…is nothing in our lives right now.
Everything is at last not stored and in Abuelita’s humble railroad apartment, haphazardly wedged wherever it would fit.
At least we beat the snowstorms getting it over here, but not the NYPD pulling over our Jamaican “man-with-a-van” for being a Jamaican “man-with-a-van” because, you know, everything is terrible.
It got resolved but our railroad still isn’t.
So we went to see Sunn O))) because we were going to anyway.
The boiler room a coat of dull red paint blanketed in another coat of thick dirt and grime.
A penitent filled with self-hatred hunched over swimming in vodka amphetamine and depressed psychosis takes the butterfly knife out from a plush leopard print handbag and rests it against the smooth skin of the wrist.
Somewhere under the surface a vein is translucent blue. Then powder-purple-under-candy-orange as a neon sign somewhere at the top of the stairs switches on changing the hue of everything. Blinking on and off, gas filled tubes probably bent into the shape of the logo of some god-awful cheap domestic hog swill that gets sold as beer. With eyes in the throes of a psychotic break, the blue and purple veins become roads, trails along a beach where the blade is a docked boat waiting to sail…anyplace. The grimy walls and banging boiler dissolve into orange, pink and salmon colored sands.
The penitent and the butterfly knife ruminate on the sandy trails for almost and hour. That’s how long it takes before it occurs to anyone to look for them and tell them(well, one of them) to get on stage.
I remember opening the door of the loft and seeing them sliding across the floor, fat yellow segmented bodies moving at lightning speed. Still, they hesitated long enough to let me catch a glimpse their fixed, leering eyes and pink lips parts to reveal stained teeth behind their manic grins. They would have been comical if they weren’t writhing all over the floor of the collective space, the Qlippotic cesspool we shared with the Evil Hippie Cult. Or if I wasn’t the only person who was seeing them, or hearing the clacking noise they made as they moved.
The day I watched you eat your your young
When there was nothing to be done
And all around the altars burned
Subjects seek approval in return
“We love you loyal”
Blood on your lips
“We love you loyal”
Crushed in your teeth
“We love you loyal”
Flesh on your tongue
“Love you loyal”
“Love you loyal”
That time I led your youth astray
To give them any other way
You swore you’d flay my skin alive
You’d think you were the one who’d died
ART ON A GALLERY:
THE ART OF NEW YORK WASTE
NEW YORK WASTE: NYC’s only rock’n’roll underground newspaper
Thurs, 03 / 02 / 2017 – Thurs, 03 / 23 / 2017
About NEW YORK WASTE:
Curator: LUCKY LAWLER
Editor in Chief/co-founder & Photographer for the NY Waste.
Lucky grew up in London during the great Punk yrs. Lucky feels saved by Punk Rock’n’Roll. Lucky has done life in NYC doing a variety of jobs.
One day after having read the dictionary out of sheer boredom, Lucky moved on to the yellow pages to see what other people did in life and kept stopping at publishing, and so was born the New York Waste newspaper.
One thing about Lucky is that Lucky loves the printed page.
Always going to gigs and shows with some sort of camera in pocket, shooting the underground rock scene in NYC for 17 yrs exclusively for the New York Waste newspaper, “a little rag that I have put out since 97 with the help of some of the best, the weirdest and the wildest that nyc has to offer?”
Andrew Goldfarb “The Slow Poisoner”
Anthony Allen Begnal
Mary Knotts & Beppi
Vickers Bastard Gringo
Crazy Glenn Wernig
…was another circa late 80’s early 90’s goth/death rock band Eric played drums in when he was out in Los Angeles. A few clips from the production demo recently surfaced, including this one set to a photo shoot which involves a number of pallid momento-mori-ous glamour shots of my husband in raven haired, kohled splendor.
So yeah. there’s that.
Umm tattoos. Eyeliner. Profile. Oh yeah, and love strength and emotional support.
Yesterday he went with me to the pet store to pick out fish for a desktop aquarium I’d gotten on sale the day before, mainly because I have so many recurring dreams where I’m taking care of fishtanks. He wanted to pick them out together. We decided on 5 neon tetras in different colors and a sucker fish to help keep the rocks at the bottom clean. The tank is set up on the counter by the kitchen table so we can watch them while we eat breakfast or dinner. It’s really nice.
About three days ago I went down to Micheal’s to get frames for some drawings. On my way back I saw some prescription bottles lined up on a rail in front of a store window. It caught my attention so I got a closer look. The bottles were generics of klonopin and prozac, the same combo I was given when I first got stabilized. They were also pretty full. I saw an address printed on the bottle that was only a block away, and Chelsea being a nicer residential area than what I’m used to there was a 50/50 chance there would be a door person I could leave this with.
My instincts were correct. It wasn’t the fanciest building — seemed like a tenement that had been overhauled a bit so they could hike up the rent—but they had placed a desk in the little lobby and a man signing in visitors. “Excuse me is there a [redacted] living in this building?”I asked, not completely sure how to approach this.
“Yeah why, is she in some kind of trouble?” he said. Not very encouraging.
“I don’t know who she is, but I found these around the corner with this address on them.” I took the bottles out of my pants pocket and put them on the desk of the now wide-eyed concierge, who began to say “Ohhh maybe this is why she’s been having troubles today. Wandering the hallways. Where did you find them?”
I told him and he thanked me. He was trying to call up to her apartment as I left. The tone of concern in his voice made me wonder if she was a kid or an elderly person, if she had anyone living there with her. I hope this turned out ok.
Here’s one of the images I framed for an upcoming art show: