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Also, look out for the new Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds album coming this month:
Push the Sky Away is available for pre-order, in the deluxe edition, here:
http://www.nickcave.com/music/nickcaveandthebadseeds/push-the-sky-away/
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Although I will never apologize for offending anyone with anything I’ve ever written – because I don’t care much for the sensitive types that can’t take the time to read through into the intended meaning of something I’ve ever published here and will instead only get themselves foolishly riled up by a few four letter words I might have chosen to sprinkle in here and there like paprika to spice up a crowded text – I will say this instead:
Though certain things written here are composite sketches of people that I know; exaggerated, abstracted and lovingly manipulated so as to seem amusing or tempting or entertainingly subversive, they are never exact replications of their biographical realities. But if I ever write about a hypothetical person and call them “humorless” or “only of mediocre creative capacity” or “a good fuck but barely memorable outside of your imaginative use of hot sauce” or “full of a self-assuredness that can only be a later hindrance” and you see yourself in these lines – you should probably take a look inward, rather than at me. Most likely, that wasn’t about you, you arrogant child. I do not think about you when I write, because someone who takes themselves so seriously can only be a target of easy mockery and I am not in the easy mockery business. I create what I see as Art. I write because I am a writer and because I am capable of capturing the world for myself and for others in a surrealist, lyrical, acute perspective that seems to make more sense than the senseless reality we’re sifting through on our way to the next inevitably meaningless plateau. Enjoy it and learn to take a fucking joke – you should see how funny Freud found that one about the pedophile and Catholic priest at the petting zoo after he shot an eight-ball. Dennis Leary once said in his stand up set (likely stolen from the far superior comic writer Bill Hicks) that life is composed of little pleasures: “it’s a cigarette butte, or a chocolate chip cookie or a five second orgasm. You cum, you smoke the butte, you eat the cookie, you go to sleep, wake up and go back to fucking work the next morning – that’s it, end of fucking list!” All relatively meaningless in the mesmerizing quandary that is the universe and our shared existence within it, especially if we consider the span of this meandering sea that we call time. So, trust me, you are feckless too in this futile schism of the revoltingly revolving unimportant – meaningless to me and to the apathetic world. The people who still nest inside my head are all mere ghosts now, trust me – and ghosts aren’t real. Go get laid and forget about it.
“Boo!”
But just in case, for the ones who are slow and unnecessarily delicate – I have provided a notice in bar to the right of you regarding the fictitious nature of all work published on this site. You’re welcome, you touchy cunts!
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Hello folks,
It’s good to see you. Here is an update on my upcoming shows…
Thursday, September 6th – Art House (Jersey City) – Feature Set at the Season Opening
http://www.arthouseproductions.org/events2012/event-0167.html
Friday, September 7th – I will be crashing the Open Mic at the Greenwich Village Barnes & Noble to give a warm, drunken hug to my old neighborhood (NYC)
http://store-locator.barnesandnoble.com/event/3214236-28
Thursday, November 15th – I will be supporting the publication of my friend Zarina Zabrisky’s novel “IRON”, and doing a short set at Pegasus Books Downtown (Berkley, California) because cheese pies and wine have already been promised
http://www.facebook.com/events/481626058529321/
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With the beer warm
and the whiskey hot
my apartment is crisply burned.
They said it was an electrical problem –
but who’s going to replace my booze?!
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Cheers,
Jack
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A few notes before we read my new “masterpiece”.
Paul Ryan seems awfully willing to suck the cock of a defense contractor – so how are the religious right going to get behind him? Eventually, under the Romney/Ryan administration, we might be spending 98% of our annual budget on defense and the military-industrial complex (see how many roads get paved that way). Homey, is that how you’re gonna protect us from China?! I can’t even get a few nerdy Chinese spammers from commenting 40 times a day on the same goddamn post.
Global Pussy Riot day on Friday. The Pussy Riot vs. Putin’s “Free-Democratic” Russia (quotes a satirical necessity) would be amusing in a surrealist fashion if it was fiction, but the fact that this is real should send a shudder through anyone opposed to large (and growing) totalitarian states.
Also, I will be on the West Coast, doing a reading and supporting the publication of my friend Zarina Zabrisky’s book sometime in November. More details forthcoming.
[Pre-Order at the link provided]
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Mr. Quaalude
(for Anim)
Mr. Quaalude
say something to the audience
something new
you already paid for the new suit
got paid for the gig
talk about me
about my conjugal visit with my old bitch, Depression
talk to me like a gabby shirk
talk to me about her
my chemical cartoon
my busy, dizzy moon
my funeral festoon
tell them all the details
about the way that I ripped her clothes apart with my teeth and claws
about how she had to walk out naked from our little room
shivering and wet
celestial and concupiscent
tell them about the dead libertines that were the rock stars of their days
that wrote verses about orgies and plays about boisterous erections
my friends don’t believe that they ever existed
don’t believe that Papa showed off his chest hair to reporters
was commissioned to look for SS subs by the US government in Cuban waters
that Mailer used to punch party guests in the face after too much whiskey
that Kerouac used to publish three criticisms for one bad book
mostly in anonymous pseudonyms
that Fedya looked prison death in the face
that Ames dated Apple
that our clothes are all smoky and rough
and that the unification of intellectual thought
like barbarism
isn’t elitist
but a sensual logic meant to breathe and grow outside of the constraints
of underfunded education.
