Williamsburg Will Oldham Horror

Today I went to Major Matt's to remaster my old album
And on the L train in the morning,
I was pretty sure I saw Will Oldham,
He was wearin' the same sunglasses he had on stage at the Bowery Ballroom
Had he come to walk among the Williamsburgers of his kingdom
And like the burghers of Calais will a sacrifice be demanded?
To offer up our dreams and beg for mercy empty-handed?
And hapless in our hipness crowded 5 to an appartment
Relegate our dreams to hobbies and deny our disappointment
Cause The Stones in '65 want total satisfaction, kid
But The Stones in '69 see grace in just getting what you need
But if that's a victory then I'd hate to see what I'd look like defeated
Cause I know there are those among us who seem to get their dreams unimpeded
Today I went to Major Matt's to remaster my old album
And on the L train in the morning, i was really sure i saw Will Oldham,
He was wearin' the same sunglasses he had on stage at the Bowery Ballroom
Had he come to walk among the Williamsburgers of his kingdom
And you might say now there's a guy who seems to have their world laid out before him
Or you might say, he's just a rich kid or a fascist or a charlatan
But either way you say it if you look at indie-rock culture you really can't ignore him
And even if at first dismissive, after some listens you'll enjoy him I was thinking this on the L train, intend on bursting my own bubble
How long should an artist struggle before it isn't worth the hassle?
And admit we aren't fit to be the one inside the castle
This quest for greatness or, at least hipness, just a scam
And too much trouble but then what makes on human being worthy of an easy ride
Born to be a natural artist you love or hate but can't deny
While us minions in our millions tumble into history's chasm
We might have a couple of laughs but we're still wastes of protoplasm
Today I was gonna waste some time and money to remaster some dumb old album
And on the L train in the morning, i was really sure I saw Will Oldham,
He was wearin' the same big sunglasses he had on stage at the Bowery Ballroom
Had he come to see the strife here in the gutters of his kingdom?
Where us noble starving artists are striving to feed our ego
Our mothers like our music our our friends come to our shows
And if our friends become successful, we'll consider them our foes
Go home to our 4 roomates after payin' big bucks for rockstars shows
What a nightmare! what a horror! i don't want no part of this
Get me off this crazy ride, I'm gonna puke, I'm gonna piss!
I'd rather kill myself, I'd rather just relax or not exist
But you say you wanna do an e-mail interview?
Oh what the heck, I can't resist!
"Hey, 'ma, guess what today, I did another magazine interview!
Honey, that's great, you're really famous!!" Yeah and I'm 27 too!
I kinda thought I was gonna grow up to do stuff that would benefit humanity
But it's getting harder to tell if this artist's life is even benefitting me
Cause I was gonna waste some time and money today to remaster some dumb old album
And on the L train in the morning, I was totally sure I saw Will Oldham,
He was wearin' the same big sunglasses he had on stage at the bowery ballroom
And since I was feeling in need of answers I just went right up and asked him,
I said, Will Bonnie Prince, Palace or whatever "What do you think about it?
Is it worth being an artist or an indie-rock star, or are you better off without it?"
Cause I mean maybe the world would be better if we were all just uncreative drones,
No dead child, hood dreams to haunt us, a decent job, a decent home,
And if we have some extra time we could do real things to promote peace,
Become scientists or history teachers or un-corrupt police at least,
"Come on Will, you gotta tell me!!"
I grabbed and shook him by the arm,
The L train was leaning Bedford with 10,000 white 20 somethings crowed on
He opened his mouth to speak but it was lost in the rumbling of the wheels
We were thrown together in a corner and I yelled
"Tell me, man, for real!"
You're living comfortably, I assume, even if you're not quite a household name
You've reached a pretty high level of success & critical acclaim
The L train got to first avenue and a bunch of people piled out I was starring into his sunglasses and I was really freakin' out i was like,
Steamboat Willie Bonnie Prince of all this shit, you're like the king of a certain genre
But even you must want to quit like if you hear a record by Bob Dylan or
Neil Young or whatever
You must start thinkin' "People like me, but i won't be that good ever"
And I'm sure the thing is probably Dylan himself too stayed up some nights
Wishing he was as good as Ginsberg or Camus
And he was like
"Dude, I'm such a faker, I'm just a clown who entertains and these fools who pay for my crap, they just have pathetic punny brains and Camus probably wished he was Milton too or whatever, you know what i'm sayin'?!"
So Will, will you be straight with me now that it's just us 2 on this train?
Cause I was gonna spend some time and money today to remaster some dumb old album
And I saw you here on the L train
And I was like "Hey, is that Will Oldham?" he must at least , have some perspective
Cause it's like, living in this town I get so confused & wound up & up tight
And I just don't know up from down
And then we'd reached the last stop and the subway was deserted
There was a long moment of silence and I let go of his shirt
I started to think that maybe I'd made some kind of big mistake
I tried to walk out onto the platform but by then it was too late
His sunglasses seemed to grow darker and still he hadn't even spoke
He just came right up behind me and put his hand around my throat
And threw me down onto the concrete and kicked my face in with his boot
And dragged me down onto the train tracks and tied my hands back with his coat
And I was slipping out of conciousness as he was slipping down my jeans
And he was punching me and humping me and I slipped off into a dream
So it might have just been a delusion
But I thought I heard him say something like "Artists are pussies"
Then he climbed back up and ran away
So I lay there in the darkness on the train tracks cold and broken
The hours passed and I thought,
Well... maybe I won't remaster that old album
And then I started thinking maybe it really hadn't been Will Oldham
Even though he did hold my arms and fucked me just like Will sings in "A sucker's evening"
But whether it was him or not I couldn't forget the words he'd spoken "Artists are pussies", like we're wusses or we end up getting fucked
And other kinds of folks are dicks, tall, smart and strong
And born to fuck us up I know,
It sounds really sexist and stupid,
It's a terrible analogy but at that moment on the train tracks,
It made a lot of sense to me maybe it's just some kind of natural balance,
Like 2 types of mental gender that's gone on in all societies,
In one form or another like some dicks were born to conquer,
I probably would if I could but if i'm just a pussy, that's okay
Cause in a few months maybe, I'll put out something good.

