounds way better than paying to hear the conversations at the bar. ‘cause we aint all big and tough, you’re doin to me what you didn’t like them doing to you then go on to sing on feminist classics like American Idiot.
Love em or hate ‘em NOFX had a great way to sun things up with only a few words. “Kill the rockstars? How ironic, Kathleen. You’ve been crowned the newest queen.” –Thanks so much & thanks for all the shoes.
There’s a new golden rule to the old scene, don’t be an asshole & don’t act like you’re any better than whoever is using the mic. At least three of my favourite musicians are trans. If someone doesn’t mean to offend you if you let it go you’d be surprised what you learn. You like feminism & punk? Grunge? No Wave? Alexisovacidland, Christine IX, ECSTATICS, The Simple Pleasure, Cellular Chaos, Admiral Grey, Skinny Girl Diet, Chicken Snake, Family in Mourning, Featherz Brutal Measures, Melt Banana, D.N.A. Mars, Ikue Mori, Boss Hog, Blacksquares, Girls Rituals, even Wolf Lane has 3 regular female members. All released good recordings within three years If it their genitals not their art you care about though, just watch porn with the sound off & a single bikini kill CD, or start your own band and put weight behind your words if this don’t satisfy. I’m not trying to be an asshole but I will anyway. Last week I found out my cousin had leukaemia, same thing that killed my dad. They were both gone before I could register how bad things were. Mike Hudson of the Pagans, a musical and life mentor left facebook for two days. Died within hours of diagnosis. Imagine that. You get an hour to live & you feel too sick to care. A lot of dogs will die without homes now that Mike isn’t there for them anymore. A giant post bitching that life is too short to bitch over petty disagreements & too long when it needs to end. Sick sad tired xmas eve. No sleepy black cat to see when I awake. I remember each happy young Christmas like I’m being forced by a burning brand, my own seal of guilt. Christmas is when innocence dies. Two people just seems so empty and hollow. I miss my forest nymph poetess, naked deep in the heart of nature, dipping her bare toes in the warm water of a nearby spring, breasts ripe and delicious as exotic fruits. Her presences glows & grows & her smile is epidemic.
Will I ever be anything more to her
Than a friend?
Not just a friend… it goes deeper literally and metaphorically.
We love each other, but is my hard heart valued the same in her eyes
I love to make love, the women everywhere are beautiful, but they can’t see anything but their own reflections. ( have no eyes for anyone in this dull town.) not that I think I have much of a reflection with reflections of reflections.
But I lay awake wondering, tossing turning, fantasizing.
the memory of you tying beads around my naked throat
We’re both writers, loners, odd. I love it about you.
In a real relationship you can sit in silence, wrapped together in a blanket
And not talk for hours & it feels fine.
I can’t help myself around her, I get tender & romantic
Or rough & dirty, go to bed “early” and
Eight hours later we can barely stop ourselves,
Drifting in and out of dreams & sleepy seductions.
We like the same books, poems, records, positions.
I tried to novocaine my heart but six years & I still feel.
I spend hours writing about it, the poems carry me away
Down past the dying light of day.
–Jack Blare, 2018