Back in the day I liked to think I was a writer. I'd fill up these little MTSU notebooks, 9 1/2 by 6 - 80 sheets - college ruled, with wack poetry, drawings, lists, and just random thoughts of the day. It was sort of like a blog except that nobody read it but me. There was that time that one of friend's mothers read one of the notebooks and then told me I was such an artist, but I think she was just trying to be nice. Anyways I figured I would go through one of those notebooks written in 1986 and see what I could dredge up from it. I hope the following either makes you go "Damn that boy could write some poetry" or makes you laugh your ass off at the lameness of it all.
Art is nothing and a punch to the face,
Perplexing thoughts ill thinks
This memory mortal shift.
Everyone's looking for their halos
Beneath umbrella protection skies
Lightning peals and shines
Sinister flashes from the postman's leather pouch.
Black mood in like fog
Out of lives.
This black mood overwhelms the only
Sound of noise.
How did that one grab ya? Don't worry and don't get happy because here's another untitled throwup.
Between the gates,
Among the snakes,
I can do anything.
I can walk the wall over the polluted waters.
Fall into the emptiness
Fatigue bleached blanket of sorrows
Cast a shadow upon the breaking pane's
Hide under the mattress waiting for the
From dust to animate intensified desire.
You know I'm not a doctor and I don't play one on TV either. I don't know what that has to do with these proceedings, but it takes up space before the next piece of 1986 penned debris. I wrote this after an F Particles show at the Exit/In.
Work the door for the F Particles -
Ecstatic punk rawk menace slamdancing public service announcement I got my -
I drive parking lots to their destination (destined nation)
Pogo to the beat of the rain.
I threw smoke bombs at the patrons and gave the money to that dude that looks like -
I didn't really throw smoke bombs, but I did have fun keeping under 21's out when I was just 19.
Scattering the paranoia
Like pixie dust
Use the flag as a bulletproof vest
The bullets won't pierce your chest
That was some lyrics from a punk rock song filled with angst and anti-military sentiments. It would have made a good song for D.O.A. or maybe the Dead Kennedys. Lets's move on to some super goofy trash.
I can breathe freely on a ledge
in the sky
above the city
perched with the middle class
studying for the breakdown to come
but the apocalypse don't matter
when you're on top of the world
the heat rises and I'm in thrall
perched precariously in freefall
If you think that was bad, how about this bit from one I actually gave a title to:
Change Of Scenery
Philosophy is revolt -
Anger is protest -
Gothic bells signal death -
Images flicker and fade -
Spring breaks across the winterland -
The scenery changes once again.
I must have been listening to a little too much Bauhaus and Sisters Of Mercy that week. I'll bet I was wearing my beret when I composed such deep and thoughtful lines. I can just see it now. I was nursing a Mountain Dew laced with vodka, the stereo booming, Spin and Rolling Stone magazines scattered about my room. I was probably wearing my sickle and cross shirt purchased from those capitalist pigs at Raven Records. Yep that would have been the view. One more blast from the ignoble past. I actually still like this piece of doggerel.
Wastoid weekend wuza wuz
my mind is no longer is
When the moon is in the river
sometimes that's America.
Spray paint burners tags and pieces
you can't be shakey.
When the moon is in the sewer
sometimes it's the US of A.
Waiting at the gas station
with nowhere to hide florescent lights.
I guess I'll spend my quarters in the Tempest
Enough I say! I'll try to find something in the present to blog about next time.