The Impotence of Coexistence

So I wrote this little poem many many years ago, with MD in mind...which means, damn, 8 years ago? It resurfaced awhile ago as a possible song then ended up on the back burner again...songs seem to have a way of floating around my head..sometimes for an hour, sometimes for years before being ready to be born.
The words just so happen to fit right into a song, and now I think I've about got it down. I kept trying too hard with it and finally I had to let it ride into the simple structure of barre chords and just a few bending string tricks over the fuzz-boxed betweens. It turned out rather old Cure-ish but fuck it. I like it, it fits, and I'm sticking to it.

Love is an open shirt
Love is the sour moon
Love are the cigarettes that leave you..
gasping in a sterile room
(wretched love)

Oh I'm in Love
In love with you...this
nail in the foot
this fleshy sex glue
this wrinkling sun
this rat in the stew..

This fading dandelion you gave me in June
a dead clump of petals I still cling to

and it's sad and it's sad and it's sad
oh it's sad

that our love is a wound
that our love is a wound

that I salt again and again
just to feel you

(instrumental dribble here)

This is the impotence of coexistence
the impotence of coexistence
the impotence of coexistence
I'm done.

Tell me what song runs between my ears...and I'll give you a baby bird

It is not the fact
that you remembered my birthday...
or that you remembered every curve of me.
This dress fits me perfectly
never have my eyesmouthskinhairtoescollarbonehands
looked more lovely
than when I put on this dress
this smile
this laugh
and stepped lightly into the swallowing yellow of an angel's sun
swinging a bag of books at my side like a twelve-year old version of myself
and whistling
forgetting that I can't whistle.
It is the fact
that nothing can tug a frown out of a girl
in a dress such as this
because she is loved
and she is missed.

thank you.

If another fucking ignorant human hole

comes up to me, IN FRONT OF ONE OF MY CLIENTS and begins to humiliate both the client and I by loudly going on and on about what a GOOD person I must be to be doing such GOOD work and "OH! What PATIENCE you must have! I could NEVER do that!" And looks gooey-eyed down at my client as if he/she is some kind of fucking Jerry's Kid and I am some angel of charity...
I swear you yuppie christian assholes I will stab you in the eye, I will kick you in the spleen, I will steal your SUV and have a crack/meth/hooker/priest/necro party in it, I will piss on your toothbrush ....
My client may have a disability, maybe mental retardation but He/She is NOT some drooling "Retard"... they can hear you, they can uderstand you, they can feel rotten and embarassed to be singled out as someone who only a SAINT could possibly work with.
FUCK! Have some god-damned respect, shithead.

Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds - (Are You) The One

as usual...Nick says it best.

Click here. Look at this. Right now. Yes, I'm talking to you.

this site is so addictive. It's a beautiful idea, and often I see one of these that actually stop my heart for a moment.

spread the word

A lovely synopsis of the current seattle slam scene, filmed by Melissa T. I only just found out about this yesterday, which is weird because I'm in it. I think it's really well done, especially the new-poem construction out of the bits of spits.

I'm onto you.

Powered by Castpost

george washington

if this doesn't make you laugh than we are not friends.