notes from the underground

lovequotesrus:

Photo Courtesy: jensnapbowls

The king’s crossing was the main attraction
Dominoes falling in a chain reaction
A scraping subject ruled by fear
Told me whiskey works better than beer
The judge is on vinyl, decisions are final
And nobody gets a reprieve
And every wave is tidal - if you hang around 
You’re going to get wet
I can’t prepare for death any more than I already have
All you can do now is watch the shells
The game looks easy, that’s why it sells
Frustrated fireworks inside your head
Are going to stand and deliver talk instead
The method acting that pays my bills
Keeps a fat man feeding in Beverly Hills
I got a heavy metal mouth that hurls obscenity
And I get my check from the trash treasury
Because I took my own insides out
It don’t matter ‘cos I have no sex life
And all I want to do now is inject my ex-wife
I’ve seen the movie and I know what happens
It’s Christmas time, and the needles on the tree
A skinny Santa is bringing something to me
His voice is overwhelming, but his speech is slurred
And I only understand every other word
Open your parachute and grab your gun
Falling down like an omen, a setting sun
Read the part and return at five
It’s a hell of a role if you can keep it alive
But I don’t care if I fuck up
I’m going on a date with a rich white lady
Ain’t life great?
Give me one good reason not to do it
(Because I love you)
So do it
This is the place where time reverses
Dead men talk to all the pretty nurses
Instruments shine on a silver tray
Don’t let me get carried away
Don’t let me get carried away
Don’t let me be carried away

I left Howse without a fucking clue. 
And left New York City, girl, without you. 
But the sun does shine in this place some days. 
And even when there’s a cloud there isn’t always rain. 

I’ll stow away my greys, in a padlocked case and in a padlocked room. 
Only to be released when I sing all the songs I wrote about you. 
This is the last one that I’ll do. 

Now I’m free in parenthesis 
I’m not sure what I ought to do with it. 
It sits in the house, bright eyes and raised hand. 
If I ignore its advances then the hand goes down. 

I’ll stow away my greys, in a padlocked case and in a padlocked room. 
Only to be released when I sing all the songs I wrote about you. 
This is the last one that I’ll do. 

I feel better and better and worse and then better 
Than ever than ever than ever then ever 
I feel much better and better and worse and then better 
Than ever than ever than ever than ever 

I’ll stow away my greys, in a padlocked case and in a padlocked room. 
Only to be released when I see you walking round with someone new. 
This is the last song I’ll write about you.

if you can’t hold on, hold on.

Dear Bill,

There is this girl, this frightened, frail, pale and broken girl.  She is alone, she has been alone for years now.

She is surrounded by darkness, her wrists bleeding from the chains that bind her to the wall.  Freedom is just inches away but she cannot grasp it, never quite could. She cannot remember how she got here, the exact chain of events that took place or what exactly happened on that night that he took her.  All she knows now is darkness.

The space is small, consisting of long dark hallways that wreak of mold and mildew, hallways that lead into other dark rooms where one can only imagine what takes place.  The ceilings leak, there is no furniture, she lays on the musky concrete ground.

In a daze now, having lost any sense of how long she has actually been here, she tries to recall as to whether or not she was the only one taken that night.  Being drugged has prevented her from even attempting any sort of escape.  She desperately wants to cry out for help but she knows that no one will hear her, she doesn’t know that anyone would even care.

She dreads every time that she hears the foot-steps above her, the incessant creaking of the floorboards, knowing that he is headed for her….key in door, unlocking of the deadbolt - silence.

He descends the flimsy wooden stairs and lurks towards her, never quite able to make out the features that define him she screams in terror.  Darkness prevails.

The Ingenious Works of Banksy and Basquiat

The Shrewd World of the Imaginative

Both Banksy and Jean-Michel Basquiat were well known graffiti artists in the 1970’s and 80’s.  I find myself particularly drawn to them because I have always enjoyed both of their works.  Though similar in many ways, they also differ in their style and appearance, their back-rounds as well, and where they drew their inspiration from.

I Became familiar with Banksy quite a few years ago when I stumbled across a graffiti book of his and became fully engrossed and enticed by it.  What really draws me to Banksy is the fact that no one really knows who he was or where he came from, he was a bit of an anomaly.  From what I know personally he was an English gentleman, one whom drew inspiration for his art from such topics as politics, culture and ethics.  What he is most famous for though is his street art, his graffiti, which combined stenciling.

Banksy’s art has been in high demand for some time now, but for the true followers, it is well known that he does not sell his street art, or that of graffiti rather.

Often Banksy’s pieces are known to be somewhat satirical, with the intention of creating a somewhat humorous feel, there is often a deeper meaning though, that of sarcasm, an attack or a parody of sorts.

One of my personal favorite aspects of Banksy’s work is that he so delicately and gorgeously incorporates his graffiti into the wall itself so as to depict a real scene, a real piece of art.  He has the ability to show a scene, a moment.  He has the talent to show true emotion and feeling.  He gives the viewer something to really look at, to take notice of.

In my belief he is somewhat of a genius himself.  I take wonder in the fact that no one really knows who this man is, yet his artwork continues to appear around the world.  In collaboration with not only the art world but politics and the music scene as well.