Why I Do What I Do...

Pretending In Love...

Is it a wonder that we seek love? Is it a wonder that we scorn when we are rejected? Sociologists and psychologist will tell you the answer those questions in a heartbeat, but a heartbeat can tell you so much more. What is it that drives the human heart to seek partnership - Chemicals? Hormones? Electrical surges in the brain? Or are they just the by product of the energy that defines humanities deepest crevices and explodes within them, to make us all that we hate and crave, all that ravages us from the inside?

These questions rarely, if ever, make it into the mind of the common human, for so lost are they in their daily insecurity and routine that even a shred of hope would tear them apart, and that is what love actually offers - Hope.

A chance at something better, a chance at a time of sharing and comfort, the warmth of a human being loving you for no reason other then you. And you, knowing that to be true, a cliche, perhaps but something one can't live without, hope, love, the wonder of the romance, it pulsates within the consciousness of every man, woman and child, for love, for care, for the knowledge that someone will be there.

So its not a surprise that weather knowingly or unknowingly, it is we all, the ones with too much time on our hands, with not enough worry of significant magnitude left to unravel the innermost yearnings of the human consciousness. Perhaps a task too great for one person, perhaps too foolish, but in it and through it all, all that one person can hope for, ask for, is a companion, someone to laugh with, fight with and struggle with, to find out who they themselves are and in doing so find out who the other person is.

Its the wonder of the first word read in a book, the magic of the unheard song and the touch of a loved one, it transcends all that tells us what is right and wrong, what is acceptable and taboo, what is feeling and cold. Sp as we set on forth to discover our capacity of love and its inherent possibility to exist, we may have to find ourselves still in turmoil over where we stand on its existence, but till then i say to you friend, try pretending to be in love, and then think would it be possible to live a life out of it?

Mind and the Madness

These are only screams only we can hear;
Voices of a hundred tormented verses.
Weather changes, tempest do rage,
Vast civilizations madden in our minds.
Their insanity bleeds in abundance,
Overflows our vessels edge,
Drenching pages with inchoate voices.
We claim holy nexus between us,
Entangled frequencies of our silence;
Strum on a fret like white noise.
We shudder within their resonance,
At night beneath shuttered eyelids.
In the second darkness’ dawn,
We encounter visitations of muted images.
Synapse by synapse they flash out,
Our union’s ritual begun.

