explicit fishnet clank

It's Sunday, which means this blog will turn into an indie pop MP3 blog for no good reason at all.

The Little Ones
"And the answer of the day / is you've made it"

Any small bald man can outfit your day with the latest in paranoia. But The Little Ones will apologize and chime and tom-tom and press several keys over and over again until they are playing your nervous system. If your nervous system is a fridge that stocks macadamia nuts and once let Voxtrot spend the night after their stint as a Village Green Preservation Society tribute band. These songs are like what comes after "Sorry, you're right, that scheme was fucked up. Far too frazzled."

Download please my babies:

Lovers Who Uncover
Cha Cha Cha
High On a Hill

The Channels
"I can't imagine / how much it killed / to pop a blood blister / under your nail with a power drill"

No, not the Channel, but more than one, not like a fat Austrian who eats rivers, but more like wispy ADD. Maybe a skinny Austrian with a terrific metabolism and the cravings of a pregnant twelve-year old: yes, Weird Al with a side of Pavement, oh oh those high fuzz organs, crunch amps over autumn vocals, trumpets and lizardfish skulls, that Cleveland Indians movie but with dreadlocks, I am full, I am full! -- make the girl sing ooe-ooe-oo; o she is so allowed to be so cocky. This is the band of goofs afraid to stare too hard at the xylophone lest the glee should crack.

Download youz patooties:

Moon Song
Trevor
Fluoxetine
Couldn't Be Worse
More

From Neiles' Life MP3 blog

Lizardfish Skull
Baby You Make My Heart Sing
Leningrad Song


PS: Scuttle yr spectacles and check out the August edition of Ruby Mag, a great online art zine.

i would rather have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy

I have a new story, "Summer Peaches Versus Pocket Holes," up in StoryGlossia, a sweet online mag run by Steven McDermott, who loves to read short stories like us poor folk love to grill Kraft singles.

I have been spending most of my time watching Tom Waits videos on YouTube and shivering upon the sight of my bloated email inbox.

But I am also tutoring and working and eating pasta and broiling red peppers.

Once I built a bridge that spanned the gash of human indecency.

NOÖ [five] coming in a month or so.

P.S. New stuff from me, Tao Lin, P.H. Madore, Brian Beatty, Shya Scanlon, Benjamin Buchholz, other succulent flesh-morsels -- all over at the August elzimater-whatwhat.

all we are say-in - !*&%$@#*&$%

It's hard to make this song work clean, but this is like ice to rise in every mouth, a-go-go now.

via Clay Banes

p.s.

While not writing honest-to-whole-milk "rants" (see below), I am working on an e-poem/hypertext toy inspired by Robert Grenier's Sentences, mantra poems of take-your-pick Beat-floosies, the testimony of my own silly discrimination, and a certain internet boredom site.

It was boring and stupid until the last idea.

Now it has a wowzer-dowzer "format" trick.

And splashy language.

I don't know if I will just host it myself or ask others if they want to host it. Hosting it myself is like a "vanity publication," and Lord knows I digz me some validation from the Other, but it's probably boring and stupid and I'm nobody, so who would want to host it?

one day the HORS-es will have their re-VENGE

If y'all ain't heard oh! map, youz is a missed out suckuh.

from a decree, i sowed in yr burning coals

Two new poems: one containing an image that will re"appear" ("occur" might be giving myself too much credit) forever in my shit (but reoccur recursively?! that would be something!) and one in which I have no idea whom I'm trying to accuse.

Is it gauche to post two poems at once? Also, is there a nifty word that means 'to see through'? Sorry for all this work! I know, lazy-puff, it's summer. Finkle me a dinkle. Go shave an asteroid.



Headlight Hollow

    Sunset trawls
a hollowed head-
light, finds the
  fine     dust, this
  loose       silk

One Last Note or Two or Wet

Thunder scoots against the riffs
that eke from such a dimebag balcony.

He plays to prove his t-shirt,
its logash logo of The Doors.


In his family, things are assumed fucked
when you spring for the pre-slated motorcycle.

But he tried and couldn't swing a cut & paste account
of "first in the family to graduate x" --

not a neat forked choice, just a skylark plunge
for "volunteer jawbones on the Reception Battalion bus" :

comparing pink-tubed and cornpoke routes
against his hopalong mytholojerk,

a clank heart and that later go! crokd fingr
trigger flang scuzz thud finger but oh now just

skin that bathed in the kitchen sink (no flowers
near the shower knob, nickel hussy Mazda gurgle --)

He has seen Val Kilmer fake peyote bolstered cum
and dreamed to jump hard from his own face,

is worried now about a fumbled twang,
losing sweet ass riff shit to wet strings

kinked and fried (what is it five seconds)
by a rain that you can lean from or let spread.

He tries to keep the guitar under the roof slats
and knees the amp against his goof flesh.