Listening to someone else’s music not really knowing what to think—it’s just that you get used to your own playlists and how they make you feel, you then wonder what the brand new will bring out in you as you start to put the writing down, your own little legacy if you put the hard work in, discipline, you know, army-like, like they smack you outta bed early and make you stand straight, at attention—how much better off you’d be jumping on your own projects like that. Operation: Write Some Shit Down. Operation: Look At That! Did You See That?! Look At That! Operation: I Gotta Good Buzz Goin’, Won’t You Join Me? Yeah, a little guitar strumming, the fat rafters thumping, a wandering man wondering, Gloomy Gus chummy at the chimney. Painstaking pain stakes, ya like vampires, hurricanes, earthquakes? I’m sorry, but it’s just coming out exactly how I want it which is exactly how it wants it. Don’t you go gettin all huffy with me, I’ll banish you and your bandannas.
I don’t wanna hear my own nagging hatred for ____ enter this, not this morning, fuck no. But to think of the gall, the audacity, the most ignorant things come outta that mouth, these are pissed off audiences in my brain, mostly all the little devils pummeling the angels and stoking the fire of my temptation to push this woman down a long flight of stairs or elevator shaft and let history move, move on from this point on, forward! Come on, punks. Finally I have to play my own Soul Side.
at the sandwich shop
These depression clouds pass on by, suddenly lift. It’s either global warming depression or sun flares. One or the other. Come on, Nick Cave. Come on, favorite bands—come to my party, I’ll be alive at 35. Bring Buddha statues and expanded fields of vision, radio or no radio – motherfuck Clear Channel, this a real party, howl at the twig pointing at the moon, there’s a coughing kicking baby in there.