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    Wednesday, June 25, 2008

    password is zebra tonight at 86


    here is last weeks collective poems from the Subterranean poets


    She picked her shirt off the floor.
    Cat hair and all.
    Spun around half-naked…..
    And Said

    Last night I saw four boys in black suits.
    One sang in the mic and said something heartfelt.
    The drummer dull. The bass player bounced.
    I said, "man if I meet another man in a band…."

    There's way too many "men" in "bands."
    Go home and stop hurting my ears.
    I want people to see me and say he's gifted with poetry.
    But I'm done now.

    And how could I not be? Therein lies the question.
    I am and will be. Till my heart stops.
    But I will take it with me…..
    To the grave.


    God, its not that hard man.
    It's a fucking poetry game.
    Do you know how to play games?
    I fucking know how to play games.

    Checkers, chess….
    Soccer on Sundays!
    Why can't you look me in the eyes?
    Can't you smell the night? How it lingers in your hair?

    You don't wear perfume.
    But all day the scent of you lingers.
    What was it you said?
    That night in the parking lot?

    That I can't live like this anymore.
    Looking at your house looming like a ghost.
    Watching my life. Judging, and watching every move.
    On a hill, with lights like eyes and Beatles playing through the night.


    OK OK OK OK. I am gonna make money.
    Uh uh uh uh,. I am gonna be smart.
    OK OK OK OK. Treat me with respect.
    Uh uh uh uh. I'm not smart or respectable.

    Or small or tall.
    But I fall.
    And crawl.
    And count in threes.

    Can you be my rock?
    Or are you so unstable?
    You seem so together.
    But what are you truly?

    Sorry. Ah….
    At times like this I forget myself.
    We know what THAT means…..

    It's a new start, it's a new day.
    And everything that was here last night
    Is not necessarily here to stay today.
    Live today.

    Stop tomorrow.
    Grow up.
    Grow up.
    Get dead.


    In this black room.
    With black curtains.
    Full of bottles of wine.
    I saw to these ladies.

    Watch your panties and love each other. Love each other.
    Stop the competition. There's no race. Its me and you.
    Lady you are a goddess and empress. I see it in you.
    I want to help you be beautiful. Help me be beautiful.

    Help me get up and cut the letter.
    Because it will feel lush.
    And quiet.
    Can you hear it?

    Yes, I hear your breath.
    Your moans of pleasure.
    You want me to stay.
    You want me to go.

    I can see it.
    Lets take a walk. Oh….
    I'm so hungry. I could really use a cup filled with silence.


    Tuesday, June 10, 2008

    86 im in town have some words i want to use

    David and C.C.

    invite you


    SUBtERrANEAN Poets @10 pm meet in the library @ 86

    Exquisite corpse (also known as "exquisite cadaver" or "rotating corpse") is a method by which a collection of words or images is collectively assembled, the result being known as the exquisite corpse or cadavre exquis in French.

    Each collaborator adds to a composition in sequence, either by following a rule (e.g. "The adjective noun adverb verb the adjective noun") or by being allowed to see the end of what the previous person contributed.

    Tuesday, June 3, 2008

    Practice Space NYC take over


    morgan from diamond nights

    so le revs practice space was slowly taken over by NYC transplants musicians

    mixing @ mark needhams

    this  is what mark needham studio is covered in records of gold and silver
    he should have been a miner

    chris isaak was suppose to be in the studio the same time as me i kept saying when is chris isaak gonna show up and we can have a wicked game video running around on the beach...but hes old and is married has kids...but alas he never showed his face in the studio....
    so i just had to mix GOLDEN GRIME.....and other new songs
    this is mark needham mixer to everyone have you heard of a band called fleetwood mac
    studio fatigue

    chris isaak where oh where are you?


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