Tennessee is full of societal gangrene, especially in Brentwood; bloody thieves of hope stagger around in cosmic disbelief of the existence outside of money and greasy smiles and back stabs that occur at the same moment of a sincere handshake. In northern Virginia, the usual skanks of money grubbing rattle snake business, they lick the blood off of their snake skin suits and chow down on the little man and gloat with their mouth full of their victims to the next shadow of money that leans against the street sign that spells out his last name, preying upon street after street until those who aren’t smiling are simply digested, and those that survive, are rewarded with rings of fancy and a firecracker kiss from lips that represent hell and burn just as equally. The Slums of Hell are enjoyed more than the lost state of mind of a ravenous spiritual hitchhiker, in Hell, the unexpected is expected, and the imagination clots less when it is drugged from anticipation, but when you’re in the crooked pastor representing the resin scraped together through each and every spiritual trap, then anger and crime come second nature, because the ones you find kinship and companionship with, even if they are the ones in shackles, you, my friend are the Sun-Less Dead Specimen that God will never understand, much less the devil. To be alone and utterly confused is one spiritual matter. You raise your arms like a ‘Y’ to the sky and you close your eyes because you know at that moment, another life is being taken, another fire will trap the trap the cries of the young and unlived. Creative magic and reality and the noble imagination to clue it all together will create an exorcism of your soul, exiling your beliefs, your soul and your cares into the unknown mesh of the cosmos—To find yourself to be a simple body, corrupt among the living and diagnosed with opinions and life and judgment, you feel about as free as the soul of Jesus Christ—Trespass, Judge and stampede and tromp on the thoughts, ideas and claims of others, because this body knows no boundaries—exiling ones own consciousness and spitting on everyone alive or dead without a decent argument is just as good as setting yourself on fire while, knee deep in your own lazy complaints. I’d rather live and be hated than to be dead and loved.
I think God’s final sin is Vanity- Why should he be so revered? I think Michael needs to put a whoopee cushion under his fanny because he apparently forgot what it was like to never live. For me, to feel judged under a being that has no shape, that has no boundaries of misunderstanding, that is so cleansed but yet still understands my dirty mind, I think he needs to take a second thought of his acceptance- Most love him, Some don’t believe in him, and some blindly hate him- -I’m just a dude that is trying to scuffle my thoughts and dirty shoes along so as he does not get embarrassed. I do my best; I think he’s lost in silent marvel of himself.
I’m Sorry- I really am- because my thoughts are out of bounds- I answer to no one other than myself and those infinite temptations that have splintered themselves as voices in my well trained mind- I’m an unfortunate case of stool pigeon of miraculous grandeur.
In California, I found ancient Beasts bathed under the grand old sun, Devils with a giddy point of view, and drugs by the multitude. Sidewalks were warm enough to walk without shoes and street creeps were courteous enough to introduce a new needle for an adventure that they promote behind the curtains of your sleeveless imagination.
Death Metal is a prospect not everyone understands, but if you’re a politicking vibrant sumbitch that has been kicked a time or two, then it is in your roots, whether you like it or not- the deranged company I kept with, when they were not picking their teeth with the tendons and muscles of the suicidal doormen, they stood in front of this dreary rage filled tribe banging their heads and slamming their fists, bellowing fierce atrocities like ancient madmen, you don’t understand it, but you definitely get it.
Dante Aligheri understood it, as did Dimebag Darrell. The brass tax of it is that it is not noise; it is a spiritual floatation device to rise from the crevices of anger, alienation, humiliation and mortal damnation. The flailing of the limbs and the banging of the heads is a triumphant return to mans primitive side, a band of shamans they are and will continue to be, to exorcize the incoherent madness that we useful ruffians are smothered with in everyday life. The post-angst moans that give our own hearts tremors, rattle the eyes of the inexperienced, that is the new language of the modern savage, equipped with censors to operate normally in society, but we, they have discovered a way to manipulate that control and eliminate it while on stage or behind a mic. These Fantastic beings of a growing force, they are fragmented strangers with whole ideas. They are castaways and proud of it, they are a towering elite that you either consider your family, or constantly keep in the corner of your eye. The emotions that are toggled with, and the feelings that are spiritually plunged, they are strict doppelgangers of sin and virtue, they don’t tow the line, they plow both sides of it, they are the reformed leaders of societal dropouts and godless humanity, they are the carriers of the torch, the names of the blamed, and the shards of frustration that makes us all want to shave our heads.
