Tag Archives: punk as fuck

DMC Mixtapes Vol. 4: Blackbox Of the Apocalypse, or First Tarot Reading After the World Ends

I. the colonel / death
after Derek Archambault

it takes a lot for holy men to give up
               anything //
so i killed god (took ten thousand dead
men to pull the trigger)

the holster fit / the barrel echoed with smoke
               i looked a gunnéd man in his dimming eyes
& told him he’s just going to sleep //
i know what it is to be god

& i didn’t rest after //
               i still wake in the night,
remember the river dirt beneath
my fingernails // the blood, same as mine,

               & weep

II. the fool / the fool

a vulture kettles alone behind a trash can
               & debris of Before //
a reverend & a sinner stand at one o’clock.
               holy man holds a bag / looks like snow //
the vulture is just pecking around
               behind the trash can /// still
there is time for our vices /// of course
               a man would think himself god / what kind
of reverend carries around bags of snow / & how
               on earth does he keep them cold?

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Three Deconstructions – William James

photo courtesy of Face The Show (facetheshow.com)

Author’s note: all of these poems were written using a process I’ve come to refer to as ‘deconstruction’ – basically, I take the lyrics to albums by bands who have been influential on me as an artist, copy & paste them in alphabetical order on sheets of paper, and then proceed to write ‘magnetic poetry’ style using only the words that are on the pages spread out in front of me. In each of these poems, every word that was used appears somewhere in the lyrics to the respective album it is inspired by/taken from. 

Deconstruction I: 
all words in this poem taken from "Songs To Scream At The Sun" by Have Heart

Ask me where I'm from & I'll say I live 
in a cold city that reminds anyone of anything 
but home. It's overcrowded & full of guilt. 

I forget how to breathe. I never dance, 
because my heart dwells too long 
on insecurities. Sometimes the mail brings me 

loveless magazines that leave the blues 
in my stomach, because I am afraid 
to be alone. Some nights, I dream that I am 

a song-bird lost in a shoreless ocean 
or a sea of blood. I think of my father 
in his garden – he calls it Paradise, 

will say it's greener than all of Eden. On TV,
there's a man begging to be dragged through 
the fire. His hypocrisy is beautiful in the way 

it's just like my own. I am still 
my mother's only son. The rambling 
prodigal with golden wings. She will 

always keep photos of me on the windowsill. 
I will always break every mirror. I will always 
long to be swallowed by the water.
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Three Poems



There are rules to everything.


us skater kids

used to make fun of

the way the rich kids would slit their wrists.


it was just so obviously

half assed.


lose the keys to the jetta for a weekend

and brittany would show up to biology on monday

with a paper thin pinkish cry for help

wrapped around the underside of her wrist

as dainty as a charm bracelet.


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