Posts Tagged ‘art’

I decided to go for a trip down memory lane today. I started reading through some poetry, I wrote over the years. I used to enjoy writing this stuff as experiments. Nothing I took too serious, but re reading allows me to get inside my head, and see where I was at mentally. This one right here I wrote in the throes of a meth amphetamine bender. So here, I’ll share some of my thoughts from  when I was really out of my mind…

Wash these sins from my soul as I grow old

Step out of the darkness into angelic light

Let it engulf me whole

Danced cheek to cheek with the devil across Hell’s coals

It took it’s toll

More than twice trying to make men out of mice

Scars on my heart strings from the slice

A being not some waste of life

Work became my wife

You only need to fuck the trife

Burn my mark on times wall

Not some neurotic flash in the pan

Crushed in the palm of a hand

No longer balancing on the edge of a knife

Began living life

No more tears to cry over the snakes lies

Only the heart less truly dies
Just another one of society’s lies

The winner never cries

Up through the abyss

A bus I could not miss

Karma sealed it with a kiss

Dreams are for living

The rest is for sleeping

Regret all the weeping

Thought fate was fleeting

Hope kept getting deleted

Forgot where I was seated

Intoxicated on the depleted

Needles in my feeble brain

Death pumping through perforated veins

With a heart full of pain

Watching souls twirling down the drain

Abel should of slain Kane
Neurosis induced by psychosis

Touching lips with death’s icy kiss

The show that couldn’t be missed

Who really got dissed?

That’s the part everybody dismissed

Soul churning watts pouring through the skies

While destiny hides in a disguise

Can you decipher the snakes lies

Tongue twisters spit until tongues blistered

Talk about wiping the bottom of the pipe

Foul ass tripe

Listing the mights

Should of, could of, only if he would have……..

That’s what drove him mad

Putting ambition inside of a glad bag

Sleeping with soulless hags

Laughing while he brags

Broken dreams are what he drags

Judged by the chrome on the mags and the size of the bags

Just couldn’t drown that bastard’s sorrow in the bottom of a bottle

Take your foot off the fucking throttle!

The bridge is burnt

you should have turned

I knew I should have left at that last right

Bad health from time kept on the shelf

Doesn’t matter if you just let it shatter

Who’s the fucking Matter

You want it served up on a platter

Climb the Goddamn ladder

Or do you got a weak bladder?

Pockets can only get fatter
Lint gets scattered

When your madder than a hatter

Trying to dissect matter

Over the laughter

Where’d he go?


Down that lonely road

Only if he listened to what was told

Always so bold

Discovered that Hell is really cold

When you start thinking your old

They definitely broke the mold

What happened to the code?

Lost it about five miles down the road

Trying to spin midnight into gold

On nothing more than a prayer
Tip toeing in the beasts lair

Different songs we’d sing

Had we known these things

To busy grabbing for rings

Thinking the merry go round

Not paying in flesh by the pound

What is that sound that’s coming from underground?

You can still hear it from the top of the mound

Listen it will help with the decision

That seems to be the mission

Only if he stopped wishing

He’d see what’s been missing

Into the wind he just kept pissing

See its really feces

Just tear those miserable meeses to pieces

Then it all ceases

Foundations are laid under wonder

Can’t you hear that thunder

Reality got plundered

Sniffed through a hundred

Bloody nose hose and an armful of hoes

Recipe for the Woes

Deceit only grows

That’s all he knows

Watch the trouble bubble into double

Time to adjust the treble

It’s on another level

Hope you brought the shovel

Or did you leave it to the humble

I may stumble but I never tumble

One too many cocks of the walk got smashed on those rocks

Drinking cheap wine on the main line

Jelly fish spines go in boxes made of pine packed in Lyme

After they drop a dime

That’s not the crime

It’s the times

Read between the lines

Can’t you see the signs?

Juggling minds is what you’d find

But Justice is always blind

Who’d you loose your mind?

It’s your call

It might fall off that ball

Over the long Haul

How high did we build that wall

It can never got too tall

Smothered by mothers
Fighting with brothers

Following others

Sucking on the udders

Little pig’s getting awfully big

From filling rigs

Insides soft as rotting figs

All the graves we dig

Ambition is a fatherless child walking in the wild

Riding the snake as the earth quakes

Learning about life’s mistakes

Scraping a Chevy’s breaks

Is all it takes

Then you awake and see the fake

Commotion is the motion that stirs the ocean

Broken backs laid them tracks across the cracks

Would of dipped instead of slipped
past cracking whips

You won’t get sick from just one prick

Skins only so thick

compared to a brick

Mountains crumble under bundles

Stomachs rumble

when it’s not rare the cupboards bare
can I do it my way?

