Archive for the ‘War’ Category

Anvil


12 Oct
Anvil Booker was no guarantee, 
        Nimrod's son, wide awake, my generation,
     not what you wanted, not now not here
coy, once upon a time nickels and dimes
one way or another one of these days out of time
Mrs. Brown's lovely daughter, 
broke paperback writer,
only a pawn in their game, swallows peppermint twist
open all night, parade of the horribles, 
     Nadine Brown put 'em on the glass 
like old fashioned love songs
           "My brain is hanging upside down, neat neat neat"
a few observations, sunspot backyard garden party
forsaken fragments of fresh flesh must of got lost
met privately with their lawyers, guns, and money
fortunate son sitting to my right in submission,
no sanctuary, superstition, surrender,
none but the brave, 
nobody's diary.

                         Mrs. Robinson snatches Mr. Tambourine Man, 
and the one they called Mr. Integrity. Ooh la la. Each other's bad company,
girl gone wild, night moves, sultans of swing, mother and child reunion
only the good die young in Oliver's army, 
Mother's little helper not faking it, 
         one man's a gang, one headlight.
One tin soldier on the sea of Galilee,
Arial Sharon still in his coma after seven 
years of plenty, on the road again,
one way out, not a trillion dollar golf game
                 peace minus one, pay you back with interest
one step into the light, one of us, Obama's presidential rag
people who died, peeling back the foreskin of liberty
for the piano man Pee-ro Juan Valdez Sam Quixote
parasite host, pump it up, it's a political world.

                           Private Idaho went M.I.A.
planet earth 1988, police story pretty vacant, 
plastic bag, picture this, get a grip on yourself
perpetual personality, the pied piper,
please push no more, the power genocide
gunpoint affection, this year's prophet
get back, get down, get ready, get up, 
golden shower of hits, going going gone
get your body beat, get off, harvest 
          halfway to crazy said Avil,
the happiest days of our lives,
hate to say I told you so
growing up the children
of dust, groom's still waiting.

         The church of the holy spook, 
cigarettes and citizenship
packed into an old blue chevy van,
made it to oh Atlanta and back then died
after that singular trip from Corpus Christi,
sold it back to the same gypsies I paid on eggshell. 

Elvis is everywhere, a field of opportunity
Eli's coming, eminent domain, embryo dead, Elvis on velvet,
fire on the mountain, flowers on the wall, civil war
face to face, remarks Eve, of destruction, Ezra's Cantos
fake friends fading fast, long as I can see the light
pipes Anvil, looking for a leader lost in America,
a brutal planet, every picture tells a story,
every grain of sand fighting in the streets,
Cleveland rocks, Detroit City falls,
drops into the night, city baby
attacked by rats coast to coast
cold professional, common people
coal miner's daughter, glory days
               claw at idiot wind,
as somebody screamed give peace a chance,
others bellowed they would go down fighting,
same fate, no regulation, no legislation
prepared the goon squad, the goody two shoes
troops of tomorrow, red shirted radicals,
the queen of the silver dollar,
rabbit fighter, punk rock girl, the righteous ones,
or the green shirts of the green green grass of home
                    for the grinder, the grey seal.

Richard hung himself,
the rhythm of the rain was 
a major contributor. Famous last words,
return to sender. Over my head. Pablo Picasso
never had to paint it black, use magnum force,
just his lyin' eyes, mandolin wind, 
and maybe I was a golf ball, 
quips Anvil, adding

                Massachusetts was his favorite nation,
miles from nowhere when you live in sweet home Alabama
especially when the Medicine Jar 
still owned Maybelle's guitar. 
    Now it has always been mate, 
spawn and die (probably of mind games)
so the show must go on,
but things smell a bit fishy,
Shirley, should I stay or should I go?
The silver dollar forger is a Shi'ite punk,
Master Jack, you know Sister digs the sharpies;
Modern Romans haven't a clue, have no momentum
again miles from nowhere when Michael rows 
the boat ashore itchin' for action,
the memory of Mesopotamia not lost
in the air that I breathe
the age of consent
blindhammer in bikini 
red between the lines
or the defenders of the faith, 
deep one perfect morning
because the night principals 
of the death & resurrection show,
        are dedicated followers of fashion
                          moving in stereo,
ignoring my back pages no matter who you are
as the age of quarrel plus outsider sacks 
our comfortable lives. Anvil 
with his never say never 
lonely teardrop Mike Twigger ax
admires the question.

