One hundred years bc.

They pretend these scarlet memories are regret

Or a lament

They disguise them as passion or

Nostalgia

How long it takes to remember these

Places and rhymes and broken hearts and broken bones

As they are stored

In small pockets or dusty corners

Every analogue moment erased by its digital opposite

Unless you write this shit down

It is cigarette smoke lost in a soft July kiss

Summer rain making fools of us

All.

The day will come when the poles reverse

  

The metal dynamo underneath us

Turning and turning until eventually

It happens

But they say we will all

Be gone by then

So what’s the difference

And this is before the sun decides

To give up the ghost

This is before the expansion snaps

Back

And all our science breaks down

North will be south

And south will be north

And the creatures will lose their way

And the sky will dance

Green

Over the city.

RIP

Monsters in the bright day sunlight

Ages old                                                                                       

We are leant on

Ages old

We are pushed

Down

And they speak in tongues and roar and

They speak truths and simplicity

And we are leant on

Kneeled upon

Can’t you see the truth?

How easy it can be -

How clean and simple?

Eyes shining

Clear of pain or desire

Clear of memory or disgust

Ages old

They have always been

It seems

Speaking at volume

In volumes

The right path to take

But their white eyes hold no disgrace

And so cannot fathom the bottles of liquor

Cannot compute the morning sunrise being a curse

When you never saw the night

Before

Their ideals are far removed

From the drunken spitting reality of making it

From A to B and sometimes

Back again

But not always

They buried their own red buttons long ago

No self-destruct option to be

Seen

So you learn to move fast

Slide

Speak faster

Walk in cracks and shadow to get by them

And their clean living paths to a clean living

Death.

Girls of summer II

 

Everything is questions now

A tipping point reached

Sliding down the other side

Of the goddamn mountain

Looking back

Looking up

Digging your nails in trying

To slow yourself

For even a moment

Taste the air

Take it in

As it passes you like a dog

Hanging out a car window

But

Don’t look back

You can never look back

Still you ask the impossible now

Of yourself

Of others

Reaching out to grasp fingertips

Of hands just inches away as they blur past

And your eyes divert

Forward like a hunter’s gaze

You are looking for the box

And you are looking for the trap door

Still in your ears old songs ring

Straight to the heart

Where they were imprinted

So many summers ago

And they remain there

And they are solid

Unmoving

And they are like iron           

And they pump the blood

And feed the soul

And cause the shadow of regret

And melancholy to fall

Every now and then

But it is just that

Only a shadow

But

Don’t look back

You can never look back

Even if it was all gold

Warmth and carelessness

Nights that never came and never ended

All at once

It will only ever be a version of the truth

But it can’t be helped

And believe me I have tried

Though this age

Now

Is the best time for this introspection

Opposite reflection and infantile regression
So why listen to me 

Feed the soul with a solid red

Smoke

Burn

Scream shout laugh lament

Claw

Climb

Close your eyes and dream it all back.

PRGHHR SHOW 5

#5

Bill. That is all.

 

I'm not big on anniversaries of deaths, or the ‘they would’ve been 40 years old today…’ stuff. They’re not – they’re dead. They died. They no longer have a birthday. So with that in mind, happy deathday Bill!

Also read this - Patton Oswalt's scrapped intro to a reprint of American Scream

Mr C Pulman Esq.

Should have posted this a week or two back, but didn't. Hey I do have a life you know... Anyway as per my previous post - Chris was always a gent when I was in Slam back in the day, so support this.

PRGHHR Show Ep4

I am the cat stuck in the middle, cleaning his balls

There is little as boring

As a room full of people all

On the same page

A group with the same ideals

In agreement about the world

About styles and politics

And books and art

Jesus if that doesn’t kill

Every last atom of creative thought

What a waste of fucking time to be there

Yet this is what so many strive toward

Like-minded friends

A band to belong to

            I just want someone on my level…

I am still better in an argument

Or better than that

Just alone

The comfort of retreating will never leave me

And I like that

Wilson said that the group is a grammatical fiction

As it is made up of individuals

And here they are

The individuals

All trying to be like their friends to

Feel that inclusive lie of belonging

I have never understood this desire

And don’t think I ever will

That’s why I find it so hard to work

In the hard labour sense

Everyone committing to the team

Yet another group that will always exist

Within an even bigger collection of nobodies

A circle of dogs chasing tails

Happily ever after.