Alien vs. Predator

K, so, I hate Paul Vermeersch. He represents a poetry that makes me want to turn my face inside-out so I can eat my own brain, but holy shit, he’s actually right about something.

I just read on his blog (which I shall not link to as a matter of principle) about a poem called “Alien vs. Predator” by an American up-and-coming lyric poet by the name of Michael Robbins. It’s one of my favourite poems ever.

Here. Have mindsex with this poem. All of you. For the good of mankind (or for the postmodernists among us, fun).

“Make it new,” they said. “Revisit the past,” they said.

Pride and Prejudice and Zombies — Pride and Prejudice and Zombies features the original text of Jane Austen’s beloved novel with all-new scenes of bone-crunching zombie action. As our story opens, a mysterious plague has fallen upon the quiet English village of Meryton—and the dead are returning to life! Feisty heroine Elizabeth Bennet is determined to wipe out the zombie menace, but she’s soon distracted by the arrival of the haughty and arrogant Mr. Darcy. What ensues is a delightful comedy of manners with plenty of civilized sparring between the two young lovers—and even more violent sparring on the blood-soaked battlefield as Elizabeth wages war against hordes of flesh-eating undead. Complete with 20 illustrations in the style of C. E. Brock (the original illustrator of Pride and Prejudice), this insanely funny expanded edition will introduce Jane Austen’s classic novel to new legions of fans.

I hope to hell somebody does this with War & Peace so I can get through that goddamned thing.

Ticket To Ride

“The train now approaching platform 6 to Birmingham New Street, 21:34, Virgin Train”

My natural instinct was to run to the train, I just got my ticket and was now running for my life. I went through the ticket barriers and hurried down the stairs. The train was already at the platform, so I hopped on as fast as I could and took a seat.

“Tickets please…”

The tall, skinny man glanced at my ticket and gave me an odd look. Hmm, it must be my Privilege card, I’ll flash it and it shouldn’t be a problem.

“Where did you say you were heading?”
“Coventry.”
He looked concerned and serious.
“I’m afraid this train is heading for Manchester, the next stop is an hour away at Stoke-On-Trent.”

This had to be a mistake, right?
The ticket man smiled at me, he must of seen this happened loads of times in his lifetime and didn’t question whether I was lying either, he saw my face drop and saw the truth in it.
He apologised and went on his way.
I stared into the darkness outside, not sure of where I was going. I felt like Bob Dylan, hoping on trains and going to no man’s land. The ticket man came back with a timetable for me, it explained arrival and departure times and what trains I would have to take to finally reach my destination.

“Thank you very much”
He smiled and walked away.

I needed to talk to someone, I called Liz and explained the situation. Well, to the best of my ability. Tunnels would constantly cut my connection off, so the conversation was fragmented. I promised her that I would text her to inform her of my arrival in Coventry. I did the same for my parents. I felt bad, I made my parents rush out and drop me off quickly, only for them to be worrying all night.

I wouldn’t arrive at Stoke-On-Trent until 22:39 and had 6 minutes to find out my platform. I ran across the station, lugging my food and DVDs I had brought up from home. 22:40 came around and there was my second train of the night on Platform 1 and it was heading for Birmingham New Street. Good job I caught this one and double checked it because this was the last train to Birmingham, it was vital, or else I’d be staying put.

This train would take another hour to reach Birmingham. I sat down, sighed and opened my book. Maybe Murakami could cheer me up. Hard-Boiled Wonderland and The End of the World. I only bought this yesterday, it was actually intended for my train journey to London tomorrow evening, but I couldn’t complain, it was something pass the time. I cranked up The Beatles on my iPod and decided to listen to their early material to make things lively.
Please Please Me, I’ll Be Back, You Can’t Do That, The Night Before, Love Me Do…

“Excuse me, does this train go to Sandwell & Dudley?”, a British man asked me, he was old and looked like he lived a hard knock life, I believe he was slightly drunk too, his companion was seated next to him, directly behind me.
“I don’t know personally, I’ve been on various trains all night, I managed to hop on the wrong train and have been travelling around for age, but I believe it only goes to Birmingham New Street.”
“Heh, I guess I can’t rely on you for the right information, but thanks anyway.”
He laughed and I smiled back politely.
I guess it was quite amusing, but I couldn’t find the humour in it.