Death rides a pale horse; and on this horse is not a man that beckons significance. On this horse rides a broken crusader, a dying breed that has been bred in all parts of the world and has no real tribe, he just scours the globe until he finds his own. And once the tribe is complete, fires are set and families are bound out of exiled alliance, we share a drink, we cut our skin and then we ignite the luscious horror that binds us. From then on, we are all respected, feared and rejected; we are the jolted bemused, the loveless trick that inspired a Satan-less smile, our thoughts lurk further than our feet can carry us, love is an uncharted territory and life is branded with the sneers of others, but we are a restrained God, a humbled demon on his last breath, a spiritual cancer that affects both sides of life and death, we are the ones that carry the secrets that only dead men know.
I wouldn’t imagine California, would be a haven for metal heads, I think of beach boys, I think of punk surfers and I think of Tanned sluts with skin thicker than an unguided ranchero’s. But it’s California, I saw a mere fraction of it, I’ve never been before and I doubt I’ll go back, maybe the faction of hell-raised significant bound truth seekers are about to throw mutiny over the circuit that controls the over flow of plastic bitches, rich whores, perfectly sculpted schmucks that walk the streets like zombified preachers of renounced Sufism, Natural healing, Jack Daniels and Fox Sports, their hands in their pockets, and their pockets, pocket less, so as to satisfy their sunshiny addiction to public masturbation.
In deep introspection, California, it may be considered the united States very own Macquarie Island, The punks and freaks and metal heads being the vermin- One blue collar tweeker might surmise, but on the other hand, these freaks of nature might be the accumulating force that is now rubbing out this new brand of dubious freak-makers that has infested the country- dumbing it down and drugging it up, so that it may rape and pillage our minds thoughts and opinions. Angry and Carefree we are, for we are not of the mind bent nation- We are the saviors with no voice, and until the cinders of the hell that still burn in the minds of those that run the free world is extinguished by the drugs they prescribe themselves, we gypsies of a non existent history, we will continue to spread the word of hope through incoherent recollection, through vengeful torment, through the fantastic reappraisal of misery and the conception of a third world life through blood and tears. The damned we may be labeled, but blessed, you will find us, if you translate the echoes impacted by rejection, tattoos, headstrong ambitious misery, and the calling of a deeper darker force that traced us, years before birth, we will always be a dying race, but we will never die. We are a homeless community of faith and anger- We are the dying breed that hell stays away from and heaven tips its hat to. We’re doomed, yet destined to be reconciled with.
Saturday, February 16, 2008
Thursday, February 7, 2008
The Return of the Sunshine Skinny Boy
I just got off of the phone with my old Pal, The Bag of Donuts, he is in a miraculous way, content with his occupation of drowning lawyers by hand and skinning kittens with a slug of scotch not an arms reach away. The suits, he keeps, the pelts, he fabricates into delicate sheets for his pillows or decorations for his walls. Keep in mind, he resides in a terrible city, known for their bludgeoning of animals from all walks of life, from one eyed midgets that live among the ruins of dented trash cans and semen and blood stained badly burnt old mattresses, to Sparky, the family pet that followed that awful trail of Rich and Meaty dog food laced with Prestone anti freeze because some awful neighbor who goes by the name of Davie Berkowitz is clamming up and stewing over an awful day. I have no reason to judge, simply from my previous entries, This Bag of Donuts I speak of, he has sharpened teeth and brass knuckles and a tattoo over his heart that reads, "momma didn't love me" with a pair of cross bones sheltering a broken heart, over his left breast. He isn't the kind to be trifled with, I've seen him throw the progeny of two twisted lives to the intake of a half open window with an evil grin on his face and a well greased butterfly knife in his free hand.
"KEEP DRIVING." He Said.
This Bag of Donuts I write of, he is one not one to turn your back on, he'll trample a bed of roses on a Sunday morning in front of a Cardinal and a priest, because he prefers to slam dance with the Devil on God's only day, He'll look at you with those brazen, bloodshot eyes, put his cigarette out on his own forearm and give you the butt. There's no arguing with this Bag of Donuts, there's only pleasing him, when he's not walking on all fours and growling at beings and beasts that we, normal spit-fire ruffians can not see, he's changing the future and leaving trails of scent and blood for the unsuspecting half-wits that crave the entrails of worthless savages that they see him as, he hides under layers of dirt, leaves and his own blood to bring them in; the multi celled predators that can smell blood but not trouble. They're all his victims, This Bag of Donuts; he's outsmarted God, shamed the devil and left us all in the ruins of imagination, all before breakfast, where he munches on cornflakes floating on Budweiser, out of the skulls of his enemies.
