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

วิเชียรมาศ or: Jade: Moon Diamond


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

Shanti, วิเชียรมาศ.
love, 
patrick


“A Totem” by The Vima Tresna
How Green Was My Valley (1941): John Ford, Director
Standard
Classical Indie Rock Fan Fiction

Mar 05, 2019
R C TOTTENHAM FEE $00.50 1537225977
-87.35
Mar 05, 2019
R C TOTTENHAM FEE $00.50 1537242781
-87.35

The Cape Cod Coop is seemingly intent on burying me in usurious debt. On top of overdraft and charge off or what have you now you are double paying what was a one time transfer to my mother R**** Tottenham. I manage to scrape by miraculously on a meager social security disability monthly check. But the Coop should be ashamed of the gratuitous “fees” charged for doing me the favor of paying my personal bills unsolicited. It is not a service or a favor provided to me in lieu of a “dreaded overdraft fee” when in the end I am STILL PENALIZED AND CHARGED HEFTY FINES WITHOUT GETTING MY PERMISSION TO BE MY BENEVOLENT…”COOPERATIVE?” LOAN SHARK. IN CASE I AM COMNG ACROSS RATHER OBLIQUELY I AM EXTREMELY UNHAPPY AND VIGOUROUSLY UN-COOPERATIVE AT THE MOMENT IN MY 1200 a month 10 x 10 “studio” apartment which currently is unheated.
Das vadanya, comrades! Alas, I shall cooperate no more…
Your fellow traveler,
Patrick “Trotsky” Tottenham

Das vadanya, CCCOOP!

Aside
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

“Lulu”

In a little corner of this thrift-store-head

A something wonderful is trying to tell me

What’s her deal.

Some God had a novel idea; no hidden agenda.

Nothing up his sleeve. 


He was so full up of

Pure concentrated joy.

Compelled him to create

A being of pure love and gentle Reason.

A nurturing kindness,

And the brightest

White Light Beauty

Ever, and ever

From her is emanating.

She had two smiles

Perfect lips-smile.

Two-eyes-green; they grin!!!!

No lie! No sin.

I believe in her.

I thought she might be real.


I can only imagine

The love she has given all; free to all.

Yes–even bad ones; unholy fuckers what feed on shame.

But I’m low-born; known to scorn.

I’m one more damned.

I believe in her, so 

That she can’t be real.


I feel she spoke to me

And I thought I—did I speak to her?

Half-asleep now; it’s all a blur.

I am dreaming.

I can finally see her alive!

All light! All love!

She walks right through me.

Believe me. Straight through me.

A thing as me sure has some nerve.

I tell ya.

 


 

©2017  teagown

Standard