Why are you so paranoid, they accuse. Anvil's quick
to point to territorial pissings, then indigestion.

[ 2013, Lovettsville ]

During The Patriot's Calm


16 Jul

The police, bless their constabulary hearts,
are not hunkered down in classic cars to protect you,
only to clean up forensically, forbiddingly, financially,
and why would they, marked like soldiers
by a cool persistent hatred they face
as in Europe with the no go zones ruled by caliphate shrill,
instilling fear, impregnating this spree, the next wave,
the chosen nightlife of any who would be thugs
thorns, and punks, as if any of these activities

save, or

actually improve their crippling lives,
beyond that adrenalin whiff of cheap thrill,
roving contraband and stolen moments of danger,
their own smart little taste of war,
finger food, foot powder semaphore
pacifists and gangstas alike

share like crude needles of rude joy, the underground life
embracing each decoy, as this jealous age decays into another
a half-life, a quarter-life, one painful stretch at a time.

Still Stalking Hard Numbers Through Eternal Energy


16 Jul

pied-piperettes

Pied Piperettes

samplex

Ones and zeros folks, ones and zeros. He's the One. We's the zeros...I have a question, why is the plural for hero, heroes, and the plural of zero, zeros? Is there a hidden message here? Does the silent E in heroes have significance? Hell, no. Somebody just made a rule. And that's how it goes with political dynamism. Somebody issues orders and rules. Others follow them. It doesn't have to make sense, be convenient, synchronize, feed the masses, kill the bad guys, lower the sea levels, repair the bridges, make concessions, wink at the opposition, flood the markets, ink the contracts, bust a rhyme, or bury the dead. It's just the result of an order someone somewhere somehow issued. It's just the result of a rule someone somewhere somehow enforced. How many among us have stopped what we were doing long enough to lodge an attempt to wipe the slate clean? Very tough indeed, eh. Some of us used to know this was the game in which we were pawns to be and forgot, or found life easier just playing along with whatever ones and zeros were plugging for power at any given time. Some of us tried to wipe the slate clean but it became impossible once we realized that EVERYONE around us is passing out orders and making them rules, and it finally dawned on us that we never can tell who will turn out to be our enemy, so as we cling to the old blueprints, we just settle into the grooves our heroes and our zeroes have created with hard numbers and left for us, insuring the Silent E is no longer "even" among us...a metaphorical fugue in one Facebook paragraph.

The Sporting Clues Of Walt Whitman


12 Apr

Crisp despair churns nightly, Virginia reels—
assisting so far (with the stern comfort of law)
knotted leaves of deciduous scale die brightly...

dancing the continental congress,
daring to forsake the soil,
a few handsome reviews
begin bubbling up.

Spring wheezes its way across western granite
due north of sad nations, but we praise
only the worst of it. Time's gunpowder
charm, the cracked chill of a lingering
spiked but righteous scrit.

Forests as dense with deer as these lines
climb trick mountain trails of a simpler age
where decay was just another quickening stage
where delay was just another sickening cage
mimicking the sting of death
drawn along party lines.

Roaring past juiced effects of American score,
feted wheels of justice properly seen
melt against fumed highway heat,
each grain hard throttled hubris
a philanthropic ride unto
the scarlet whore

where greatness is measured in cycles
where frankness is buried in game faces
where self-crucifixion is lost to wealth

and this sorry battleground, where art and politics
beat each other up, is cleared of all integrity,
and few are they who appear the wiser...

[ 2013, Lovettsville VA ]

Bawer On Günter Grass


10 Apr

Gunter Grass

Gunter Grass

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The only surprising thing about the anti-Semitic poem that Günter Grass published last week, and that has created an international firestorm, is that he waited so long to write such a thing. Anti-Semitism, after all, is all the rage these days among left-wing European literary intellectuals (excuse the multiple redundancy), and Grass has always prided himself on being in the forefront of these trends, not being a Johann-come-lately.

Who is Günter Grass, you ask? For decades after the 1959 publication of his first and most famous (and highly overrated) novel, The Tin Drum, he was described by admirers as the conscience of postwar Germany. His detractors had other words for him: smug, arrogant, obnoxious. Even Richard Gilman, a writer for the left-wing The Nation whom one might have expected to celebrate the guy, complained in 1982 about his lofty, hectoring tone, stating:

Today there is no writer more swollen with self-importance than Günter Grass, who has begun to think of himself as identical with the fates of German literature, German politics, and German mores. John Updike, for his part, saw Grass as a cautionary case for politically engaged writers: he can't be bothered to write a novel; he just sends dispatches from the front lines of his engagement.