Some Slum Lords refer to him as the Sunshine Skinny Boy, no one dares ask why, though he is skinny, his skin is grey and his eyes are black, the sunshine part, whether its meant to be ironic or not, some surmise he was born to a vagrant scalawag hippie with classic case of unhinged dementia, and Karol Gellner, the son of a Czech-Jewish philosopher turned refugee, Ernest Gellner. Under the sun of the Solomon Islands, the two raised this young chick under imagination and insanity. With his mother's mental blasphemy and his father's inherent lunacy, he was spawned by a fifth of cheap whiskey and the raging hormones of two mis-educated savages that should've had their skulls smashed in at birth.
Since his arrival on this Island, Earth, the young Sunshine Skinny Boy was sold on the black market for a small bag of dirty money and a goat skin full of wine, he's sailed the wild dark oceans as a captive brute, fashioning shackles and chains on his wrists and ankles, he's read the bible seventeen times and is the only one in possession and also who has read the lost journals of Aleister Crowley.
For a short period of time, The Skinny Boy lived in Africa, among the Shankadi Tribe, who referred to him as, "Le Dybbuk," or Devil Boy. While he resided on the lone African plains, he was a castaway from any human contact, even those that had purchased him so many years ago had all either mysteriously vanished, committed suicide or went mad. The young Dybbuk ran with packs of Hyenas on the great veldts of Africa, only later on to turn on them and forsake them because he ate all of their pups, now they not only respect him, but they respect them out of fear. The Shamans of the Shankadis claim he is the Death Adder, for he is the only two or four legged creature that can scare the only vile beast that is ridden nightly by Witches that evolve as the dusk gets darker.
Not much is known of the evolution of the Sunshine Skinny boy and his progression in life, with his age, with his madness, some children whisper urban legends about the myth and life of this gothic creature we all know as The Skinny Boy or as his closest call him, Bag of Donuts. His legend is in the shadows of history, some is known but most is not, to negate the virile prosperity of the Sunshine Skinny Boy would be blasphemous, would be suicidal, his ancient trinkets of wisdom and his vast regions covered by Crowley's very own majik of great contagious proportions, one's eyes would bleed, and his sanity would flee, for the curse of The Skinny boy, rumor has it, is far worse than Gods Wrath.
Britain's very own David Courtney had a run in with The Skinny boy back in the misty, polluted streets of Chicago back in the cold rainy month of September in 1997. The Sunshine Skinny Boy approached him from under the dim halo of a sign from a bar that's about to close.
"There was this skinny fuckin' kid, giggling to himself, a sharpened blade in his hand, I laughed to myself, I didn't see anything of him, except his skinny ass shadow, my body guards approached him, to break a finger, to rough him up or what, But I told them to ignore the drugged up wanker, the fuckin' brat wasn't worth their sweat.
So, I started off down the street and started to wonder about this bloake, this fuckin' guy had a short sleeve shirt on, I figured he must be mad, So I stopped and turned around. He was fucking gone. Crazy shit.
As I stared at myself from the reflection of this pub, I noticed my two bodyguards went down, These fuckin' guys both fuckin' weigh goddamn two hundred plus pounds. I figure Sniper, but no, It's the fuckin' Sunshine boy, and he's taking their money and jewelry, and fucking not paying attention to me, and I think, What The FUCK? IM FUCKING DAVID COURTNEY, and I say, 'DO YOU KNOW WHO THE FUCK I AM?' Then he takes the ear of one of my mates and then he fucking stomps the guts of my other guard—He grins at me and he asked me, "DO YOU KNOW WHO THE FUCK I AM?" My heart stopped, my breath went away and when he breathed, and grinned, his breath smelt of a three day old murder and his teeth were fine points with bits of red stained on them, he straightened my fuckin' tie and informed me my fuckin' zipper was in the downward position, he winked at me and began to whistle as he fucking scuttled off, and a voice went off in my head, Who the FUCK AM I?"
For his whole life, The lore of the Sunshine Skinny Boy has been balanced between good and evil, between reality and imagination, The Sunshine Skinny Boy, this Bag of Donuts, he knows the meaning of life, has the precise agenda for the reason of reality and the endless possibility of dreams, those that fear him write of his absence of heart, pass the hatchet of his inhuman behavior, and wake up to the moonlit grin of his smile, facing reality for mere seconds before they're submerged into the proper hysteria of an after life.
And of course those that know him know that his grand tales of silence, murder and ransacked emotions aren't true. Well, some aren't.
