Looking back.
That this great event was surrounded by darkness only brightens its little flicker in the night. Goodbye Andy, goodbye Rick. Take care Julie, JR and Nick.
The Dirty Projectors Rise Above, a recreation from memory of the seminal Black Flag album, Damaged.
It’s the way I like to work.
To name a few.
Some thing new.
Had a small show behind the set – as some of you may remember.
Gonna try my hand at some home studio beat thingys and hope to do more live with it too.
But sometimes a thingy takes some steeping
We’ll see.
Red headed fathers and sons sharing a grin.
A trio from San Antonio catching a break.
and we live in a crater.
In Boston with B & P and two child in ’07. The world has changed. Travel difficult.
and catch the pretty sounds of West Indian Girl.
She arrived by KFC grease.
We have a drink at Middle East.
We top things off at the Peoples Republic.
Where a girl with the strongest Boston accent I’ve ever heardtries to convince us she’s Irish.
in revolution.
She flirts.
She leaves us drinks.
what more do you want than tits and ass?
We ride home and fall asleep in tears.
WWII? Yes.
My cousin marries her college boyfriend
who,
small world that it is,
is friends with NAP contributor Bloody Jumpsuit.
The joyous event takes place on the Island of Long
cousin-in-law is joined in song
to serenade my fading gramps.
A year, as I recall it, left in shadow.
nerved, spotted not alone at the copy bag’s lip.
your “last great mime” eyes watching faces go bald
through a ply of mucus or living gauze.
the way a glass of still water brings out…
strings out an entire night’s sleep.
the ringing in your ears after locking a series of door.
when you feel friendless and are.
this sends a thin kitchen noise very pregnant throughout the house.
letting the few squeaking floor boards know
that they cannot but sleep through you.
a dream scream zilch to the woke.
wanting power not unlike that of a thermostat,
instead your one warm dot of wheat buckling down
to the 10,000 sours of time line indulgence.
a silent undeniable page break.
sure you swear you single out a single grain of sea
and keep track all the way to the shore.
trousers rolled to the diminish of pants utility,
flashing calf meat at the big water mom.
avoiding the wake and thief’s dignity that’s losing count.
saying “great” or six pounds eleven ounces
awaiting happy to the ribs of books frayed…
all that respect for never seeing all your blood displayed
outside your body at once.
all that ignoring of the fewer’s golden properties.
skipping on the curse of will you help with pregnant
meanwhile tumors twinkling, twining through your seaweed center.
such bit part power over earth and anti-gravity.
cold editing the place machine to bits because you’re this…
mediafetusmindmomowingstraightman coughing bird badly
and creacking broken english like a rock.
the caveman absolute…more red pant faced than garden goaled.
you can taste the astronaut in those nails…
suck on the dirt in edison’s teeth…
blindly ejaculate his thousand helper rally..
be reminded your worm blossomed body feeds a smile rich mud.
what they do…is get an empty barrel filled with loosed puzzle pieces…
and a hollywood set fan…and blow them all over you.
i can’t wait ’til i wake to the bit in this flick
where all crutches are kicked and my mother’s forgived.
be it by therapist’s sieve or one can crash to live.
i would rather not dive from a wire of bridge
if it’s for me to heal by the 25th give
god forbid that this nose glass mustache to wig
is exposing a rib.
god forbid i’d live to see fifty
fat-fingered and fearless with something like kids.
trapping yourself in a solid fashion (negative)
before the sexual hinge.
your father honest and alimoniless in the thickest of glass blowing.
his squeezed teeth saying your mother’s become disgusting.
she is…was secrets to the clubbed tongue of a jersey secretary…
oh you remember buried in the thin inner hand cells that refuse replacing,
’cause you won’t bite into your warm arm
for fear of bursting the bulged obvious veins.
the same veins your heart seems so impatient with.
maybe your cuts so deep it makes a second mouth
more massive than your guilty average ten year old smart pumps glib…
maybe not…you’re a harpless fear extra in the dust gather massive…
a muscle bound fossil swapping specs of flesh
for a rock thin slow future of snapping off into salt…
there’s no harm done in the fruition of minerals…
the second great planting sink of your adult teeth.
I got as far as “Goodbye Andy” and didn’t read the rest of your post.
nice remembrances- a sort of collage of how wonderful and strange things can be.
good to hear you’re foraging into the world of beats and look forward to the results. you named a few i haven’t heard too much from: Panoptica, Peace Orchestra, De-Phazz, Burial, Yo Majesty, the Coup, the Bug, Spank Rock… maybe they’ll make it onto a podcast in the future?
I understand EM.
Bluebird – I had a line in there thanking you for your guidance (by way of Nap). I guess it was stripped by my editor. So thank you. Dug the Lemon Jelly and the Mr. Scruff.
As far as the napcast, we’ll have to do a pornographic cast down the line so we can find a home for Nasty Bitches (although seriously I don’t know that this song really needs a home here) and I can stick Yo Majesty’s Kryptanite Pussy on there too.
Fuck, I’m still stuck on “Quis”.
Oh man, it’s Latin just stick it in a translator.
That’s what I did.
And here I am thinking you brushed up on your classical studies…
It’s worse than that. Tricia asked me what it said and I couldn’t remember.
!
translator tool gave: Anyone To throw a Shade Yet Nothwithstanding Light
? wha
i have insomnia.
My very bad latin translation is something along the lines of who/ what has a shadow, must also have some light. Does that jog your memory W?
It was something along those lines yes.
I will say this in defense of my stupidity. I could have called my dad to get a proper translation but I wanted to keep it in the quirky realm of the internet. I kind of like that the original thought put into English is now lost.
It’s a tie in with the latin A.D. from the Western calendar.
And as long as I’m breaking things down, I love the empty chair in the photo. And the light.
I came very close to putting “Kryptonite Pussy” on a Superman themed International Mixtape Project mix I made for some girl who lives on Lois Lane. I pussied out at the last minute and axed it.
Back when I “studied” latin, I could always translate from latin to english, but never back. Something to do with syntax. And laziness ensuring that I never learned conjugations and declensions. At any rate, I distinctly remember a classmate using BabelFish to translate a passage from Caesar’s commentaries on the Gallic wars. The passage was something along the lines of a description of Caesar’s men slaughtering a batallion of enemy combatants, known as the Tigurini. Babelfish gave back some nonsens about Caesar eating a tiger as it swam across the river, because the tiger had eaten Julius’ Father in law.