Authorship Meltdowns and House Music Mantra’s

So this online novella has really been burgeoning (cue Borat “not” joke)…quite predictable given who your author is ladies and gentlemen. I’ll have part two tomorrow and we’ll see what happens to Cass at the airport bar, this I promise. Sometimes the juices don’t flow, and you can only squeeze a lemon so long.

In the meantime I’ve been pissing through an American Work Week Wednesday in hopes of shoring up the economy and passing the capitalist dream onto my extensive brood. By that I mean neglecting my responsibilities and trying to find myself amidst a slew of pictures commemorating last weekend’s Pitchfork Festival. If you come across one containing a sun-strung-out looking shag bastard with a Cubs hat, you’ve won the prize. The weekend was spectacular as I spent 8 hours getting down with nature and all the main stage had to offer. I was lucky enough to grab some late-sale tickets on Thursday at the venue so Saturday I could catch Free Energy, Real Estate, Delorean, Wolf Parade, Panda Bear and LCD Soundsystem. The venue was extremely crowd friendly as they supplied plenty of water bottles and bags of ice between sets, and despite my theory that 90 degree heat positively induces rage, everyone in the crowd seemed to be mellow and brimming with contentedness. Righteous.

In the meantime, here’s a poem that really isn’t metered out or doctored up but it’s based on some weird loopy refrain that appeared in a dream and stamped itself into my morning memory. An ex-girlfriend was in my face asking me what I would pay to sleep with her again. I can’t imagine I offered that much but nothing else sticks besides that conversation excerpt. This must be how Chemical Brothers compile melodic mantras for their acid house licks…

An Unconscious Demand for Sex #916, Yesterday- H.D. Wilde

What would you pay to have your sanity restored

Stop cooing at the postman like some stoned dove, stop eyeballing strangers always everywhere

Start shimmying like back in Boyleston on a silky emerald pitch when today’s good old days were soda-pop sticky yesterdays, still skunk in your mouth fresh

What would you pay to see Christ on his two feet

Flogged and strung across that tree while your tears get fat, brought down, buried, back to see you

Hearing the son of man sing son it’s gonna be alright, smiling, all the cacophony and warbles that mash man’s minds tender slip away to reveal melody

What would you pay to see your father drive down the way,

Stop drinking down grey Tuesday afternoons, stop questions and quizzes and do you know why’s

Start the wife and the kids and the house and pulverize the loneliness and self doubt pity and pithy loathing constricting the jugular of your soul

What would you pay to meet your match face to face, au natural, and win

Victorious and ravenous with adrenaline, hands hanging fists down bleeding over a broken face

That suckfish who pilfered your matchbox cars cackled about your clothes outran you on the track outdrank you at the bar and outfucked you in the bedroom

What would you pay to not kick down that door

Stop the silver snow on the drive over, stop the letters and newspapers littering the porch steps

Start her footsteps and her warm voice imploring you for just a moment when you two still had moments and first floor bathrooms didn’t smell of death

What would you pay to be the first for once

An outside-the-box-flash-of-bona fide-genius moment, steeped sexy with cleverness and timing

Offering that just right Goldilocks answer which impresses and undresses that just right lady, sipping success and grinning because it bubbles like a gin fizz

What would you pay to sleep on Stillweather Street again

Stop fabricating abstract furniture scrap heaps, stop swollen hands fumbling, picking a louse

Start over and under and in between high school and college before rock and roll almost ruined you and mom still said she would love you no matter what

Then the lights give way and you quietly curse them from the corner before a thought immerses you in bliss

You dance and remember why money kills, why

Boyleston never lost its grass stains and reckless hopes breed sleepless nights

And the concrete is warm so it is time to dream and search Stillweather street for pa’s car even though it has to be in the driveway.

It just has to.


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