-PnP, 14th September 2007

Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question...
Oh, do not ask, ' What is it? '
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, ' Do I care? ' and, ' Do I dare? '
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair--
(They will say: ' How his hair is growing thin! ')
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin--
(They will say: ' But how his arms and legs are thin! ')
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all--
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all--
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all--
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?

* * * * *

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?...

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

* * * * *

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep...tired...or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet--and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it towards some overwhelming question,
To say: ' I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all'--
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: ' That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it at all. '

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along
the floor---
And this, and so much more?--
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen;
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say,
' That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant at all. '

* * * * *

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous--
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old...I grow old...
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

Ancient Iteration 2

For Kalaghoda


Music flows in the misty air tonight
Silent witness to whores at shores end
Gliding within the shallow salted sea
Their tremors in tune, in key


No time to lose, no time to waste
Such value, such haste, such craze
Ineffectual passion undazed
However remain in that atmosphere
Amazed, amazed


Rippled through their bodies
Moon shine, night-light invisible
Crept into deep crevices
Of shame they do not show
Their naked self they only know


A time for prayer, kneed and waiting
Deliverance!
Upon airs of goodness
What do they know, these whores
On shallow tainted seas they roam?
What airs they show?
What lessons they know?

Ancient Iteration 1

For S.G.

The night breaks down,
Spreading thin over abandoned time.
That is its nature,
They would have me believe.
Fallacy of subjective thought,
Your pleasure,my pain,
What more does this night demand?

The night breaks down,
And it seeps through the stars.
Its void an eye onto the worlds,
Dirty secrets, misty eyes it spies,
And a flurry of shame does gather.
A towel blown in the breeze,
Off the breasts of a girl.

The night breaks down,
Thick liquid black,
In my effervescent coffee dreams.
Aromas infectious cocaine,
Bamboo shoots up my nails,
Electric awareness regained.
A violent serenade,
The night breaks down,
And me within it contained.

Depression is...Funny

i am the smoke king

i am wack

i am falling from my high

i am fleeing life just to die

i am the consciences' whimpering fate

i am constipated bravery come late

i am in fragments of shattered state

ebbing deeper into the abyss

my country folk, them sure i'll miss

i am the smoke king

i am wack

i am the smoke king

i am wack

i am dried vomit on the floor

i am driftwood seeking shore

underbelly of the overly obese

the promiscuous girls' final tease

the fuckin' never coming sneeze

dredged up from subterranean gorge

lacking power to rise and surge

i am the smoke king

i am wack

i am the smoke king

i am wack

i am faded music's tones

i am unanswered telephones

i will be wack as wackness can be

through clouded shadows i shall see

the smoke need be my only company

i am the devil's shiny ass

i am the raped village lass

i am the smoke king

i am wack

i am the smoke king

i am wack

i am blistering my fragrant musks

i am tearing at unseen cusps

no bodies near me are found pure

my smokey attire my haute couture

alienation to me is insured

Howdy, then, these yellowed hands

Sweet jebus, my swollen glands!

Props to the smoke king,

Props to his wack!

---------------------------------

The props for this above parody goes to none other then our very black, our very dead and our very poetic friend W.E.B.DuBois (http://members.tripod.com/~DuBois/smok.html). Show the man some respect! He went to Harvard for all you people...you know who you are!!

And a shout out back to Abhijeet Ahluwalia (http://literatea.blogspot.com/) for the competitive encouragement, who by taking advantage of my downtime felt free to overpopulate his blog with uncensored tripe (although some of it goes really tasty with the tea he serves). :-) Do check it out. :D

Peace.

Til more depressing times.

Only One Who Knows...

Fluorescent bulbs dangle hanging
Greased carpet stains askew
Passages of Biblical verse
Pass for literature nouveau
The regular drunk is wandering
His trip is in his stance
After burn of a cigarette light
Passing souly his last romance
The patrons green and red exclaim
As his senses he forgoes
The crowded bar is reaching
For hes the Only One Who Knows

Virgil's words guide onward
To Purgatory, Hell or Home
Liquid amber lies shimmering
Amassed wealth shared alone
Fleeing the night cries Fyodor
"White nights be untamed,
Fools, friends and lovers,
And those without a name"
Listless falls the pages
In darkness their letter shows
Writer of these million tomes
Is he the Only One Who Knows?