Read it all...

Article by Bruce Bawer.

The Premise


24 Oct

Project Scenewash has been heard to decree
the awful battleground where art and politics plea,
beat and battered each other up, none to agree,
and few are they who seemed the wiser...

Painting the fabric civilization vain
must wear to spare itself the critical pain
crude slavery unjust must follow
profane, the closed closet eye
torn against brash sky too soon
no rain, this wrecking ball
heart next to nix over noon
a vanishing dead stain,
the wretched call sign
of the blood red moon...

and that, of course,
is a course made plain,
fussy labors in vain no single man
can reign, by every account his plan
suffers the curse, his hopes lost too,
to the shallow gray range,
the eagle, the lion,
the bitter cold change.

SAMPLEX Originalis


17 Oct

dancemaid

"Dancemaid" by Gabriel Thy

samplex

SAMPLEX IS THE NAME of the street zine I created and distributed among a certain fan base of Washington DC provocateurs and poseurs in the region's seminal punk and harDCore music scene of 1984-1985. This ludicrous body of half-wit scoundrels, pontificants and prevaricators worked the clubs between Seventh & E Streets and Ninth Street, from "d.c. space" to the "9:30 Club" where fame was chased and fame was made. The 'zine ran eight issues, individually themed, issues which were filled not with the usual confabulated local band lore and raw music sycophancy, but WS Burroughs-inspired cut-ups and collage, cartoons, and other riffs and ripoffs mostly poking fun at the scene itself right from the center of all its purported mayhem, and only the occasional invented or imaginary interview. Each issue consisted of 8-12 pages of tri-folded & heavily stapled panels printed on both sides of 8.5"x14" paper, and xeroxed wherever I could "borrow" a copying machine to print out 50-100 copies each issue. That's a lot of FREE or nearly free xeroxing.

This SAMPLEX blog is in honor of those earliest days of brutal self-punishing self-publishing. New stripes, but the sound, the fury, the beat go on...

PS: Look for reproductions of some of the original SAMPLEX pages here, later, as we post them.

A Taste Of Trench Madness


23 Jul

gabriel-thy

Gabriel Thy's Sleepy Eye

samplex

Thanks for keeping up the resistance, Morales. Just know that the busy silence of we who are marked to fall always proceeds the clashing of the cymbals, while those of us who warned the others (now laughing and mocking, hissing and despising our herald) will have witnessed the fullness of truth, not they—and by inertia or grace will be prepared to shield others from the amplified atrocities as they arrive. That's the extent of whatever hope I have remaining because I have learned that minds are not changed by the politeness of social stability but by the harsh tongues of upheaval and crisis. This country will probably awaken when Europe implodes, but I believe that America is also marked for crisis, a result of having become sadly corrupted and from our national potential far have we strayed.

Don't fear the Marxist-Islamofascism creep, however. Resist it wherever we can, but don't expect any sudden miracles quite yet. People still treasure their fool's gold, reflecting among the dueling mirrors of social consciousness that they've done the math, not quite realizing they've only been using imaginary numbers while letting the real digits slip away...

And allow me this opportunity to insist that I am not naive, no matter what I choose to paint or wrestle into inconsequential line. It's rather obvious by now that I frittered away that excuse six senses and a million miles ago in a taste of trench madness. I may be a fool, but I'm nobody's fool.