I got to Birmingham New Street, I’ve been here before, but only once. It was when I met up with members of The Center about 2 or 3 years ago and I was familiar with the setting, well kinda. Everything was dead and quiet and that’s because it was now 20 minutes to midnight. I had no time to reminisce about my time here as I ran past the kiosk where I got my coffee with Hutch and Marshall and first met Woofie, Garlic and Lucy and found out my next and final train would be on platform 4a.

Just before I headed on, I asked a teenager if this was the right train, he said so, but I did double check on the train just to make sure, I couldn’t afford to make another mistake. I hopped on and made my way down the train, I walked past a vast amount of teenagers, stinking of sweat and weed. Must’ve of been at a concert, at least somebody enjoyed themselves tonight.

I sat down and let out a loud sigh. A young man, looked over and asked me if this train went to Birmingham International. I asked if he checked the screen outside and he nodded. He was foreign, but I couldn’t place him, he showed me his ticket and asked if it was okay, I nodded, but I didn’t really know myself to be honest. I started to tell him about my night, but I could tell he was lost and probably not interested, so I cut my story short, who could blame him? I guessed he was just visiting and didn’t know of the likes of Milton Keynes and Stoke-On-Trent, besides he probably had a long night himself as he travelled down from Manchester and was most likely going to be taking a flight somewhere later.

The train was loud, with teenagers and tourists on board. The group in front of me were Spanish and they were chanting songs and discussing their day, well, I guess that’s what they were talking about, they had shopping bags and big suitcases. I turned up my iPod and closed my eyes.

One stop to go. The young man smiled at me as he was leaving and said,
“Have a safe trip”
“You too, take care.”
That made me smile.

Finally. I made it. I ran out of the train and continued running until I was out of breath. A sigh of relief. I was back in Coventry and I’ve never been so glad to be in my life…
What could have taken 25 minutes took 2 hours and 30 minutes or so.
Time for bed.

I lit up a well deserved cigarette and stared into the cloudy night sky…

Thursday morning

Looking down, oblique from the shoulder of a large a disproportionate window, in the long panes of rectangle light, falling across the dark from implied street lamps, the back of a poorly drawn 1930’s comic book man can be seen, sitting at a desk, typing mad-frantic on a Remington model 1.  His white blouse’s sleeves are rolled to the bicep, a cigarette burning in his active right hand, snake of smoke just a wavy white line.  There’s a candlestick burning, beside it a clogged well of an ashtray.   This is seen in the upper-right third of the picture, excluding the yellow rectangles from the window the rest of the room is flat black, including the space above the desk that the candle’s tiny orange corona doesn’t reach.  

Stone-age nonsense is drawn across the black portion of the page with invisible ink.  Held beneath a light bulb they’d catch a glossy shine, revealing the strange social order of psychedelic demons, alchemic symbols, and ritual masks from uncharted jungles.  

A grainy pink text box inhabits the upper-left corner.  It says: “In the week’s slow burn to Friday’s pay, images were coming to Michael and he couldn’t say what they meant.”

A pastoral, an ode, an elegy and a eulogy… but not really, cuz i dont wrok that words worth shit…

Cat

Cat enters
as though something is disturbed.

“This must look very strange
to your cat,” M. said,

“Two men sitting on your bed,
peering intently into
little
black
books.”

The Wine

Settling into bed I realize
that my shirt wafts of red
wine, the stain
of a forgotten night
not 4 days dead.

Here is this night, stinking
like one of the elder winos
I avoid like so many typhoids
mary in the LCBO, just
lingering, all vapidity
and informed colour
gone, faded into the night-black
of a shirt no one sees,

the anger of its drinker’s
drunken gesture cast aside
for a thousand-thousand watch-ticks
instead, the nuance
of the cellar and the south-facing
knoll and the purple trees that breathe
on certain grapes gone,

a new hollow body simulacrum
bleeding as air pushes through
fabric, hitch-hiking fermentations

lost, the swarthy dances ribald
in close-quarters
sex-sparing it catalyzed
lost,

no one’s business but memory-
bookies and the street
outside, somewhere, a house
close by.

