Project Punk






Punk-drunk

Glass plate
clashes
crashing the tiles
the linoleum
the kitchen floor.
The sink is dry
but the metal stinks
like blood stains
a white T-shirt
of the punk-rock
sick girl with sticks
in her back pocket.
She folds her weapons
like nunchucks in her pants
bulging to the slope of her butt.
Her boots are thumping
down the stairs
of her Rego Park apartment
building a heroin-height of anxiety.
She presses her thumbnail to her elbow hole
popping the vein as she twists the nail in deeper
digging the glistening blue wire
with the shovel of her finger-nail
and pulling like an IV
got caught in her arm.
A magician chokes somewhere on the mono-colored
skinny tie she is releasing.
She tugs
but the scarf can pull no longer
it gets stuck at the wrist.
She wiggles
and yanks harder
until she feels the chord through her middle finger.
Her surrounding digits bend
down to the swollen knuckles
so she plucks her single guitar string
signaling her fist as a puppet.
She plays on
until the scar on her head starts melting
across the purple collar of her shirt
soaking the black jean of her pants.
She starts to dance
and runs through a plate of glass. 

*exercise the mind: try reading the poem above, again, but read only the last word of each line


 


Sucker Punk 

Just a shit load of Ramones songs







 Tank Girl is pretty fucking Punk 
Lori Petty as Tank Me as Tank




Bad Guy Punk — Randall Flagg 




Web of Rock — courtesy of Amstel and the Subway — Check out the Punk side of that shit


And finally, because Poems are Punk too, and because they do not have to make any sense to you — here are another two

The SymTones

First album: BEAT FRENCH FRY
it was our alternative band name - Tom
           
First single
“Grass walking” – punk electric
Grassly walking
Walking grassly

Second Single
“Squirrel Song” – 90s alternative-pop-rock
Squirrels playing games
Ring-around the squirrel
Squirrels chasing squirrels
Ring-around the gate

                        Third song on CD
                                    “Train Please” – big band/ swing/ ska/ jazz
                                                I’ve been waiting for the train please
                                                My whole life for the train please
                                                I’ve been waiting and it’s such a tease
My whole life all day long

And in the tunnel, from Monday to Sunday
                                                I’ve been waiting for the train please
to come around the bend
again around the bend – Please

Singer – Grace Stage
Guitarist – Sam Simpson
Bassist – Seth Sampson
Drummer/ Song Writer – Tom

First Gig: Eight o’ clock showing at Nymph Corner Dec 14th 2011! 

Pending second album: SYNCOPATED THUMBS
with most anticipated singles of the year
Modern Medieval and French Fries Drained by a Straw
“We really should have written French Fries for the first album – our bad!” - Tom

*Note – alternate alternative band name The SympTOMS



Pardon the intrusive insistent interrupting prowl:

I feel a bubble boil bubble blood bubble, bubble in my palm, choke back the bug roaring, skittering, tap dance dancing in the slope of veins and skin curdling

tinker oils of my epidermis, epiphany in a dry skin scalp scratching psoriasis, sprinkling crusty chalky lashed out skin

a white leafy cut cuticle – bent brains belted, canine teeth of wonder as a poking orb orbiting revolting revolving revolting revolving eye wrapping revoking

turn around addled added sight, a divisible vision done right by multiplication – double dimension, dementia

embedded in the deadness of the flesh is islands rocking arching liquids; lifting liquids lift around the edges, swishing swimming rolling over

shaking rock, echoes of lumbered alien elves that dwell in taverns and caverns, consumed in caves rocking against crumbling dried dirtied clumps of dirt

metal strikes, search for diamond drive hammer and six feet under soiled crystallized pebbles, planted shimmering sparks rush

tolling the troll toils with my skin, it induces the shape I am in
hallucinogen hallucination how to spell the world that’s taken me in, absorbed me aborted me abhorred me and laughed most importantly laughed like the criminal to my subconscious
it is cackling swords a’ crackling down streaks of streaming barriers creak, it is the noises of generations we seek, only voices to carve into concretion, coercion, what’s the obsession with correction – connection!
I like the men, the tiny men in my arm marking time marking measure marking, marking like a paper grade that’s artificial that won’t – it mocks me – make me special
‘cause I’m special!  and I usually don’t talk with contractions, but I’m mad and enraged by the words working my hands hands hands, a carpenter nailing down joints next to rail road crossings, lift your feet while driving
we are sailing over an abyss, through a tunnel we could not conquer, finding the right corner, to observe to adore over
order drool from nasty cake covered cock-a-roach style beards, filth underneath rampant radiant redundant smiles
the mask is lax lazy, telling nothing of the macho hemisphere they hide in, instead their teeth are rotten from the sides to the core of the enamel laminate – paper thin like George Washington who sprung for falsies that were wooden.
lubricant, it is a suffocation, watery – the slimy skin of texturized toad heads rubbing pores, clumpy corroded hardened heels – Colonel colon, corrupted corporation organization
follow footsteps footprints but it leads to foot faults false footings, a short order on how to walk properly, first foot’s first, but which foot is taught to produce it?
the first is mathematical grammatical absolutely philosophical theoretical rubbish rubber I shake it in the palm that pulses residue of some dying distilled down dildo disease called culture.  I could have tarnished like a lamp on candle-waxed strips splattering across sidewalks of riverbeds on a dead end parkway heading south.
I could have died when I simultaneously drowned off a cliff in my dreams, came up around a bend to the water’s side and out on a concert stage
the candle walked within my hand then, planting kisses for a path – way, way down south, immemorial.
My stomach gutted to the two-sheeted wind – intestines poured over the muffin top belly bottom belly
a button fastened, unfastening fast, strapped in, strap on, a seatbelt.
Rupture in a fascinating fluid crawl, rattling, caged in; wish the miners well on their venturing to submarine searches, machines.
Quench thirsty hung-over half humans – give them the taste of exquisite blood pumping,
purchase dehydration depletions at the door 
dejection, defecated defacement, brown-nosed brownie sweets, twisted organs from defeating the beast!
Hunger strike strikes hunger again against starving aggressively aggravated, agitated arrogant adolescents!
We are all vomiting verbal diarrhea, words gargling through backwashed throat gurgle spit splash.
Cock-a-doodle-doo quack, to whatever I say; clap to the fistfuls of formulaic clay.
Filtered coffee grinds; “Good Morning!”







Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

You Have to Draw the Line Somewhere

Image
Since when do people not know how to wait on line?             Imagine if you will: it is 7:30 in the morning, you are tired and cranky, and certainly not a morning person. You arrive at the bus stop where people appear to have forgotten the fundamentals, not to mention the common courtesy, of waiting patiently in an orderly place on line. No! Let’s do away with lines , I think they think as they cluster-fuck together in a clump (or a crowd as some people call it) so that there is no rhyme or reason­­— and just so I can piss the fuck out of all the other passenger-people . Maybe if you would wait on line you could be lucky enough to stand next to me and hear me bitch about how people do not know what a line is anymore. Here is a line:  Here is a line of people:  Here is a bus line:  Here is a clump (or a crowd—a clumpy crowd):  I am just short of snapping and holding a sit-in, or a stand-in—a strike more like it. But there is only so much I can d
Read more

Brain Boggle

Image
This is kind of like everything I have ever said (similar to my post about putting things in inappropriate places, or just where they do not belong— Tear Down That Bitch of a Bearing Wall ).  This kind of situation that I will talk about in a few sentences from now happens with words and sentences and idioms and things.  Perhaps this is how we have come to know some of our most ridiculous and popular phrases like white on rice or call a spade a spade or putting my foot in my mouth .  See, but if one is to do their research I am more than positive that there are reasons and explanations for those exact sayings.  But there may not be a reason at all for what I am about to explain.              You know those instances, where you just do not say what you want to and your brain takes over and that little guy inside manically laughing rewires the word choices of your brain so that there you are saying some barbarically asinine statement.   There are a few logical reas
Read more

The Big Book Theory

Image
It all started with someone’s status on Facebook being, “Nook or Kindle?” and me writing back, “Book.” The status writer cleverly or stupidly spat, “I think you spelt Nook wrong.  And anyway I am just looking to read, no fancy stuff.” So I remarked, “Like I said, Book!” Later I told my dad the story inserting, “I need to turn pages!” as my reasoning for a book being the victor of a very pointless competition.    “And if he wants to read to just read, why get a nook at all?” I continued.  “He can’t say he read a book then, he just looked at a screen.  That's worse than scanning a book.”  I told my dad, “It’s like when you were reading audio books; you didn’t read them, you had them read to you .  You listened to a book, but you certainly did not read one.” My dad said, “Screw you,” probably, and asked, “Then what would you say about a blind person reading a book?” “Oh, that’s easy," I said.  “They felt a book up!”
Read more

Dear David Hasselhoff

Image
Dear David Hasselhoff, I do not like you. You know how everyone has that one celebrity they cannot stand, who grids their gears, who irks them to the core—I am sure you have one too. Well, that one is you for me. I have no real reason to dislike you. I have never met you. Although a friend of mine worked for a major retail store, and as the story goes, this friend’s manager was serving you and your daughter and you tried to bargain down a thousand dollar coat and made a whole scene when you were denied. I have not even really familiarized myself with your work to make this judgment against you, but I have encountered just enough. This is not to say that I do not find you funny, I do. I found that video you made of Knight Rider funny, and some other appearances of yours, sure. But to be honest, I just cannot shake the distaste. And just like how I image it will be when I meet my future mate, I can pinpoint the exact moment this aversion arose.  Vocal 8: senior year of high scho
Read more

Beyond the Road

Image
*For Halloween, but mainly for Dan, without whom this story would never exist, because it happened to him (with a few of my artistic embellishments). Like I said, worked real hard on this. Hope I did the vision justice.                 A driver drives southbound-east in a car, shoving crusty chips in the corners of his cheeks. The bag of grease lounges on the passenger’s seat and the driver dips his hand in periodically, licking vinegar crystals off his fingers from the sea-salt snack. His other hand padlocks around the steering wheel, drives onward. His glasses fall to the point of his nose; eyes fixated on the pulsing potato chips and not the road ahead—those circular discs of caloric pleasure. The fatty deposits at his sides expand his smallish figure. The groan in his belly growls deeper. The radio dial flickers neon blue and reverberates off the lens of his frames onto the road before him. He watches as the light casts its image on the lane. Not a single c
Read more