Bob Amerson and I become close friends that summer, but this was a small town, and this was what happened in small towns back in the 60s where few homes ever locked their doors, even when folks left town for a few days. Boyhood allegiances shifted quickly without warning, without rationale, without lasting impression in those days. Childhood innocence should be so easy for kids today without ending up in a grave.
I've been aware of this sleepy right eye since junior high when it first started popping up into school photos. I didn't start short career in sandlot boxing, until a bit later, but I did suffer a couple of black ones put there by Bob Amerson immediately after school while we were in the sixth grade. But I picked myself up and met the usual in-town lads—Davey Ryals, his brother Terry, Terry Simmons, Reggie Sawyer, Jimbo Caldwell, Louie "Mooches" Davis, Ronnie Wright, Jimmie Pitts, Tommy Hall, a fews others I'm sure, and Terry Kennedy, the one girl who lived just behind the field, while the rest of us just walked or rode our bicycles—at the ballfield for a pickup game just as was expected nearly every day. Bob did not. I was also surprised to see Donnie Findley there that afternoon, but none of my own brothers were there. If they were I don't recall. But I apparently had earned the applause of the whole squad of twelve to fifteen boys already slinging hash on the field. Sure, I suffered the usual bouts of self-consciousness at school over the next few days, but nobody ever ragged me. From the best I could tell—rolling around the ground (near the tree roundabout where kids who rode parked our bicycles) swinging punches, landing a few, ducking others, before getting pinched by the ears and led to Principal Huff's office by Mrs. Middleton who had taught us both two years earlier—the crowd of twenty-five to thirty, best I could reckon, was split fifty-fifty. But nobody ever ragged me. Bob showed at school the next day. He didn't seem any worse for wear, no shiners, no nothing. But nobody ever ragged me. Bob Amerson and I become close friends that summer, but this was a small town, and this was what happened in small towns back in the 60s where few homes ever locked their doors, even when folks left town for a few days. Boyhood allegiances shifted quickly without warning, without rationale, without lasting impression in those days. Childhood innocence should be so easy for kids today without ending up in a grave.

I May Be A Fool, But I'm Nobody's Fool


13 Jun

karl-popper

Karl Popper

samplex

Unfortunately, all too predictable long before the November election. Chicago pols don't fall far from the tree. But any MSM reportage?

Nah, not a chance. Sadly, America continues to succumb to primitive stages of iron heel fascism, pure and simple, 21st century style. Jack London had it right.

And so was Huey P. Long, who is to have first articulated this American truism, evident today in both parties, depending on who's holding power at the time of the observation, "Sure we'll have fascism here but it will come as an anti-fascist movement." So with Obama's crackerjack collusion with big business along with enforcement of his health care apparatus in controlling the entire population, we who are not blind followers of a political party are obliged to point this out.

Josh Singer at 5:18pm June 13 wrote:
Fascism? I thought Obama was bringing socialism!?! Maybe you guys mean "7th Day Adventism"...?

The National Socialist Party, my friend, was a leftist, fascist power grab, fascism defined as corporatist government, and Obama has moved in that direction more than any president since George W. Bush. I'm sorry Josh that your level of understanding my language consists of labels and quick quips, but digging into the roots of political ideology reveals some very interesting tracks and pedigrees. You should shore up on the classics a bit more, or at least strengthen up your arguments. Just because I hang out with rock and rollers like yourself on occasion, and you've observed how inadequate I am to that task, doesn't mean I haven't spent my own time peeling back the onion of historical audacity and intrigue...

You seem to be a son of Plato, and in my book, that's not a good thing. I would explain, but this space is tragically limited, don't you think? But see Karl Popper's The Open Society and Its Enemies, if you appreciate a good start. Disagree with me, but don't take me as a fool. I may be a fool, but I'm nobody's fool.

I apologize Josh, if my writing seems to exert an air of nastiness, but that's not my intention. I write deliberately. take it or leave it, but I live among ideas, while personalities, at this stage of my life, not so much. Guess that's always been the case, but ever more profoundly in my middle 50s than ever...

And Plato, the philosopher king, strikes at the origins of despotism, at the origins of dictatorship straight through Marx and Hegel. I prefer the Declaration of Independence and the US Constitution, however flawed we citizens be. The struggle among self-owned individuals is far superior to any Dear Leader we have ever had the displeasure to witness...

Unfortunately America has long lost her way...

Don't adhere to the left, and don't adhere to the right. But based on those observable and theoretical principles addressing the way of all flesh, I am certain in my own mind that Obama is making things quite worse, either intentionally, or in poor judgment. And thus I say the same about those Democrats who now cling to their book on Marx.

A Few Sky Gray Thoughts On Politics As A Brittle Literary Device


28 May

sierra

War On Wars

samplex

A fine man and dedicated patriot named Christopher Logan honored me recently when he sent me a message inquiring, "Do you think I was being too rough with her?"