I've seen him stare down a copper-head, baring his teeth, with a low grumble that comes from the bottom of his stomach, forcing it to retreat back into the cattails and dead weeds; I've seen him stand tall against the strongest bull in the pasture. And I've seen him toss a perfectly good Pabst Blue ribbon into a fire pit just because he's hooked into an energetic catfish.
I didn't know the Skinny until he was twenty-four or so- so his past maybe true. He knows nothing about me, either, not that I know of.
I am unsure if he knows my adopted Gypsy parents called me dur-dikki-mengri, or "The Far Seeing Thing". Or if The Skinny boy knows that my Lakota parents called me Nolothanchan, or, Nobody.
The Sunshine Skinny Boy is my friend; his blood may be black and riddled with sin and the salt of the earth, but I am not one to resurrect the sins of others, nor is he into the manipulated necromancy that violated our youth, and whether good or evil resides in he or I, I know that we have found each other, whether he is Good or if I am evil- Two paths have crossed and minds are currently being bent- our love of imagination and madness maybe what binds us, or maybe because we both have seen blood spill of tragic proportions, or maybe we're just looking to settle down our rough and rowdy ways, as Saturday nights of mayhem and beheaded enjoyment don't raise our eyebrows anymore. We've may have even retired from old men, madness and the played out spiritual transgressions into youthful dreamers and calm patients of limitless boundaries, in life and in the mind. Maybe he and I, this Bag of Donuts, we've paid our dues, he may have transcended in to Sunshine and Sunshine only and it even maybe possible that I, I have become Somebody. It will take both of our imagination to lift dead spirits, but I think the guile our spirit can invoke will be more than enough.
Now that we've domesticated Hell, I think it's time to have a run at the world that rests above it, here we come, marvelous insubordination. Sunshine and Somebody.
12:57 am, Feb 07.
"KEEP DRIVING." He Said.
This Bag of Donuts I write of, he is one not one to turn your back on, he'll trample a bed of roses on a Sunday morning in front of a Cardinal and a priest, because he prefers to slam dance with the Devil on God's only day, He'll look at you with those brazen, bloodshot eyes, put his cigarette out on his own forearm and give you the butt. There's no arguing with this Bag of Donuts, there's only pleasing him, when he's not walking on all fours and growling at beings and beasts that we, normal spit-fire ruffians can not see, he's changing the future and leaving trails of scent and blood for the unsuspecting half-wits that crave the entrails of worthless savages that they see him as, he hides under layers of dirt, leaves and his own blood to bring them in; the multi celled predators that can smell blood but not trouble. They're all his victims, This Bag of Donuts; he's outsmarted God, shamed the devil and left us all in the ruins of imagination, all before breakfast, where he munches on cornflakes floating on Budweiser, out of the skulls of his enemies.
Some Slum Lords refer to him as the Sunshine Skinny Boy, no one dares ask why, though he is skinny, his skin is grey and his eyes are black, the sunshine part, whether its meant to be ironic or not, some surmise he was born to a vagrant scalawag hippie with classic case of unhinged dementia, and Karol Gellner, the son of a Czech-Jewish philosopher turned refugee, Ernest Gellner. Under the sun of the Solomon Islands, the two raised this young chick under imagination and insanity. With his mother's mental blasphemy and his father's inherent lunacy, he was spawned by a fifth of cheap whiskey and the raging hormones of two mis-educated savages that should've had their skulls smashed in at birth.
Since his arrival on this Island, Earth, the young Sunshine Skinny Boy was sold on the black market for a small bag of dirty money and a goat skin full of wine, he's sailed the wild dark oceans as a captive brute, fashioning shackles and chains on his wrists and ankles, he's read the bible seventeen times and is the only one in possession and also who has read the lost journals of Aleister Crowley.
For a short period of time, The Skinny Boy lived in Africa, among the Shankadi Tribe, who referred to him as, "Le Dybbuk," or Devil Boy. While he resided on the lone African plains, he was a castaway from any human contact, even those that had purchased him so many years ago had all either mysteriously vanished, committed suicide or went mad. The young Dybbuk ran with packs of Hyenas on the great veldts of Africa, only later on to turn on them and forsake them because he ate all of their pups, now they not only respect him, but they respect them out of fear. The Shamans of the Shankadis claim he is the Death Adder, for he is the only two or four legged creature that can scare the only vile beast that is ridden nightly by Witches that evolve as the dusk gets darker.
