Nonfiction, Uncategorized

“Narrator of ‘White Hot Diminished Star’ Returns From Long Death”

ATTN:

MEMO TO ANALYST CAPT. H.E. ORMOROD:

RE:

TRANSMISSION #FO70026532195219764791

HUNTER, HOPE THIS FINDS YOU WELL!

THE BOYS HERE RECEIVED THIS A COUPLE DAYS AGO;

I GOT NOTHING…CARE TO VENTURE A GUESS? CALL

NEXT TIME YOU HIT D.C. GET A BITE.

—GEN. BORGES, L.C.Q.P.

——————————————————

:STATION MINOS HEARTBEAT:

:24.05.2037

:16:09:25:HRS:(GMT)

:#FO70026532195219764791

:Start Transmission:

:~V|I|M|A|TR|E|S|N|A|V|I|M|A|TR|E|S|N|A|V|I|M|A|TR|E|S|N|A|〰️➰〰️➰

:End Transmission:

——————————————————

I

I DON’T KNOW THAT THIS NAME, OR SET OF WORD-LIKE SYMBOLS HAS ANY MEANING IN
REALITY; I WOKE UP ONE MORNING CIRCA 2003 AND IT WAS ON THE TIP OF MY TONGUE. IT WAS IN MY HEAD. I DON’T KNOW WHY, OR WHERE IT ORIGINATED. I SUPPOSE IT WAS BRAIN STATIC WHICH OCCURRED DURING THE BROADCAST OF A DREAM. ONE OF MY DREAMS I ASSUME. WHO KNOWS?

ANYWAYYYYYYY…..

THIS SONG I’VE SENT YOU; I WROTE IT A LONG TIME AGO, NOW.
IT’S CALLED:

“WHITE HOT DIMINISHED STAR”

IT’S KINDA LIKE DREAMING OF…LIKE SOMETHING PRECIOUS AND PERFECT…AND WHAT THEY MEAN WHEN THEY SAY: DID YOO SEE THAT FREAKIN’ METEOR SHOWER?! IT WAS “BEAUTIFUL”!;

THAT GIRL…WITH THOSE EYES…AND THE WAY THERE IS SOMETHING. ABOUT. THE NAPE…OF A WOMAN’S…NECK:

“BEAUTIFUL!!”

LIKE A METEOR SHOWER.

LIKE THE SHAPE OF ORCHIDS.

SHE (she must be a she, whatever it is that haunts this song. there was NOTHING and then one day there was HER. she had to be herself because, after all, she had no choice in the matter, kid.) ANYWAYYYYYYYYYYY…..WHAT IT COMES DOWN TO FOR THIS SADSACK NARRATOR OF THIS STUPID SONG IS:

II

dear, o, so dear to my heart & also it causes stomach aches!
a very foolish character is the guy in this song.
spectacular failure of a life. by now our narrator
is so thoroughly beaten down by life that
he almost seems to luxuriate in his vocation of
HOPELESSNESS as one does with a cozy, fraying
old cardigan.

our, um, “singer”
is in a real hurry
to go ABSOLUTELY N-O-W-H-E-R-E.

but after having thoroughly soured on &
practically renounced any & all notions of
the vapid zombie-lust
“sporting life” wastelands

his head is turned one day
but in an unfamiliar way.
a strange HER.
she is simply going out
of her way to be openly, honestly
friendly to a fellow traveler on these
dark & lonely roads of
END-TIMES U.S.A

that was all it took.

<
img_0469

III
little by little he started to
grow fond of the way his head kept
turning
and
turning
and
turning
AND JUST WHEN HE REALLY, FINALLY LOOOOOKED AT SHE &
UNDERSTOOD OF SHE SOO NOT BEING
JUST ANOTHER PRETTY FACE

IV
SHE STARTED TO GLOW & GLOW & GLOW
AND GROWWW TOO ILLUMINATED FOR HIM
TO KNOW
WHO IS HE ANYHOW TO THINK HE COULD DESERVE TO BE ADORED BY
WHITE LIGHT ALIVE AND SO BRIGHT HE THINKS LIKE “OH I CAN SEE HER
AND REACH HER I’LL JUST BRING THIS RAINCOAT & THESE TWIZZLERS &
WHAT IF AN INCANDESCENT NUCLEAR PHENOMENON FELL
IN LOVE IN A SONG WITH A BOY WHO WROTE NURSERY RHYMES ABOUT
A FALLING STAR THAT GLOWED IN A SIMILAR WAY TO HOW THE MOON GLOWS
EVERY TIME IT FALLS TO EARTH?

V
WELL, HE MIGHT BE ON HIS WAY ONE DAY TO THINK HE CAN FIND HER SORTA
INNA GIANT FIELD WAITING FOR HIM & GLOWING FOR HIM TO COME…

WELL, THE WAY I UNDERSTAND IT HE CAN NEVER FIND HER NO MATTER HOW FAR HE TRAVELS OR FOR HOWEVER MANY LONG, LONG DARK YEARS HE SPENDS ON HER TRAIL.

I THINK SHE IS A MASSIVE STAR & PROBABLY NOT ANYTHING LIKE A GARDEN VARIETY
MOON, BUT HE’LL NEVER KNOW ANYWAY.

HE RUNS OUTTA TWIZZLERS EVENTUALLY, BUT STILL HAS THAT RAINCOAT AND HE WAS
SO SO ALONE AND JUST PINING FOR HER DAY AND NIGHT, SO HE WROTE THIS SONG
AS A WAY TO HELP WANE AWAY HIS PAIN EVEN FOR IF ONLY FOR LIKE TWO MINUTES A COUPLE TIMES A DAY.

AND THE SONG IS CALLED “WHITE HOT DIMINISHED STAR”

PEOPLE SOMETIMES HEAR HIM WAILING HIS RENDITIONS IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FREAKIN’ NIGHT. THEY SAY HE SOUNDS AKIN TO A WOUNDED MONGREL DOG. LIKE ONE YOO MIGHT TAKE PITY ON IF ONLY FOR THE PAINFUL FACT OF HOW UGLY & SCRAWNY & HURT SEEMING IT IS.

STARS ARE IMPOSSIBLY HEARTBREAKING BECAUSE JUST WHEN YOU SORTA THINK YOU
MIGHT UNDERSTAND THEIR GREAT DISTANCE AND JUST KEEP YR EYE ON IT AS YOU TRY TO REACH HER IN THE NIGHT–IF SHE WOULD JUST STAY STILL!

THING IS THAT STAR IS NOT ONLY IMPOSSIBLY FAR AWAY; SHE HAS BEEN TRAVELING CONSTANTLY AWAY FROM YOO FROM DAY ONE.

AS THE UNIVERSE KEEPS EXPANDING AND EXPANDING AND EXPANDING FOREVER

AND FOREVER…

©2017 P.E. Tottenham

img_0468

Standard
Poetry, Uncategorized

“As Like as It Can Stare”

 

“I am not rock and roll. I saw The Name of the Rose; I think I enjoyed it. The Mother’s

        son expires in act of cowardice. They left his body by the river…”

—Richard Roe

    Cuck #RK138

                                                                                                                12/03/2065

                                                                                                                        Bottle Toom, N.B

                                                                                                                        (Slow-Work Co.)

——————————————————————————————————————————P.E. Tottenham

    09.05.18

    At Sesuit Neck, South Dennis, MA

——————————————————————————————————————————

©2018 teagown records

 

Standard
Poetry

“Southern Belle Wilting By Punch Bowl”

(For: D.C.B.,B.N.,& S.J.M.~~~and: (presumed damned) William T.: “slíbhín”)


Somebody clicks their teeth

We will not stay underneath


Secrets winding through the beats

Women start to leave their seats


Dancing, dying, winding sheet

Shy ones melting from the heat…


A Southern Belle is Wilting

By the punch bowl

Gentleman line up for her review

She prefers the slíbhín*

And the polecats


She has waited long…


…For her debut


Ivory skin

The bathtub gin

Has poisoned

Hunter Bean

Chaperones collide with waiters

Weaving through the scene


Ivory skin

The bathtub gin

Has poisoned

William T.

