i went to them and said, dont drink our poison please. someone does the dirty job of forensic, and we can go and gawp and throw up. now i am a spectator, observing the lives of others. its turned into a sick parade, a well mapped out adventure where we can stick to the tracks, recommended restaurants and polite gestures. a two word language we employ, with plump tummy and walking money. Tasty treat, smog-filled lungs and a smile returned. Hairstyles and smiles. And who can mention the eco-war? No one knows about that in plastic paradise. We are saturated in stray animals having a ball and mountains of fried food.
So I returned to the new world. The 'saviour' state. Gloomy, unifored and unaware. My money vanished. Immediately greeted by sniffer dogs. Winter clothes, no battery..snappy. Cold in every sense, with smigens of sun and carbon footprint. A smudged shadow, leaking flesh, flesh puddle. I'm back here and I paid £12.50 for that. Never noticed how sad you were, a flu voice all desperate. I -leech all the way home. Those ones are still humans. Its like going from technicolour back to black and white.
Sunday 14 December 2008
Friday 12 December 2008
Violent hybrid sceptical seamless emotions – the end of a day.
You were towering and bold. You clouded the scented light with your overwhelming presence, and the wind blew the trash around, trash and leaves all dancing carelessly. The magic was visible that day on the landscapes where the sun was shyly hiding, and at the top you could see for miles. This is how a bird must feel, or does it even? I noticed the others reaching their destination, feeling fulfilled and then wondering what next. I suppose we’d better head back down and get on with it. Injesting the warming fluids enhanced happiness and laughter amongst us, and it all felt good. Ice had cracked and small pools lay bare, rocks open to the sky, receiving. The sun disappeared and left behind trails of gold. It lingered for longer than I’d imagined, and it was grateful, proud, like it wanted to hang around for everyone to take notice. The air was sharp and heavy, containing us protectively as we journeyed on. We journey for food, for adventure, for fun.
Thursday 11 December 2008
article by patti smith. love love love this woman...
AIN'T IT STRANGE
from The New York Times, March 12, 2007
On a cold morning in 1955, walking to Sunday school, I was drawn to the voice of Little Richard wailing "Tutti Frutti" from the interior of a local boy's makeshift clubhouse. So powerful was the connection that I let go of my mother's hand.
Rock 'n' roll. It drew me from my path to a sea of possibilities. It sheltered and shattered me, from the end of childhood through a painful adolescence. I had my first altercation with my father when the Rolling Stones made their debut on "The Ed Sullivan Show." Rock 'n' roll was mine to defend. It strengthened my hand and gave me a sense of tribe as I boarded a bus from South Jersey to freedom in 1967.
Rock 'n' roll, at that time, was a fusion of intimacies. Repression bloomed into rapture like raging weeds shooting through cracks in the cement. Our music provided a sense of communal activism. Our artists provoked our ascension into awareness as we ran amok in a frenzied state of grace.
My late husband, Fred Sonic Smith, then of Detroit's MC5, was a part of the brotherhood instrumental in forging a revolution: seeking to save the world with love and the electric guitar. He created aural autonomy yet did not have the constitution to survive all the complexities of existence.
Before he died, in the winter of 1994, he counseled me to continue working. He believed that one day I would be recognized for my efforts and though I protested, he quietly asked me to accept what was bestowed -- gracefully -- in his name.
Today I will join R.E.M., the Ronettes, Van Halen and Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five to be inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. On the eve of this event I asked myself many questions. Should an artist working within the revolutionary landscape of rock accept laurels from an institution? Should laurels be offered? Am I a worthy recipient?
I have wrestled with these questions and my conscience leads me back to Fred and those like him -- the maverick souls who may never be afforded such honors. Thus in his name I will accept with gratitude. Fred Sonic Smith was of the people, and I am none but him: one who has loved rock 'n' roll and crawled from the ranks to the stage, to salute history and plant seeds for the erratic magic landscape of the new guard.
Because its members will be the guardians of our cultural voice. The Internet is their CBGB. Their territory is global. They will dictate how they want to create and disseminate their work. They will, in time, make breathless changes in our political process. They have the technology to unite and create a new party, to be vigilant in their choice of candidates, unfettered by corporate pressure. Their potential power to form and reform is unprecedented.
Human history abounds with idealistic movements that rise, then fall in disarray. The children of light. The journey to the East. The summer of love. The season of grunge. But just as we seem to repeat our follies, we also abide.
