Lou Reed

“You’re going to reap just what you sow,
   You’re going to reap just what you sow,
You’re going to reap just what you sow,
   You’re going to reap just what you sow…”

TODAY

Homeless and heavy with the bevy of faults, and heady with the pace of electric sessions to cure the homogenous core. To a land that’s far off the marvel of a lonesome gallery, here in the alley degreed in vanity and guffaws. The daunting windblown doors of bars with a flushed female singer, in a black tight skirt and a black tight top with blonde hair shining in dilated eyes.

Upbeat smolders, upbeat smolders. Thru East Hampton, New York, Manhattan. Subterranean and Pacific rows of echoes. Shiny trails of rock music.

Ambient experimentation, ambient experimentation.

Leather black, sighs of weed, songs reflecting in his palms like his only world.

Ashen sweater, ashen man. Gunshots over guitars. Poe raven. Life underground, all cheering, high soaring, freewheeling, critics abhorring.  

The city is full of countless keepers with a custard emotion, daydream, and delusions of the young navy, twisty friends. It isn’t their first time, it’s there to air the last time, the generation of white lines, and he’s a nice singer and the band leader, there to beat forever, to beat forever.

Surf Shop Singer

Those tender thickets of floral poetry,

Printed on pulp pages,

Which have something to do with your crashing feet,

Something to do with the roaring beat,

Are made of pebbles dressed in aquatic fauna,

Echoing footsteps over dingy and hollow covers.

Again, neap tide moon, neap tide beach day. Bad day at Black Rock.

Into the hotel, Bosnian luxury.

Ballroom.

Bathroom.

Furnished room of surprises.

Shoulders and arms, sunrises.

Onto the road, the hourly road trip.

Road stops.

Roadhouse.

A minute volume happily.

Severin Marina

“Open up to the leisure world of distinctive types. That’s how I feel, the place I’m going seems so full of exciting characters. Scandalous magazines and oceanic nights soothed by the plurality of the meantime, I’m free and I can’t feel nothing but the strange weather. After the bright victory and the bitter surf of futurist ambivalence, I’ve got a handle of the tide. At least for now, but I don’t have to consider anything but ‘now’, for now anyway. Beat-beat-beat-la-la-La. Surfing on the wavering vividness of voodoo space and gypsy time, take me higher to that place in the city lights where the silhouetted fingers of tree adorn the strip of concrete pavement with a starry look. By the means of a venerated banner that crinkles prettily in that special song of sunlight and the performance of Warhol people. Fame-fifteen minutes-trash magic-agony fiend no more. Even when the stage doesn’t work in rarity, it works in the sparkling hope of fantastic silk in the shadow of a radio show’s talk. Through the frenzies of several cold radiances that flash before me, I have finally decided on one, not settled but decided. An abundance of road days could bank me to the Rhine, Rhone or the Rheidol, I’ll stay and shake with pleasure. Churning, burning a definite plop of the blue dahlia. Go-come-leave-stay, you don’t have a sign”

Copenhagen

Here’s a world to which I like to sing along. All the pretty stars, the paradise art, sunny jazz, coca-cola, black beaches, Italian cinema, and capable poetry, stable poetry; Peruvian poetry! The whole world is in a cult, they beat the heart and they sing rivers. With feathers in their hair, they fall on watery streets. But the collection of colors is clear- you can see most everything. Caesium, Lithium, Vienna, and sunshine. You could be smoking in the neon lights at gas stations but can you see the European days perfumed with celestial freedom and ending time at Alcatraz or a Caribbean island.

Forests feathered with ferns, snow salting the ground, pages webbed with words and the brain grassed with dreams. I’m funning away my life, dreaming away my time.

  • Picture by Timothy Price

An Exhibition of Trials

“Warnings take hell and high water. Eyes race to the sick of the stomach. All the losses I’ve started to watch, all the urges I’ve tried make me want to rush while I’m still alive off the blood. Meet me somewhere where the hearses go to heaven, in the twelfth hour of closing verve, in the middle of the effervescing haze as the sun shines whitely and decorates the neck of the sky. I wouldn’t lie, I won’t make a sound. Take the fault from me and I’ll fix myself till eternity. I’ll remember it well, like the rain of my reasons and the pump of my problems, if I have a memory of occurring left to my head it’s getting dim, too dim to look at the brightness, if I keep dreaming then I’ll find a day that stands still, a day that doesn’t subtract the happy times. My heart goes on chanting its beat like an anxious prayer, my mind keeps being nervous. I can’t survive if this is the act of this lounge, it’s too psychotic and wintry. You have to take me right now, aneurysm, be faithful like a euphemism if not then forget it – I’m just going to crack readily, redly. But If I get away from this dark hold, I’ll run to a great Caribbean summer, I’ll run, run, run”

The Troop That Told Tell-Tales

Grey lady, her spaceman darling, and their blue flower child, falling over the darkened days of November, dancing circles around the cruel sphere, taking the second exit to Tijuana for it’s the psychedelic hours around the Hollywood Hills. They’ve got decorated foreheads, skin colors that were coming off, a poised recline, smoky fame smoking off the orifices, lying about dying over the only wish of being a fashion, living on Venus hotel on Jupiter Boulevard, orbiting the roads, inspiring hurricanes in supermarkets, feeling birth, frazzling the air.

But when telephones discuss the obscene click of their tongues on the day of naked rain, it’s all under a bridge of setting. Disease, friends, frizzed hair, sadness, interludes of drunkenness over meditation, sweat, moans, spit – all in the sleep of their spirit.

Happiness knows when to electrify and when to keep up all night, for when they’re coasting away to the ports, they sing with umpteen of colors and they’ve got their love honey springing in Illinois, footloose howls of laughter- they know when to flow away in a trip.

But no, the thoughts are everywhere, the flying harm above is thundering like the stares, money caught the fire, flowers aren’t in bloom anymore, the glory of their free story lost in the poems of bummers in the land of baying critique.

Holy past, a grave, cemeteries of July heat, sunglasses to save from the flare of time. Death baby. Cruising present the sinister adults that got their guiltlessness bluntly scattered. Searing the dream of world-weary wars, and sizzling with the lance of having the world to go to war with, against the brooding bunches and heavy-metal squads. They’re the specimen of their own head, the captains of an old hole, vigilantes that create dangerously and write notes on acidic liberation while humming the national anthem.

Goodbye into the beginning, hold onto the festival of sunrises. Goodbye, this is the end, beautiful medley philosophy. Hilltop jumps, unconventional silence, violent carnivals riding to the crash but that’s alright, causative fun is no surprise.

Diamantes Rheidol

“I’m being bleak, probably because I’m falling out. Wait for the minute, wait for life. Just a little wake-up and then watery music. Okay, it’s all looking good now. For now, I don’t feel like a leaf of marijuana drifting through Ljubljana. No brooding purposes, I’m as simple as I am asking for your distant opinion-Am I good because I don’t ever want to think I’m bad. Of course, I’ve been bad, I was born badly but I mean a menace otherwise. It doesn’t really matter, I don’t really mind. I want much more than a showy or tawdry philosophy, I don’t really mind because I have the whole vigor! Now I do, yes.  Look at me now, do you like me now? It’s all looking good now. You’re good. That’s never so hard and yet it goes abysmal in all the great phases of the heart. It’s important to talk to people. People are your only lovers, your only friends, and your only family- if you’re sane like me too- consequently, you can ask why not?”