I am not as well versed with Basquiat’s work as I am with Banksy’s but I do know they that share similar yet very different qualities in their artwork.  Basquiat was born in the U.S., he grew up in New York City where he eventually dropped out of school to join traveling around where he lived off of selling various items of his own.  At one point he went on to form a band called ‘Gray.’  They performed at such famous venues as CBGB.

At one point Basquiat got involved in the art scene and his art was exhibited at a show which is where I believe became ‘discovered.’  He went on to exhibit his artworks throughout New York City and then Internationally where he began to gain recognition.  He began showing his work regularly and eventually got involved with Andy Warhol around 1984.

In my opinion every artist is a struggling one, in order to be an artist of sorts, or an aspiring one for that matter, I believe that one must have had many trials and tribulations that they must have had experienced.  It is my belief that every artist basis their work off of some sort of trauma, and uses this as a form of self-expression, a way to vent, to let the world know how they feel, and not necessarily through words.

Basquiat himself struggled with drug addiction.  It is believed that after the death of his close friend Andy Warhol he really spiraled downwards.  He descended into the dark and morbid world of addiction.  The one in which one can no longer see any sort of light at the end of the tunnel, where everything is impossible and nothing is probable.  It is believed that Basquiat died of an accidental overdose of heroin and cocaine, though I had previously read that his last piece of artwork was that of him committing suicide, a sort of final farewell, ‘my final last piece.’  It gives me a sort of Kurt Cobain feeling, though his death came years after.  Basquiat was only 27 years of age when he died.

In comparing these two artists I find many similarities but many more differences.  They were both well known for their artwork, created quite a scene for themselves and gave themselves a name.  The difference for me though is how they came across their work, how they went about it and what they went through in order to create it.

Banksy is still well known to this day, not that Basquiat is not, but in a much more tragic way.  Banksy is the phantom, the man you never see but want to, the man of mystery and mystique.  His work is all around, yet he is not.

Basquiat took a different route, that of living in the high fast paced world of underground music, art, and drugs.  He was a great artist, well known in his time and still to this day, but he got sucked into to underground.  The world of the unknown, the world that eventually engulfed him and swallowed him whole.

Both are great artists of their times and I believe that they will remain so.  So similar yet so different in many ways.  I admire each of their abilities to be their own, to take risks, put themselves on the line and outside to the criticism of the world.  Whether they remain anonymous or not.

When it comes to art, in my opinion, an artist has to take risks in order to put him or herself out there.  Both of these artists are an inspiration to me.  I am no graffiti artist by any means but am an aspiring writer and in looking at both of these men I am reminded that it is not impossible to make yourself known, whether it comes easily or not is not up to me, but it reminds me that if I continue to do what it is that I love, eventually I will get there.

It is August, almost September but it is still warm out.  One can still feel the soft breeze blow trough their hair as they walk the streets of the bustling city.

The place is Dizzy’s Diner in Brooklyn, New York.  About 9p.m. on a Thursday evening.

She is sitting on the chair facing him as he leans towards her from where he sits on the booth across from her.

He, being a Brooklyn native is quite familiar with the area, she on the other hand has only visited there a handful of times and the whole scene is a bit out of the ordinary for her, out of the realm of what she is used to.

He is under the assumption that she came out to Brooklyn to visit family, or perhaps for business, but little does he know, she had this plan hatched up for quite some time, she just needed to plan it right.  Numerous attempts and doing so had left her saddened, crushed and alone, but somehow, it all seemed to work out this time, or at least that’s how it seemed at the moment.

She would pretend that she was randomly calling him, as if she had just remembered that he happened to live in the area.  She would so covertly mention that she was in town and wait for him to do the rest.  Knowing all along that he would be more than ecstatic to hear this news and suggest that they meant up.

i’m working on my backwards walk
walking with no shoes or socks
and the time rewinds to the end of may
i wish we’d never met then met today

i’m working on my faults and cracks
filling in the blanks and gaps
and when i write them out they don’t make sense
i need you to pencil in the rest

i’m working on drawing a straight line
and i’ll draw until i get one right
it’s bold and dark girl, can’t you see
i done drawn a line between you and me

i’m working on erasing you
just don’t have the proper tools
i get hammered, forget that you exist
there’s no way i’m forgetting this

i’m working hard on walking out
shoes keep sticking to the ground
my clothes won’t let me close the door
these trousers seem to love your floor

i been working on my backwards walk
there’s nowhere else for me to go
except back to you just one last time
say yes before i change my mind

say yes before i…
you’re the shit and i’m knee-deep in it

You gotta swim and swim when it hurts

The whole world is watching

You haven’t come this far to fall off the earth

The currents will pull you away from your love

Just keep your head above

pereguinn:

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embracetheclearsky:followandreblog:classics:alixjay:beautifulcha0s:

loveyourchaos:nostalgiaoverdose:haononthephone: (via jleunnng)

“Ode to an Orange” by Larry Woiwode took place in the winter of 1940s. It was “the winters of the forties” which I felt was very important in setting the background. It was a time of war, rationing of food, limited transportation, a difficult time to import items from other states and then adjustment from war of peace. Winter did not just represent cold, snow, wind, gray sky, limited sunshine, but a limiting of the senses. With this in mind it have also been difficult to obtain an orange that would have been harvested in a usually warm place, such as Florida or California. The orange not only became a symbol of a season and the holidays but an object …”

dark nights.