Damned if I know. She doesn't seem to be backing down, and is remarkably patronizing in her own right. Let's face it. Some people just don't get it, won't get it, can't possibly get it until IT affects them in some very personal way, very detrimental way. Perhaps a few quotes from Thomas Jefferson, J. Quincy Adams, John Wesley, Bishop Sheen, Winston Churchill, and Mohammed himself will get her attention, but probably not. Because she's of the mindset right now that it is better that 100 guilty terrorists go undetected than one innocent Muslim be given a second glance in an airport line. There's no defeating that logic in these sad, post-modernist, politically incorrect, globalist times since it parallels the romanticism that our own US legal system is grounded in, and pumps out through the state media. For better or for worse, smiley-faced Pollyannas will always be with us. You and me? We just keep plugging. In due time, we might be prepared to be of even greater service to those who criticize us now...

Q: Thank you for not attacking me but providing me with the information. But your quick turn to the passive-aggressive has not provided much in the form of education. I'll investigate anyway.

Pamela, I'm not here to educate you. One liners on Facebook will never get that done. There is a wealth of information out there just for the picking. You are correct. You must do the investigations, yourself. Take no single source as truth, or at least not until you have determined the source as reputable over a string period of time. That's the best any of us can hope to do. But what seems to be at issue here on this thread is whether or not this question of a global jihad in its myriad of forms is a matter of personal opinion, anecdotal evidence, or mere genuflection, but rather of determinable fact by a tough, keen look at all the evidence available. Propaganda is very tough nut to parse with mere cursory efforts...

And I suggest to you that Mr. Logan has the right beat on the issue, Laurie. News that screams forth everyday from all corners of the planet where Islam is actively pursing more territory, more corpses, more power under the guise of sharia, is not a mere blip on the screen. The signage of Islam on the march is everywhere. Signs, signs, everywhere are signs. Perhaps you know the song, perhaps not. But the point is, there's a whole lot more to this Islamic muffin than just some flour and a handful of blueberries.

Gabriel: Information is not knowledge.

Kirsten: This is an often misconstrued concept! But, to quote: Knowledge is Good.

Gabriel: Prudence is better. And all things being equal, innocence is best...

Bruce: Well I didn't want to say anything but I am glad you know this.

Gabriel: Well dear public, feel free to expose me to what else you and yours might speculate I need to know. The nasty truth is not as mysterious as we've been led to believe. GATHER OR DIVIDE. The whole point of my imaginary punk rock band is to suggest that each one of us must make the play. Bystanders be damned. Ignorance is bliss, twice the fun, bur perilous in spoilage. Our retaliation?

Inherit a role. Allow it to count. Face the music. And realize that this is the only rule by which we know ourselves as intricately as our detractors do.

Josh: Correlation does not imply causation!

karl-popper

Karl Popper

Gabriel: Obviously correlation is a more pertinent state of affairs, since to put matters in terms Karl Popper might appreciate, scientists can explain First Cause, but we are stuck with all pending correlations.

Maybe that was Wittgenstein, not Popper, but since they exchanged thoughts with fabulous animosity, the pending correlations in this case are probably nothing more than the dollars and cents of an ego economy - commonly called hubris - rather than the clarity that some uncertainty principle might avail us when the necessary light we might require to accept a generality at the sufferance of a specific is corrupted by political motivations.

In other words, all politics is tainted, and plagued with guesswork, but I am a survivor of my own knowledge, not yours. Might I bother this page with a correction? scientists CANNOT explain...well, that unintended typo effectively puts the skid into this thread. After fielding a few snarky remarks from leftist associates and reading some of the neck-snapping snorts of some rightie cohorts, I feel compelled to state:

Politics is just as irrational and existential a belief system as religion, at times just as pernicious, at times just as comforting, both springing from a loose structure of competing droves. In fact, we know today, there is little difference between politics and religion in its abstract condition or its peculiar habits. Superstition and misconception dominate both. Empty rhetoric imposes and services both.Spalding Nix

Faith is central to each creature as we struggle with imperfection in the teleological realm, and faithlessness is punished in one form or another at every turn. There is no certainty but uncertainty, and there is no uncertainty like certainty. We thrash about with words to form ideas that deceive us with words no matter where we spend our coins. No realm is satisfied, and logic is quickly sold to the highest bidder. Some might even say there is no rational distinction between politics and religion, but are merely similar thorns on the same blighted rose bush...

Like Ezra Pound, I cherish the right of every man to have his ideas judged one at a time.

GT

S A M P L E X

"Ignorance and virtue suck on the same straw. Souls grow on bones, but die beneath bankers' hours.""


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