It’s not a question just a suggestion

To clear this congestion

Who’s honey really is money

It always smells funny buddy

When waters so muddy

Those aren’t wishes
They’re fishes rotting on dirty dishes

Just bitches every time she misses

never sealed with kisses

Can’t be submissive on the issues

Or they’ll miss you

Boo Hoo

Is that you still feeling blue about what to do

Get a clue or come unglued

Screams splitting the seams of the American dream

Murdered on a triple beam over CREAM

Because the schemes of fiends

Planted the seeds of dirty deeds

the earth bleeds unease

Friday- April 30, 2010.  I got an invite to attend a gallery opening in Boston from an old friend, I last saw 20 years ago on the back of a school bus headed to Haverhill High school.  So I decided what the hell, it would be nice to catch up and see how Mister Reusch was doing. After all he’d just done some fabulous illustrations for my Beatdom Issue 6 piece LSD 25000 pro bono. So the least I could do was personally hand him a hardcopy of his work.
I hopped on the Purple Line and headed into the city to check out GET YOUR FREAK ON! Celebrating Circus Folk, Carnies & Sideshow Freaks at Space 242 in Boston. As my luck would have it my train was delayed because of the fact as the conductor put it “ Apparently some kids thought it would be funny to throw a shopping carriage under the train and it was now tangled up in the axels.”  About twenty minutes of cutting pulling and cursing later the engineer freed the carriage and we were off.
I arrived at North Station and from there hopped on the Orange Line over to China Town where Space 242 is located at 242 East Berkley St. I’m sitting there with the rest of the rush hour crowd when we witness the crack head love connection of the century.   A very friendly and obviously quite wired gentleman is busy talking up everybody in the car. He turns his attention to a drunken land whale and begins talking her up about how he’s going to cash his check and then wants to go party. She’s interested and invites him to party at her house. The next thing we all know he produces a crack stem from his pocket and says “See baby today is your lucky day.” The entire crowd is in shock when they then begin to passionately suck face. This is true junky love at its finest.  I hop off the train before I can see what fully transpires but I’m sure it ended in domestic violence over the last push in the stem several hours later. Such is the way of the crack head world.
It’s a short walk over to Space 242. I arrive and find a long line of Artist types and scenesters awaiting entry into “Boston’s Lowbrow destination.” After about twenty minutes I’m through the line and in the gallery. The art is amazing. The show features over 100 different artists in several different mediums.  It’s a bit macabre, but that’s to be expected dealing with this subject. I find Mister Reusch and we catch up on the past twenty years.
He’s a very accomplished illustrator, Burlesque innovator , and  teacher at Mass. Art. Several of his students pieces are on display. It’s very clear Mister Reusch is good at his job, judging by the outstanding works by notables – Felisia Sainz, Jessica Baer, Lindsey Boss Allison Bamford, Caitlin Ryan, Alex Carlson, Greg Miller, and KC Burney. I highly recommend checking this show out if you have a taste demented demons, bearded ladies, killer clowns, or side show culture in general. Space 242 is located @ 242 East Berkley in Boston Massachusetts. The show runs from April 30th-May 21st. There is a second opening this Friday due to the fact the crowd was so large at the first opening and not everyone could gain access. Gallery hours are from 6:30PM- 8:00PM Fridays. I recommend getting there early because the spot fills up fast. To learn more about Space 242 “Boston’s Low Brow Destination” and future shows check out their website an RSVP is required to attend the shows. To see Mister Reusch’s work check out

So last night I took to my usual way of unwinding beside a roaring fire with six a pack of Flying Dog Pale Ales. Alcohol in the right dosage has a way of spawning creativity. Ask any poet. So in my altered state I decided to make myself a keep sake of the moment. I laid several of the bottles in the fiery coals and let physics run it’s course. I ended up with some incredible ashtrays. I do believe I have a new hobby. I am officially taking up creating beer bottle ashtrays. I consider it going green and putting the bottles to another use. Of course you can’t do this with just any bottle. It has to be made of quality glass not that cheap stuff the giants of the industry use. That stuff only shatters when you apply heat.  By the end of the summer I’ll have hundreds of these things. I guess that means I’ll be giving them away to friends as gifts. I’m sure every beer drinking cigarette smoker could appreciate a nice beer bottle ashtray..