Chaperones imbibe with waiters

Hiding in latrine


(*slíbhín — pronunciation: /sliːˈviːn/ a disingenuous person; trickster

Origin: Gaelic English

synonym: scoundrel)

©2017 teagown 

Standard
Fiction, Uncategorized

“The escape would have been to love her; then, then he would have lived. She had lived—who could say now with what passion?—since she had loved him for himself; whereas he had never thought of her (ah how it hugely glared at him!) but in the chill of his egotism and the light of her use. Her spoken words came back to him—the chain stretched and stretched. * * * * The Beast had lurked indeed, and the Beast, at its hour, had sprung; it had sprung in that twilight of the cold April when, pale, ill, wasted, but all beautiful, and perhaps even then recoverable, she had risen from her chair to stand before him and let him imaginably guess. It had sprung as he didn’t guess; it had sprung as she hopelessly turned from him, and the mark, by the time he left her, had fallen where it was to fall. He had justified his fear and achieved his fate; he had failed, with the last exactitude, of all he was to fail of; and a moan now rose to his lips as he remembered she had prayed he mightn’t know. * * * * This horror of waking—this was knowledge, knowledge under the breath of which the very tears in his eyes seemed to freeze. Through them, none the less, he tried to fix it and hold it; he kept it there before him so that he might feel the pain. That at least, belated and bitter, had something of the taste of life. But the bitterness suddenly sickened him, and it was as if, horribly, he saw, in the truth, in the cruelty of his image, what had been appointed and done. He saw the Jungle of his life and saw the lurking Beast; then, while he looked, perceived it, as by a stir of the air, rise, huge and hideous, for the leap that was to settle him. His eyes darkened—it was close; and, instinctively turning, in his hallucination, to avoid it, he flung himself, face down, on the tomb.” — Henry James “The Beast in the Jungle” (1903)

“The escape would have been to love her; then, then he would have lived. She had lived—who could say now with what passion?—since she had loved him for himself; whereas he had never thought of her (ah how it hugely glared at him!) but in the chill of his egotism and the light of her use. Her spoken words came back to him—the chain stretched and stretched. * * * * The Beast had lurked indeed, and the Beast, at its hour, had sprung; it had sprung in that twilight of the cold April when, pale, ill, wasted, but all beautiful, and perhaps even then recoverable, she had risen from her chair to stand before him and let him imaginably guess. It had sprung as he didn’t guess; it had sprung as she hopelessly turned from him, and the mark, by the time he left her, had fallen where it was to fall. He had justified his fear and achieved his fate; he had failed, with the last exactitude, of all he was to fail of; and a moan now rose to his lips as he remembered she had prayed he mightn’t know. * * * * This horror of waking—this was knowledge, knowledge under the breath of which the very tears in his eyes seemed to freeze. Through them, none the less, he tried to fix it and hold it; he kept it there before him so that he might feel the pain. That at least, belated and bitter, had something of the taste of life. But the bitterness suddenly sickened him, and it was as if, horribly, he saw, in the truth, in the cruelty of his image, what had been appointed and done. He saw the Jungle of his life and saw the lurking Beast; then, while he looked, perceived it, as by a stir of the air, rise, huge and hideous, for the leap that was to settle him. His eyes darkened—it was close; and, instinctively turning, in his hallucination, to avoid it, he flung himself, face down, on the tomb.” — Henry James “The Beast in the Jungle” (1903)
— Read on m.facebook.com/story.php

Standard
Uncategorized

LISTEN TO THE VIMA TRESNA ON REVERB NATION!

Hey. It’s me. P.E.T. Trying out this Reverb Nation site to host my homeless music, because Soundcloud is a shitshow/clusterfuk, and Spotify will only host an artist that’s is vetted, so to speak, by their “editorial” committee, or “ministry,of culture”, or whatever—anyway, if you’re starved for some of that untouched, home-recorded (i.e. free-range), rock-hard-heartbroke, LSD-25 strength, um, jams…stop by? See ya around.

Thanks.

