pink priest teenage wet dream #4

one time, a while back, i glanced a snatched mirror glimpse of something, something i didn’t understand, couldn’t grasp, something so simple and complex, so essentially vast so meaninglessly small, so recognizable yet utterly other, it caught me capriciously with clutching damp fingers round throat, wrung the breath like ragwater from my tar-browned lungs and i realized, in that one monotonously fleeting(eternal) second that everything, ev ve er ry yt th hi in ng gg, the word vibrating, a dreaded om, is hideously inconsequential, that everything i’m aware of, blank-eyed and knowing.  is.  just.  nonsense.  a pointless construct, a plastic skeleton, a feeling, simultaneous, with narcotic glee and feverish fucked gloom, and during that satorial blip in such a timeless timeline i knew, knew why people cling to something, anything, be it kittens or bottles or gods, and while the moment passed, a blinked epoch peckpeckpecked at by fields of wetbeaked crows, that wheezing pneuma informed, huffing around my skull, flowering, seeding, blossoming, i remain forever unsettled by the minimalist act of existence, so that each time, just before opening a door there’s this glitchy wet panic that when i do there won’t be anything beyond or when i’m moist and mumblemouthed in slumber i’ll never wake or when i swallow i’ll choke slackly on the gob-filling mulch or try to move, spastic straining, and i can’t, so i stop opening doors and eating and sleeping and moving, for fear of discovery, the enveloping inertia of paranoia that every lump or ache or pain is some insidious disease or terminal symptom, how we’re all cockhungry and cuntwet for ignorance really, you know this idea that understanding is the same as mastery, that explanation eases the fear of the unknown, like being told you have cancer lumps whispering in yr chest is any better than wondering why you’re struggling to catch yr breath, so i stopped eating eggs because i panicked every time i cracked one that there’d be a thumb-burst foetus inside and i stopped praying in case someone was actually listening and i’d hear noises and the noises would be like frostbitten bliss, like grime smeared pornography, like harsh drugs and overdriven emotion and the noise would pupate and then images, licking lightly caterpillar tongued on retina, images and images, revelatory, and i’d see snow and bloodletting and hearts breaking and i’d see the insect wings and the fat lonely suicide’s creaking rope and i’d see love, smothering and destroying, and i’d see the sad orgasm of hate and the slow rust of machines, i’d see the bruised melancholy at the heart of it all, tempered by gluey cruelty and the crummy, eager tape hiss of fifth generation vhs copied sadism, and since i stopped speaking i’d paint pictures of flags and folksongs and deserts and vultures, of plagues and childbirth and ghosts dripping with the semen of every unused ejaculation, of neatly arranged lines of sunbloated dog corpses and piles of damp dank dresses torn clinging from the bodies of drowned girls, of mortuary rituals and swollen things filling bathtubs but in amongst the voices and inkstained delirium i’d be aware of the ecstasy of my new found unevolving, of my deknowing, of my reignorance, the comforting certainty of futility, and i’d see see see how all all all is same same same, everything is nothing, that as the pink priest said abandonment and transcendence are one, that life isn’t circular or linear, and i’m reminded of something i read once that offers neither hope nor pity just a gentle reminder of what it is to be, briefly, and i read one time a while back, from my rotting body, flowers shall grow and i am in them and that is eternity.

1. dead sun
2. cardinalidae
3. chipping the ice off the holy ghost
4. i want to stand next to you at the end of the world (excerpt)

pink priest / bathetic / la station radar / digitalis / marygarden tapes / alberts basement

(seven months of insomia meets an existential breakdown meets a 4am stream of conscience meets the music of pink priest (not a review but a genuine attempt to put his noise into my words))

do yrself a favo(u)r click on the links above and buy some of this beautifully ugly shit (and a tape player (damn you cassette freaks!)) or at least download the entire birchville cat style apocalptic majesty of i want to stand next to you… here.

chipping the ice off the holy ghost is coming out on a tape/cd-r entitled endless love for family time records sometime in june or july

cardinalida is coming out on a c20 for digitalis ltd entitled cat tails / at the mouth of swollen summer in late june.

dead sun is coming out on a c30 entitled infant tape on albert’s basement sometime soon, within the next couple of months…