New York City, late nineteen-ninety-nine… I find myself living in Hell’s Kitchen. I share a one bed room apartment on West 49th Street with an El Salvadorian. His name is Hector. Hector has three loves in his life. These loves are drugs, hookers, and music.
So let’s describe the living situation. The floor plan is a simple one small 10×10 bedroom, and another 10×10 room attached. The non bedroom doubled as kitchen and shower. I can literally cook food and shower at the same time. Luckily the toilet is in a small closet between the two rooms.
I come home one day and look up at the exterior of the building. What do I see? Strobe and laser lights flashing out my apartment windows. Latin house music bumping through the air at top decibels. I don’t even touch more than six stairs up the six flights that lead to my apartment. I must know what the fuck he’s doing!
I burst through the door to find Hector and his friend Ralphy have got some sort of club lighting system and CD mixer, complete with fog machine, operating in the rat’s nest of an apartment we occupied.
“What the fuck is this?”
“You, me and Ralphy are going to be DJ’s.”
” Man, wherever  people want us, weddings, parties what ever!”
“That’s cool I guess, where the fuck did you get the set-up?”
“Oh shit, Ralphy got the hook up. This only cost like $250.00”
“Whatever man… but do you think we could shut the fog machine off?”
“Yeah man that’s cool, what you think about the name DJ House?”
“Hey it’s your name.”
Hector never ended up never even booking one gig although from time to time I’d come home to DJ House and DJ Papi Chulo’s Latin disco tech. Located at 549 W.49th St. Apt. 54. They’d have hookers from the neighborhood dancing in the shower like it was a fucking cage.  Random Latino’s sucking on pacifiers, while rolling on ecstasy. It was some sort Latin freaknik in our tiny one bedroom apartment. It truly was an insane living situation.
At one point Hector found these five Polish girls visiting the States for the summer. The bastard ended up renting them the kitchen to live in for a hundred bucks each a week.
“Think about it Eddie, now we only got to come up with 150 each, man I love rent control.”
He will go down in history as the craziest room mate I’ve ever had!
Now, I loved New York, and it loved me. I fitted in perfectly. There’s far too many lunatics living in that city for me to stick out like the sore thumb like I often do. Constant stimulation and creativity are the blood that pumps through the arteries of this city. For me it was, anyway.
When I wasn’t working for several different catering companies in the city, I’d spend my time with Asend. Asend was the founding father of a graffiti crew called the Hostile Bomb Threat Kids, a crew I call my family to this day. The man is one of the most brilliantly talented artists of our time. But he’s a master procrastinator.
We’d spend every night being some one else. That was the great thing about New York – so many people. Who was going to be able to find out if the two drunk lunatics at the bar that day weren’t a professional skate boarder and a journalist doing a story on New York Cities skate scene. Hell, we’d been everything from Jarred Leto’s stand-in for Requiem for a Dream to famous artists.  It didn’t matter it was a way to entertain ourselves with how far we could push a story.
This period in my life also spawned my writing. I’d write countless letter’s to companies and politicians making ludicrous demands and requests. For instance I once wrote the good people at General Mills a letter telling them I had a six box a day Count Chocula habit. I went on to tell them my local grocer had quit carrying it, and I was having severe withdrawals and hoped they could hook a brother up with some free boxes. Another letter was written to Rudy Giuliani stating I could curb NY C’s rat problem if he’d just supply me with a single Humvee, with a dead rat on the hood, the supplies to make one thousand gallons of jellied gasoline, a couple flame throwers, a subscription to Soldier of Fortune, and three first class tickets for my most esteemed colleagues to help me out. He never got back to me.
Asend always helped fuel my madness. One day we were walking through the city sticker bombing and I decided to stop at this local Bodega. In the Bodega I found some cap guns. So I bought one for him and one for me. We test fired them and found them to be extremely loud.
Shortly after we got a call from our friend Jeremiah. He informed us there was a few gallery openings that night and we should hit them up for at least free drinks. Fuck it! We decided that if we can’t make any connections it’s always fun to mind fuck pseudo intellectuals.
The shows all happened to be in Brooklyn so we hopped on the L train, and made our way over to Williamsburg, brown-bagged forties in hand. By the time we got to the first show we were pretty buzzed. A few complementary vodka red bulls and we were ready to get HBTKRAZY! So off to the next show we went.
By the time we got to the next show the booze is really starting to kick in. I reached into my pocket and found the cap gun I’d forgotten all about. As we were making our way to the gallery somehow we decided we need to do a performance art piece. I chased Asend straight into the gallery screaming that I was going to kill his ass! We both draw our guns and begin shooting at each other.