P.E. Tottenham

Gemini ♊️/down by law

— Read on www.reverbnation.com/control_room/artist/6224805/songs

THE VIMA TRESNA

——————————

“GULL POND”

“THE BLUE CURTAIN” (EXCLUSIVE DOWNLOAD)

“AS YOU WERE”

(P.E. Tottenham looking all distracted in his haunted, vermin-infested apartment in rural Massachusetts.)
(P.E. Tottenham keepin’ down by law in his haunted, vermin-infested apartment in rural Massachusetts wishing right about now he could just end it all, because he’s so deep inside his own head lately that he usually just sleeps up inside the Google search window next to that blinking cursor. It’s late September and in New England, and the temperature’s dropping. Social media is infested with sociopathic gamer, crypto-fascists. So be careful who you follow out there. And to all you selfish, entitled, spoiled white trash hillbillies: #meme does not equalize you’re compulsion for bigotry.)

——————————

(…and other golden money shots!)

Standard
Poetry

Epistle To Michael #1

 

All yr pacing to & fro

Across the Party floor


You: with yr Eternal

Quest for rare earth


In our damaged & filthy house

You: of Dream Puzzle


Man of God

Enemy of Mystery


Why can’t Mystery just be?

Don’t you fear that?


With the End of Mystery:

  • God
  • Will
  • Parish

    —P.E. Tottenham

             09.05.18

             Sesuit Neck, South Dennis, MA


              

©2018 teagown records

Standard
Poetry

“2018 AD: Slow Work Under the Gun”

Tresna is intended

To be read in a left to right margin scan.


And yet, it follows these days that a

Distracted, incredulous attitude is the norm.


It is default; even for that rapidly dwindling

Tribe of mangy, feral, metaphor-mad text zealots.


More commonly known as:

The Literary Crowd; it’s merely

Standard, baseline response.


In my case it merely indicates

The pedigree of a full-blooded

American. And let me assure you,

My comrades, this is a red, rich blood

Filled proudly with a potent mixture


Passed down to me by my very own

Salt of the earth ancestors of

Irish, English, Polish, &

Italian ethnicity.


Slash me open—American

Through & through—

Through & through:

All the dirt piles

Of vagrant plots


Against vacant lots;

We all, the small ones,

Seen them…from

Top our “War Hill”!


Granite, maple, bramble, &

Pine rococo tangle.

——————————————— 

(We boys of gawk; Shelton “shit-talk”;

Plastic gun squawk; sole treasure

Cached in cracks inside hill’s rock: 

Pulped, gacked, and hacked

Pages jacked from mag porn

A vintage of damp, decaying,

And degrading…)

——————————————— 

O! Plastic, yellow, & ubiquitous

Whiffle balls & bats! What set us kids 

To slashing! Clubbing around, game or not,

Honing our violence on trees, big rocks, dirt,

Brothers, cousins,—and sisters!


And quite often ourselves. Now take note:

The world famous Whiffle Ball Corp.

Shares my Shelton hometown 

(South Connecticut).


In elementary school my friend, Mike Padilla, had

Whiffle factory as closest neighbor…

Can you imagine.

That creek running behind his house!


Trudged through it in heat haze

Looking for frog babies.

One time floating toward us

On shallow creek at surface

In melancholy meander: Whiffle balls.


These balls were mutants; the fugitive grotesque.

Whiffle black-ops debacle.

Hollow, plastic black orbs of various shade

And size—And—


Well. I wanted gone with this.

Blame for New England-style

“Damage” & “Brokenness.”


(Had seed of theory featuring Nathaniel

Hawthorne, Hester, Dimmesdale.)

Kept brief: End Transmission


—P.E. Tottenham

08.24.18

Near Scargo, Dennis, Massachusetts

Standard
Poetry

“Roman Comment Misheard”

“Caligari killed Caligula,”

Someone said

With Coliseum lust.


Ergot Bread & Circus

Decayed legions, cohorts

Manic carmina decoro


With three expelled

All ears prick up

The Chorus lips slick

Wet with cuss


Fifth Columns in the colonies

Are only long con

Colonnaded forgery imposters


Only marble left to see:

The cattle carcassed

Grassy sea…


Her Sicilian lover

No lupara cover

And he’ll never

Fill her whole


 

The love she told

And the love she made

Just a Tuscany bird

Now flown away


The love she believed, left

Unkissed, left to bleed just a

Roman comment misheard.

_______________________________________________

—P.E. Tottenham

08.24.18

Sesuit Neck, Dennis, MA

Standard