Rock 'n' roll drew me from my mother's hand and led me to experience. In the end it was my neighbors who put everything in perspective. An approving nod from the old Italian woman who sells me pasta. A high five from the postman. An embrace from the notary and his wife. And a shout from the sanitation man driving down my street: "Hey, Patti, Hall of Fame. One for us."
I just smiled, and I noticed I was proud. One for the neighborhood. My parents. My band. One for Fred. And anybody else who wants to come along.
from The New York Times, March 12, 2007
On a cold morning in 1955, walking to Sunday school, I was drawn to the voice of Little Richard wailing "Tutti Frutti" from the interior of a local boy's makeshift clubhouse. So powerful was the connection that I let go of my mother's hand.
Rock 'n' roll. It drew me from my path to a sea of possibilities. It sheltered and shattered me, from the end of childhood through a painful adolescence. I had my first altercation with my father when the Rolling Stones made their debut on "The Ed Sullivan Show." Rock 'n' roll was mine to defend. It strengthened my hand and gave me a sense of tribe as I boarded a bus from South Jersey to freedom in 1967.
Rock 'n' roll, at that time, was a fusion of intimacies. Repression bloomed into rapture like raging weeds shooting through cracks in the cement. Our music provided a sense of communal activism. Our artists provoked our ascension into awareness as we ran amok in a frenzied state of grace.
My late husband, Fred Sonic Smith, then of Detroit's MC5, was a part of the brotherhood instrumental in forging a revolution: seeking to save the world with love and the electric guitar. He created aural autonomy yet did not have the constitution to survive all the complexities of existence.
Before he died, in the winter of 1994, he counseled me to continue working. He believed that one day I would be recognized for my efforts and though I protested, he quietly asked me to accept what was bestowed -- gracefully -- in his name.
Today I will join R.E.M., the Ronettes, Van Halen and Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five to be inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. On the eve of this event I asked myself many questions. Should an artist working within the revolutionary landscape of rock accept laurels from an institution? Should laurels be offered? Am I a worthy recipient?
I have wrestled with these questions and my conscience leads me back to Fred and those like him -- the maverick souls who may never be afforded such honors. Thus in his name I will accept with gratitude. Fred Sonic Smith was of the people, and I am none but him: one who has loved rock 'n' roll and crawled from the ranks to the stage, to salute history and plant seeds for the erratic magic landscape of the new guard.
Because its members will be the guardians of our cultural voice. The Internet is their CBGB. Their territory is global. They will dictate how they want to create and disseminate their work. They will, in time, make breathless changes in our political process. They have the technology to unite and create a new party, to be vigilant in their choice of candidates, unfettered by corporate pressure. Their potential power to form and reform is unprecedented.
Human history abounds with idealistic movements that rise, then fall in disarray. The children of light. The journey to the East. The summer of love. The season of grunge. But just as we seem to repeat our follies, we also abide.
Rock 'n' roll drew me from my mother's hand and led me to experience. In the end it was my neighbors who put everything in perspective. An approving nod from the old Italian woman who sells me pasta. A high five from the postman. An embrace from the notary and his wife. And a shout from the sanitation man driving down my street: "Hey, Patti, Hall of Fame. One for us."
I just smiled, and I noticed I was proud. One for the neighborhood. My parents. My band. One for Fred. And anybody else who wants to come along.
Wednesday 10 December 2008
steroid psychosis
musclemania
for weak one, week long trouble
wasted on young girl
high up in the land hills
where ice and air are thin,
she'll spend extra money on luxury din
with birds on one level with us
one beady eye
and added tension
into the night with prolonged suspension
young girl dances without regret
and forward marches through the north,
bringing white coated dreams
and black laced export-
but muscles weak, with head spin spin
a bleeding bile errupts from within.
a boating thought
caught dead in whirlpool,
where food is scarce and organs crash around
all wasted on young girl
who should have known better,
back to work with hanging head
to give a shamed speech to warn the others
for weak one, week long trouble
wasted on young girl
high up in the land hills
where ice and air are thin,
she'll spend extra money on luxury din
with birds on one level with us
one beady eye
and added tension
into the night with prolonged suspension
young girl dances without regret
and forward marches through the north,
bringing white coated dreams
and black laced export-
but muscles weak, with head spin spin
a bleeding bile errupts from within.
a boating thought
caught dead in whirlpool,
where food is scarce and organs crash around
all wasted on young girl
who should have known better,
back to work with hanging head
to give a shamed speech to warn the others
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