Mr. Quaalude
to be honest
I don’t know how to end this poem
because it’s not really a poem
but a diet
I’ve been skipping meals to hasten my metabolism with caffeinated bourbon
and now I’m writing out of lack of exercise
my punctuation has gone to shit
and my guts feel golden
and rusted
and rusted
and rusted
and immensely lyrical
like yesterday morning
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So I started writing this poem…
Come to me sacred and lost
like a rebirth in archaic belief
a cathartic reprise
because I still miss you like I miss heroin at night
and on those mornings that are hued gray by a drying desperation
and you just want some penetration to know that you’re still capable of feeling
… and then I said “fuck it”, like I didn’t need the pride or the self-containment, because I realized that the piece sounded like everything else that I’ve been writing lately. Even a stoic antihero with a bad liver has to watch that he doesn’t waste his time in awkward repetition. Thus I decided to take some time typing up a few new pieces that have been bathing in ink for a while. They’ll be published here in a few days: but, FAIR WARNING they are quite NC-17 thematically. So if you are easily offended I would skip the next few pieces that you’ll see from me.
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Coming Work:
The long awaited Gravity Pt. II will be here
and
The One Regarding the Tenacity it Takes to Bring Philosophy and Anal Sex Together
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I’m a Hard Man to Kill is going to be screened (on the big screen) at the Tribeca Grand Hotel this Saturday, June 16th. Come one, come all. Details at the link below.
http://after-set.ticketbud.com/saturday-june-16th
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Sex Machine got bitten by a vampire and tried to hide it from the group.
To do: start writing a memoir called Morphine and Ice Cream.
If someone asks you to pen them a poem about a sunrise, punch them right in the fucking mouth and watch them bleed like it was a Pink Floyd laser show at the planetarium.
New York used to be sanctuary for the dispossessed. But the junk and drink and crime and waste and youthful ideology either killed them off or humbled them into venture capitalism. The remainder is a tenement across from a high rise. The remainder is all and null. The remainder is us caught in between, hoping for a classic city blackout.
… a guy, a girl, a hat, and some cigarettes…
Your bed was a ledger of mediocrity conquered and thus I became obsolete relatively quickly, but we still fit together well.
With all the miscellaneously sped up experiences that I’ve amassed (more drugs and unemployment than Charlie Sheen has ever seen) in my 25 years, what is left to look forward to: heart attacks, overdoses, lonely nights and further subterranean adventures in books and clinical depression?
Winona Ryder is in her early 40’s now and still seems like the most interesting, gorgeous woman in the world. Also, Jennifer Connelly – plagued to be an old school Brooklyn girl in her soul – is a former English Lit major who digs Nick Cave and Polly Jean Harvey (what’s weird is that I think my future ex-wife was the one that told me that particular tidbit).
If you ever find yourself literally running to a bar, I suggest you start collecting open container tickets instead.
If she asks you to “build a home” with her, build a sepulcher instead.
Love is simple. Simpler than we make it out to be. It is the only thing remotely holy or defiant in this entire deranged, fucking waltz.
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Will be updating the Official Material section in the next couple of days to encompass selected pieces from March.
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My Little Lo’
I would like to sell you
like a bundle
like an american dream to an eager immigrant
with pockets full of lottery tickets
but before that
let me fuck you as though it was how I worshipped
and let’s get high and forget everything for a while
I remember
I was nineteen while she was seventeen
yet she still called me Humbert Humbert
like a dirty old pervert
unreliable and sullen
hopeless, but less pedantic
Sometimes I wish I was still there
in that river’s wonderful ebbing roll
with water that tasted like fresh murder
polluted by mysterious questions of a rhetorical nature
and other toxic heroes we’d read about together
while chewing on the dirty holy air that bound us
And if death comes, she’ll say:
“Oh my little liar, oh my sad little liar –
what has gravity made of you!”
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Joke
The incendiary nature of nulled retribution:
I just wanted to
fuck her so good
that it would make her miss it
but there’s always
a guy on the elevator
that smells like
birdfeed and urine
that’s getting off
on the floor above us
leaving me to struggle
like Oedipus preparing to blind himself
in this shifting ado
of nothing much important
besides the ascent
and my hand between her breasts
resting like the wings of a hummingbird
during courtship…
Be mindful to check out my friend Cat’s new musical project: The Audiobodies.
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In the back
there
scratching our souls through our cheeks
jagged like a joint rolled on a timid morning
we were the maniacs carved out of society like a C-section
smoking by the club doors
drinking from the smuggled pint
we watched the performers…
…
and now I can say we were “looking smug like a polluting smog”
(or something like that) –
but that wouldn’t make for a very good poem.
I promise to be back soon with some real work. It’s been a busy few weeks. Not enough time to perfect some pieces begun, and a heavy editing workload constantly whirling feverishly about me, reminding me of its presence.
If enough acceptable work gets done over the next couple of days – I might do a short set at Bowery Poetry Club on Monday.
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Going down on your girl while listening to indie hip-hop trio CunninLynguists isn’t as an amusing of anecdote as you think.
You should always share your drugs with your rented William Blake, especially if you see that he’s stumbling.
Never joke about heroin with junkies who spent the early 00’s listening to Dashboard Confessional, unless you’re prepared to listen to dour tales about how their friend Mousey died in the back of a Taco Bell bathroom. Also, don’t respond to their sad story with “speaking of which, I could really go for a quesadilla right now…”
Stop smoking Sour Diesel prior to doing a poetry reading, stick to the gin. Otherwise the words will spread and you’ll recite half as much to half the applause.
Poetry on the Bowery is as beautiful as cheap prostitution. But it’s time to sell your body, anyhow – they’ve begun putting Sedaris in textbooks.
Remember to thank whoever refilled your wine that night. One can always use more wine.
To show my gratitude for the warm reception in Jersey City, here’s some new Joey:
We definitely could use some new Mood Muzik, homey…
More new work coming soon, I promise. But, for now, I have updated the Official Material section.
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Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings
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