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Sunday, August 12, 2007

Picking Poison: a short writing

This is probably my favorite bit of writing recently, not following any real structure and it borders on material for a short story, which who knows, maybe i'll work up to that one day.

Picking Poison

Buildings of crude design, a city curved as if viewed through a fishbowl of filthy water. A fish lies at the top, it is a goldfish, but appears more silver than gold, also appears to be to be dead. At first glance so did the city seem to curve in warped comic perspective, the fish swims again, perhaps catching a bit of fresh air, the murky water welcomes the not-quite-gold fish back into it’s filth.
Out past the sill of the window in the cool breeze of November papers scatter at the feet of a drunken trio, maybe one’s singing as another belches melodies of good days gone goodbye. Certainly there must be a third if this group is indeed a trio, but he or she is quiet, quite content to drunkenly sway in the wind just below the radar.

Unscrewing the cap to the fishes food and knocking a few sprinkles of god-knows-what into the tiny bowl of wet dirt I think is this youth wasted, is it youthful indiscretion? Midian doesn’t answer, that’s the fish’s name. Not like he would know anyway, he’s in a dirty fucking bowl and probably hates me. Rightfully so, if I do say so myself, and I do. Now where was I? Ah, yes fetching another bottle from the fridge, a bit of cold inspiration. Now if I could only figure out how to end this perversion of words.

Three folk, two of a kind and one odd for variety’s sake stumble on their way home, though they look warped through the fishbowl so must I, a young miser typing, drinking, painting, escaping, at least they know where their going. They’ve finished their drinks and I’ve only begun.

Red Obscenity: a short writing

Here is another bit of writing.

Red Obscenity, a Lover’s Sonnet

Composed, quiet, the gentleman caller,
Calls her obscene, calls her murder. Closes the door.
Murderer, murder her, so obscene, red love on the floor.
Focused on the now, a perpetual white noise, hold her.
She kissed with a liar’s tongue, fucked like a whore, tell her.
Tonight, she spreads for the last time.
The gentleman’s been drinking gin, without the lime.
Good guy gone bad says goodbye forever to his lover.

They have a good time, dinner and dirty sex on the table.
Small talk and cigarette smoke fill the air.
The gentleman, gentle no more.
Round two with teeth, pulling her dark brown almost black hair.
On her back breathing hard, hands on her throat, he’d kill if able.
The gentleman loves the whore.

Friday, August 10, 2007

Concepts for writing an album.

So, my band (When They All Fell) and I have wrapped up our latest endeavor, Passengers (although, it's still being mixed), and we've begun working on some new material. With what we are writing now, I'm trying to think of concepts that can carry an album, or in our case a smaller album (an EP for example) or if you want to be crude, a demo, but none of us are too keen on calling it a demo, it's not like we are auditioning for anyone, we do what we do for ourselves, and if someone likes it, great, if not, it is of no concern. Ok, back to how i wanted to approach our next set of songs, my concept for what i think will make a good album, I was brainstorming and trying to come up with material that we haven't really touched upon, or that i haven't really touched upon, something not too vague, because that is simply a copout, and i don't want to do that. I also wanted to start writing about us, as individuals, as the people we play in our daily lives, and i wanted to create a lyrical world and mood that encompasses the things that people our age notice, and experience. Something specific, something almost alien, but something that like minded folk can relate to and be interested in. I also wanted to say something about our society (which has always been at the core of When They All Fell) and how it relates to the bands (more so my) ethics. And now that I have a pretty good direction and idea of how i want to bring it all together, i want to start releasing my ideas here, which may change as we begin to collectively write the new material. So, without further rambling the working title i have in mind is Synthetic Burden, the first full song i've wriiten is The Broken Drones, and here it is sans music.

The Broken Drones

Today’s nightmare becomes tomorrow’s truth.
Waiting for the lotto to level the playing field.
Hope turns to disgust, and that’s all we have in common.
A mirrored expression followed by nausea.

We’ve gone too far.

Existence compared to consumption, we consume.
Rather than experience we pay others to do it for us.
We watch them intently on the television.
We sing along, half knowing the words.

With your last breath you try to buy another.
It’s useless, you’re lifeless, and I’m over it.

We’ve gone too far.

Tuesday, August 7, 2007

Synthetic Burden: Trigger Finger Sunset

Trigger Finger Sunset

What have I become?
Am I the bullet, or the gun?
The clouds, the rain,
or just the bastard sun?

A storm without a course,
soldiers without names
marching to the beat
of a long dead heart.

I’m changing for the worse,
a maggot in bloom.
Creation in reverse.
Howling at the moon.

I’m the monster,
you’re the hero.
The scenes are only filler.
The end is always the same.

A single silver bullet to my heart.
Kiss the girl and fade to black.