People were hitting the floor screaming. Women were crying, a stampede to the exit erupted. Then everyone realised neither of us was hurt, never mind shot. We had nothing but harmless cap guns. An uneasiness settled over the crowd. Some saw the true art in this performance, a select few. Others were just disgusted and called us terrorists.
Some people are just unaware of true art, and this was art at its finest. That quack Andy Warhol would have been proud of that piece even. It obviously wasn’t as artistic an audience as we had hoped for. In fact most of them were pretty pissed.  Fuck’em, we decided, and continued to mingle with the more appreciative members of our audience.
The night went on and we found ourselves in some sort of drunken daze, wandering through Williamsburg in a drunken stupor. Somehow we navigated ourselves home. Me to Manhattan and Asend to Hoboken.
The next day I was awoken by a phone call from my brother. He said he was coming with his friend Billy for the New Year’s Eve celebration. That just happened to be in two days. He’d be here in the morning, arriving by train.
Well, a blizzard of massive proportions rolled in that night. The city was at a standstill. Early the next morning I walked my way through three feet of snow to Pen Station. I found my brother and Billy already out of their gourds. A few beers at the bar and we made our way back to my house.
Hector was there upon our arrival. The first question out my brother and Billy’s mouth was “Can we get some fucking coke?” This lit Hector’s eyes up like the ball that about to drop the next day. After a few phone calls we found a delivery service that was willing to oblige.
Once the coke arrived, my brother, Billy, and Hector started busting out lines. Hector was the type of guy who did tiny key shots of coke. My brother and Billy were not.
“Let me show you how to do this shit!” Billy said.
He then proceeded to cut a three inch rail, fat as my pinkie, across the mirror. He sniffed that thing in a millisecond. My brother followed suit. Hector’s eyes just lit up.
“Let me try that!”
The next thing I know, we’d gone through a quarter ounce of coke that was supposed to last us the night in about an hour and a half.
“More! We need fucking more!” my brother and Billy screamed.
Another call was made this time we needed at least half an ounce. During the wait Asend made his daily visit.
“Holy shit, you guys are starting early!” Mind you it’s two o’clock in the afternoon.
“Fuck yeah you want a line?”
“Of course!”
So there we were, the five of us, sniffing monster lines of coke all afternoon.
Suddenly the already tight walls began to close in on us even more. The general consensus was that we needed to get the fuck out of the house. There still was a blizzard going on outside though. Fuck it, we decided, let’s go check out Times Square.
Times Square was desolate. It so desolate that we were making snow angels in the middle of 42nd street. We made our way for a while geek-ed to the max. A couple rounds to the local neighborhood bars to take the edge off, and it was back to the house.
More cocaine filled our nostrils. By this time I was lying on my bedroom floor clutching my chest. It was too much for me. Five coked up freaks in a tiny apartment was too much and I was in the midst of a panic attack.
Asend found some of my spray paint and was like “Fuck it! Lets go paint your roof top.” I was down and we made our way up there. Somehow the graffiti bug had bitten everyone including Hector. He just happened to be so out of his mind he began tagging all the apartment doors in the building except ours. With the name of an El Salvadorian street gang, Wanacos. Which mind you he wasn’t even a member of!
The spray paint had run out but I still had the urge to bomb. I found a gallon of white paint, and a sponge under the sink, and made my way to the door.
“Where are you going with that?” Asend asked
“You’ll see.”
Now mind you I lived only two blocks from Times Square. So with the blizzard and the total lack of human life on the street. I had a once in a life time opportunity. I ran trough the snow to a giant grey block building. I dipped my sponge into the paint and proceeded to paint in letters so large it took up half a city block- HOSTILE BOMB THREAT!  This was an outstanding NYC hit. Two blocks from the most heavily trafficked and populated part of the city, I had pulled a giant bomb! This only elevated my coke high.
I made my way upstairs, basking in my hit. The rest of the night found us just getting more and more fucked up. Cases of beer being ordered from the local Bodega every two hours. Hector was on some whole other paranoia induced high and found Jesus and was begging Billy, who was now dubbed Billy-Billy to please teach him how to pray in English. Asend by this time had had his ill and made his way home.
The rest of this trip was spent so fucked out o our minds the only thing I remember is Hector offering to throw me out if my brother and Billy-Billy would move in because as he said ” Now you guys know how to fucking party, man.”
Late in the afternoon of January 2, 2000, shortly after Y2K never hit and the banks didn’t collapse, planes didn’t fall from the sky, and nuclear holocaust never came, I waved from the platform to my brother as he boarded a train back to Boston.  I wouldn’t see him again for five years, when I finally stopped running.