De-cadence and Necessity in Cuba

green post-Ike tide wraps
around the feet of the well-fed
vacationing in Cuba

dead fish and what look like
murdered stars washing
up after the storm

decadent thunder
dances echoing
from the resort on higher ground

eyes turn to feet
and bottles and the bodies
of dancers, seducers

who have learned their rhythm
ignorant
of fish and murdered stars

Eulogy I Shouldn’t Use

So why live a life
of poetry, tongue-and-foot
dances if grandma’s
scribbled deathbed
note causes more tears
than Sartre
and Shakespeare?

Flashing Lights

“This is our decision, to live fast and die young.

We’ve got the vision, now let’s have some fun”.

The flashing lights are blinding my eyes.

The glasses don’t help much, so let’s take them off shall we.

I see that girl looking at me, but I can’t see her for the lights are flashing at me.

Only me.

What does it matter anyway?

The couple kissing passionately right across, through every song,

makes me realise that I truly miss you with all my heart.

I want the attention, the understanding, the sex, that only you can give me.

And what they’re having, that one moment together, makes me want it so.

I just came to the conclusion that I really need you right now,

and I only saw you about 10 hours ago or so.

(I hope you’re thinking of me right now.)

They probably only known each other for about an hour or two,

but it doesn’t matter to them, they’re getting it tonight.

They’re having simulated standing sex, but just barely.

Everyone is looking at them with envy, even I.

Let’s dance the night away and forget that I do miss you and love you,

but it isn’t going to work.

This is my tenth cigarette of the night, each one burning away slowly.

Let’s dance.

Where has everyone gone?

Hey, do you have any Smiths or Nirvana said the man with the John Lennon shirt.

Look at Lennon dragging that cigarette.

He didn’t play any Nirvana or Smiths, but instead played some Rage, why not it seems?

I’m surrounded, yet I feel so alone.

Another drink should do it.

Why not? You only live once.

Shit, I can’t do it, let’s have another cigarette instead.

Where has everybody gone?

The number you have dialed isn’t avalibable right now,

please try again later.

It’s 4am, and I want to get high, but everybody has gone home.

Lock the door and go to sleep.

Read a book and pass out, it’s the only way to shut off.

How long will it take for me to sober up?

Anyway,

Tonight, I’ve realised…

…

Nevermind.

Goodnight.

The corvus winds, of misfortune spake

Caveat, sayeth the moon!

The black sermon sail forth from yonder…

Onto our homes the black clouds hath settled.

The icy voice hath downed from cry to whisper.

And from its lips pry forth: “Murder.”

Advice for an aspiring writer

“Every man with a bellyful of the classics is an enemy to the human race.” – Henry Miller

Having a hardblack wardrobe with frills and cufflinks to match the antique typewriter one bought thrift may make one feel as though they’ve situationed themselves in the history of the craft.  Similarly, reading all of the dusty, heavy-browed antique philosophy tomes – the pantheon of antique men with tumescent frontal lobes and receeding hairlines (mutants! grey aliens! kill them with fire!) – can make one quite comfortable in the big, cozy chair of intellectualism: here you can smoke your pipe and marvel at what you’ve learned from contrasting yourself to great thinkers and plebes.  One may consider this the right preparation while they sit and wait for inspiration, the winter shack to wait out the weather until summer comes and the lake is warm enough to swim in.  This, however, cannot make one a writer.

It’s discouraging news, I know, and I understand if you don’t want to take it well, but the only real way to establish yourself in this wretch’s game is to write.  Write about the lusty yellow scent of dirty laundry, the inconsiderate yet necessary racket of passing snowploughs, how you feel when you sit positively alone and useless, what you dreamt about bathroom stalls and what direction those dreams are blowing, write about the god damned trees and the fucking elk-trails, become mad, finicky, obsessive over your poetic collection of napkin fragments, first you must be as inane as the times we live in and then, and only then, when you understand what you are dealing with in claiming that you write, can you set yourself apart from the ugly and pretentious still targets I blow holes in with my high-powered style rifle.

3 artists interpret the life and times of William S Burroughs, lizard/gentleman junkie

William nods out on his friend Jack Kerouac.

Oh Willy, I hope you never change.

Vinnie Paz may say: “I’ll make you faggot and be proud of it.”

The later years.