MEMO TO ANALYST CAPT. H.E. ORMOROD:
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:
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?
THIS SONG I’VE SENT YOU; I WROTE IT A LONG TIME AGO, NOW.
“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:
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:
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
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
that was all it took.
little by little he started to
grow fond of the way his head kept
AND JUST WHEN HE REALLY, FINALLY LOOOOOKED AT SHE &
UNDERSTOOD OF SHE SOO NOT BEING
JUST ANOTHER PRETTY FACE
SHE STARTED TO GLOW & GLOW & GLOW
AND GROWWW TOO ILLUMINATED FOR HIM
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?
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
©2017 P.E. Tottenham
“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…”
Bottle Toom, N.B
At Sesuit Neck, South Dennis, MA
©2018 teagown records
(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
The bathtub gin
Chaperones collide with waiters
Weaving through the scene
The bathtub gin
Chaperones imbibe with waiters
Hiding in latrine
(*slíbhín — pronunciation: /sliːˈviːn/ a disingenuous person; trickster
Origin: Gaelic English
Check Out THE VIMA TRESNA on ReverbNation! – http://www.reverbnation.com/open_graph/artist/6224805
Ten times a day i reflexively feel you enter the room, Jade; likewise yr histrionic snoring (my favorites were the ones that sounded like a continuous succession of gentle ‘oohs’ & ‘ahhs’, (but just as delightful if i’m neing honest were of the sorta loud pig snorting genre…) late at night while i read away the hours.
And now…this is precisely the problem i’ve always seemed to have with existence: all those lousy hours i’ve filled with melancholy, paranoia, self-loathing, hypocrisy, detachment, and generalized dread and unfounded fear.*
Jade, i still don’t even really understand that you are truly gone, so this denial both helps me pay less attention to these fucking long consecutive, continuous hours that i must either take for granted, or just finally, forever, reject this collective agreement of all this slow work under the gun of suffering in silence that many of us fucking freaks subscribe to.
Well, sure a wicked tired cliche that last bit, but that’s precisely the feeling i’m trying to get across to this….um….white, rectangular typing/posting space: an airless, virtual conduit of, to, and for the ‘void’.
Oh, jade, i AM wicked tired. i AM a cliche.
Without you here with me, Jade, those empty, indifferent, unfeeling (because, yo, time is a human construct; it’s a byproduct or human civilization although when reality and most people are welcome to go fuck themselves i like to pretend that ‘hours’ & the relentless, entropy addicted ‘time’ is an apex predator. an abstract, spooky haunty great white shark.)
Lately, Jade, i’m just not convinced that i’m cut out for the ‘long con’. i’ve pretty much always believed that, but never told anyone about it. Goodnight, little Princess Moon Diamond. If I could will one thing to be so when I am finally accomplished in whatever this physical realm had required of my flesh & blood presence endowed with agency; channel or focus that “essence” of what creative energy force I thought I once had, and so continue to seek this ineffable totem in all & everything if only to find courage for the grace of inspired obsession!
Well, being who & what I am: the personification of a minor, shallow wildly meandering and exceedingly slow-flowing mountain stream erratically & blindly a private, personal champion method of aesthetic creation whether musical, textual, or in unitymay conceivably still possess deep within my heart/psyche it would
“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
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.
Gemini ♊️/down by law
THE VIMA TRESNA
“THE BLUE CURTAIN” (EXCLUSIVE DOWNLOAD)
“AS YOU WERE”
(…and other golden money shots!)