Not much is known of the evolution of the Sunshine Skinny boy and his progression in life, with his age, with his madness, some children whisper urban legends about the myth and life of this gothic creature we all know as The Skinny Boy or as his closest call him, Bag of Donuts. His legend is in the shadows of history, some is known but most is not, to negate the virile prosperity of the Sunshine Skinny Boy would be blasphemous, would be suicidal, his ancient trinkets of wisdom and his vast regions covered by Crowley's very own majik of great contagious proportions, one's eyes would bleed, and his sanity would flee, for the curse of The Skinny boy, rumor has it, is far worse than Gods Wrath.
Britain's very own David Courtney had a run in with The Skinny boy back in the misty, polluted streets of Chicago back in the cold rainy month of September in 1997. The Sunshine Skinny Boy approached him from under the dim halo of a sign from a bar that's about to close.
"There was this skinny fuckin' kid, giggling to himself, a sharpened blade in his hand, I laughed to myself, I didn't see anything of him, except his skinny ass shadow, my body guards approached him, to break a finger, to rough him up or what, But I told them to ignore the drugged up wanker, the fuckin' brat wasn't worth their sweat.
So, I started off down the street and started to wonder about this bloake, this fuckin' guy had a short sleeve shirt on, I figured he must be mad, So I stopped and turned around. He was fucking gone. Crazy shit.
As I stared at myself from the reflection of this pub, I noticed my two bodyguards went down, These fuckin' guys both fuckin' weigh goddamn two hundred plus pounds. I figure Sniper, but no, It's the fuckin' Sunshine boy, and he's taking their money and jewelry, and fucking not paying attention to me, and I think, What The FUCK? IM FUCKING DAVID COURTNEY, and I say, 'DO YOU KNOW WHO THE FUCK I AM?' Then he takes the ear of one of my mates and then he fucking stomps the guts of my other guard—He grins at me and he asked me, "DO YOU KNOW WHO THE FUCK I AM?" My heart stopped, my breath went away and when he breathed, and grinned, his breath smelt of a three day old murder and his teeth were fine points with bits of red stained on them, he straightened my fuckin' tie and informed me my fuckin' zipper was in the downward position, he winked at me and began to whistle as he fucking scuttled off, and a voice went off in my head, Who the FUCK AM I?"
For his whole life, The lore of the Sunshine Skinny Boy has been balanced between good and evil, between reality and imagination, The Sunshine Skinny Boy, this Bag of Donuts, he knows the meaning of life, has the precise agenda for the reason of reality and the endless possibility of dreams, those that fear him write of his absence of heart, pass the hatchet of his inhuman behavior, and wake up to the moonlit grin of his smile, facing reality for mere seconds before they're submerged into the proper hysteria of an after life.
And of course those that know him know that his grand tales of silence, murder and ransacked emotions aren't true. Well, some aren't.
I've seen him stare down a copper-head, baring his teeth, with a low grumble that comes from the bottom of his stomach, forcing it to retreat back into the cattails and dead weeds; I've seen him stand tall against the strongest bull in the pasture. And I've seen him toss a perfectly good Pabst Blue ribbon into a fire pit just because he's hooked into an energetic catfish.
I didn't know the Skinny until he was twenty-four or so- so his past maybe true. He knows nothing about me, either, not that I know of.
I am unsure if he knows my adopted Gypsy parents called me dur-dikki-mengri, or "The Far Seeing Thing". Or if The Skinny boy knows that my Lakota parents called me Nolothanchan, or, Nobody.
The Sunshine Skinny Boy is my friend; his blood may be black and riddled with sin and the salt of the earth, but I am not one to resurrect the sins of others, nor is he into the manipulated necromancy that violated our youth, and whether good or evil resides in he or I, I know that we have found each other, whether he is Good or if I am evil- Two paths have crossed and minds are currently being bent- our love of imagination and madness maybe what binds us, or maybe because we both have seen blood spill of tragic proportions, or maybe we're just looking to settle down our rough and rowdy ways, as Saturday nights of mayhem and beheaded enjoyment don't raise our eyebrows anymore. We've may have even retired from old men, madness and the played out spiritual transgressions into youthful dreamers and calm patients of limitless boundaries, in life and in the mind. Maybe he and I, this Bag of Donuts, we've paid our dues, he may have transcended in to Sunshine and Sunshine only and it even maybe possible that I, I have become Somebody. It will take both of our imagination to lift dead spirits, but I think the guile our spirit can invoke will be more than enough.
Now that we've domesticated Hell, I think it's time to have a run at the world that rests above it, here we come, marvelous insubordination. Sunshine and Somebody.
12:57 am, Feb 07.
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