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Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Kira Roessler
Black Flag 1983: Kira, Bill, Greg, Henry
Kira at work
Kira Roessler holds her own in the hardest working band in show biz: Black Flag 1983-85.
Stereo Sanctity
I'm keeping my commission to faith's transmission
Two speakers dream the same and skies turn red
Satellites flashing down orchard and delancey
I can't get laid cuz everyone is dead
Hey - gold connections
Analog soul waving in yr hair
Hey - hylozoic directions
She's talking blue streaks everywhere
Your spirit is time-reversed to your body
Stereographic mix-up field on field
It started growing up the day your body dies
Only apparently, real to irreal
Hey - stereo stations
Perfect image, kneel down
Hey - hypostatic information
Come on let's hear you turn it around
--Thurston Moore
(Phase 4 Stereo information card, from Children in Crisis shop, Abingdon, UK)
écriture automatique à deux
It sounds as if it hurt this gracile lunatic movement like a woman in her first dress thinking, I must buy more make-up, my face is too large, my legs like a sausage hung up make me shrivel inside a cloth like spelt and seasoning which do not match my temperament of suddenness and swirling. Strike me a match, my head will fall and roll toward the door of the attic where I want to meet the one you have imprisoned there since the Days of Awe. You had it always held up there as a great white hope, a dawning on our faces. The water of life splashes my arse, burning and brilliant beneath the salt foam of life. I would not have it otherwise except the forced mania of the crater, a moon of peril. Bite it off at the root. The soil is full of beetles and rats wear fancy costumes wanting to be crocodiles and appearing in the form of fluorescent lizards in t-shirts of blue with red stitching. Wallingford is a town of coffee where matrons wobble a gesture of bonfemmie because their plants have grown well that year of their domestic symphony. At the time I had no idea what would happen. My years were all green and bending in the wind of the ventilators on the hills of a mechanical tide. The wind was elsewhere. But we were visited by the creature green as glass, little scarlet nothing. She held our hands and said, "Don't cry, the fortune is not yet in store." Then she vanished and lay in our eyes as any creature does that disappears. She was a grey slope on the downs of disparity. She walked off in a huff, trailing tears of tomorrow...
--DTH and CCL
twelvetone
he had to flee
those clotted luminous landscapes
leidenschaft cloyed
in order to creep
catwise through cities
cubic geometries
he drank the blood of alien women
the air of other worlds
drugged and clarified him
so
that
like any addict
he knew at least
the one thing he must do
--words by DTH, painting by A. Schoenberg
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Pipeline/Kill Time
stretch me to the point where i stop
run ten thousand miles and then think of me
i think you know the place we should meet
don't worry if it's dark and i'm late
run me out a thin wire
help me to kill this, love
i'll join you tonight at the bottom of the well
feel around in the dark until you get the idea
i'm not moving doesn't mean i can't
flame on in my head
my best friend sucked his wife's blood and shriveled up
he was mistaken for sane
we move and groove and cut loose from fear
we should kill time, we'll shut it down
i've got a pipeline straight to the heart of you
opening in my head
bright glass on a chain being wound around us
the toiling of idle hands
dripping,
with guilt
a secret form of punishment
axes through skulls
shadow of futility
endless revolt
the shifting of light and shadows
dividing each existence
no-one is right
nothing is solid
nothing can be held in my hands for long
discontinuity
sandy beaches
bridges sinking into the sea
beautiful confusion
you're a fading memory
we should kill time
--Lee Ranaldo
(photo from Sonic Death #1)
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