Sunsets floating to horizon
Naked skies have twilight shame
Clothes littering the balconies
Of this there's plenty to blame
Casting aside His players
"Iago, Rodion, come, lets go
The playwright begging all
"Be there for our next show
So the theaters kept, iris wept
"Come, before him we shall bow
For surely of us all
He is the Only One Who Knows

At the secret crypt of shadows
Lays the ladder that Jacob saw
Broken promise of coming back
On friendship was his own law
Least saving grace lies jointly
At humbled meeting knees
And legions of forgiveness
Is not likely to please
So Jacob looks upwards
Is death an easy way to go
Truly this was the man forsaken
Perhaps the Only One Who Knows

Instance and chances dawn us
By Pavlov's howling grace
Embittered with false memories
Avoidance to save ones own face
He sings the body electric
Whitman, Kerouac, who cares?
Dead poets invade upon him
His doggerel soul he bares
Looking upon him you would think
He ponders in some deeper lows
His words are always far to less
Could he be the Only One Who Knows?

X
Missing Stanza
X

Now follow them further screaming
As each and every man does lose
Borges lurks in the garden
Like flowers, friends he must choose
His tulips have gone out of season
His roses frayed in warm despair
And all his words, they aren't enough
For anyone to come and share
So come one, come all today
Borges down mystical river rows
Paddling across the Sien
To the Only One Who Knows

So the night covers everything
Darkness sees through it all
Justice mocks the Trial judge
As blinded wanders Saul
This Kafkaesque existence
Demands that sentence be met
And upon bitter reminiscent
His confession reeks regret
So light the executioners torch
Before the morning snow
The touch of white purity
Not for the Only One Who Knows

Brothers and Sisters do unite
The saviours message carries on
Songs of love, longing, laughter
Must cease and be forlorn
Messrs Martin and Waters protest
Time and Trouble yet be dealt
While Sartre and Camus' lies
Surely eclipsed and rarely felt
With meaning upon meaning inferred
Seeds borne but never sowed
Arise truth, arise I say
For he is the Only One Who Knows

So piling on the books I saw
Him stumbling through those doors
Like a sailor locked away from sea
On still earths deathly shores
With words on words he mustered
With words the pain shall cease
In drug addicted insanity
Death maybe the final release
He flung the doors of old saloon
Your goodbye still safely stowed
Lest you be the one hes waited for
The Only One Who Knows

I Death, Destroyer of Worlds

And so it is. Onward comes another tomorrow in this designated Purgatoria, the transit lounge to the great beyond. Beyond what? I dare not venture a guess. It is the now that troubles me most. Blissful ignorance of that infernal circle of knowledge, of was and will be, I violate the protocols of passage and only imbibe the stasis of my existence with a solemn vow of solitude, insistently convinced of my own demise and dismissiveness of the same.

It is not vanity. Nor arrogance that defines what I say here. It is the only permissiveness I allow myself. My perverted pleasure of control and order. Here I shall unravel all that my Chaos brings forth, the worst that I have to offer. The worst dressed in pretty little words, of lyrical interpretations and gross exaggerations, in iterations of intentions and consequence of conscience (or lack there of?). It will be the question that shall forever permeate my darker, shallower self; the question of Human divinity or Godly apathy. Neither as fulfilling as my indifferent sublimity.

Hence forth where these pages will scroll, shall stroll my secrets for all to see. Or none to see, for nothing was as boring as the 'I' of someone else. But as with all 'I's shall exist this one as well, awaiting judgement not for the best of my being but for the worst. No measure or quarter shall be drawn, for it is hard to love that which you fear to become. And will become, for transcendence lies in embrace not reticence.

The change will be forced and violent. With blood and gore of slivering promiscuity, such that shall seem a naive attempt at evil. But its neither, evil nor naive, but informed and heartfelt, only lacking purpose. The 'I' shall be alone, with neither consonant or vowel before or after to depend on. This 'I' will carry on.

'I' will evolve,

'I' will survive,

'I' will subdue and

'I' will Prevail.

But I will not survive.

Come forth and see.

I am become death, destroyer of worlds.