i'm so cool

Sometimes I get so lonely that I lose the ability to speak or go outside and instead I’ll just sit here clicking back and forth from my sitemeter to my site to my email checking, waiting like a bitch for comments for some fucking action for someone to say I’ve got you I understand I know how it feels, and you know what? they do say it and it shocks and embarrasses me like the feeling the morning after when I discover that the empty bottles I drunkenly placed on the window sill are filled with rain.

follow me on this one

dudley perkins is on some next level

I like going for a walk late at night with a notebook and a fresh pack of cigarettes. I like to witness the steady stream of new blood pouring into the City. They come from all over: little princesses, each and every one. Even the boys. Especially the boys. Especially if they try not to show it. They come for the thrill of being eaten alive and spit up pie-high in the sky. They want the drama of watching themselves fall in slow motion.

They want split screen all region high contrast forty different shades of black fade out recordable DVD mulit-cast, multi-player, perspectival, cute, introspective, a good bartender and an even better friend…

They want their stomach to be tight when their shirt blows up and they want the irrefutable fact of concrete when they land.

(But man are you getting down, party people?)

You got me cold fussin.

There’s some bad weed going through the City; I can see it in the eyes, they look like mine.
Also, they’ve got the brown fingernails.

(rain down!)

I’m talking too loud, I’m touching my head too often I’ve got broccoli in my teeth.

I’m dancing with my left shoulder. Just my left shoulder.

Twilight: the purple flowers glow. I turned on the path and looked at your face.

You were trying to tell me something.

I dropped the toothpick when I tried to take it out of its wrapper.

It disappeared in the darkness that was starting from the ground and working its way up.

Do you know the way to my home?

i'm lost and i'm all alone

i'm lost and i'm all alone

live @ 5

This is the guy I was talking about, Jamie. Who ya gonna call?

Yo.

Jamie’s Known Universe and BTB

Go together like

The Beastie Boys and Biz Markie

Like

Birds of a feather when it’s time to flock

Like

Two turntables when it’s time to rock

Like

Fitz’s backdoor and a big ass…

Knock

Knock.

(Who’s there?)

Freeda.

Freeda who?

Freeda you, yards of priceless flow that's all TRUE


(now go out and be naughty, i motherfuckin dare you...)

You’re not the only one who doesn’t wanna anymore.

You’re not the only one who wakes up feeling like shit every morning.

You’re not the only one who feels sick in the subway A/C, wasn’t it Kerouac who said this country was an air conditioned nightmare? The Europeans don’t do that shit, they don’t try to scare the sweat off of people, they let the stink hang out. I’m hungry for stink, party people, I’m feelin all sorts of strange emotions coming over me as I look down at some chumps fucked-up toes hanging out of his fucked-up sandals while a numbness creeps across the right side of my body. It’s a stroke, it’s a joke, these ads for night school, I’ll sign up, get my check rubber stamped, become a secretary and take it up the ass like my mother.

You’re not the only one who wants to make it big, who’s sick of sitting around waiting for something to happen, feeling achy-breaky every time after sex, like a little girl only when you were a little girl you fucked and sucked like a champ, like it was your job. Now, DVDs are more fun, eating a piece of real pie or getting a deal on cigarettes, getting scared in the park by a tree branch waving behind you, going skinny dipping and discovering the inside of your shoes smell like ass. You drink two giant iced lattes in a row and take a long, uninterrupted shit with the paper and a joint, what we used to call a poor man’s vacation.

You’re not the only one saying it’s now or never.

You’re not the only one with one turntable, wishing for two so you can remix the soundtrack to the sequel of the story of your life, throwing on a second, no third rate Pavement album with sound effects culled from a Belgian beach holiday. Your body’s in the board room but your mind’s stepping like a giant crane between the bumpers in the traffic jam outside, the hot bus exhaust killing your pretensions. There’s the smell of salsa and roasted nuts, there are white undersides on the raised hands of the tourist tour group leaders, maple leaves on the backpacks, bobble heads in the shopping bags of the pretend homeboys from ohio.

…waiting for the city bus a woman beside you talks loudly into a phone about how this is the best day of my life, I don’t know about Sara, and you look down and eleven or twelve year old Sara is looking in the other direction, towards the spinning corporate glow of Times Square, her eyes full of a complicated hate.


kate brings it

CIP

...midnight, on the Cross Island Expressway...your eyes turned into digitized pools in the moonlight...

This weekend was all about pop song choruses and suburban psychedelic fantasies coming together on one lawn, for a limited time offer only, we fixed picnic plates and frequencies on cell phones and hashed it out by the lake. We made graphics and recorded tapes of our conversations. We scrambled eggs and turned on cable and admired perfect flower arrangements, pearly white teeth and finely cut mod trouser crotches.

A video camera came Fed Ex. I signed for it in the doorway, ripped open the envelope and let it slide out onto my palm.

I want to film a dark empty theater in which a film is being shown. The film is of a dark empty theater, identical to the first one except thatthere are people projected upon the chairs. The projections are in black and white. They flicker like Princess Leia in her hologram message.

They’re the audience, looking up at a blank screen and seeing something play on it.

Although it is impossible to know exactly what they are watching, one can get a feeling for the point the drama is at by the expressions and movements of the faces.

(When I finally make my film and play it, I’ll have it timed so it breaks off in the middle, the screen turning white just as things were getting good.)

I can feel my cells dividing—I can feel them piling up inside of me, one atop the other at breakneck pace.

I rapped a little the other day, by myself at the ocean, standing in the surf and facing the waves with the dark-eyed windows of the beach mansions behind me, flat roofed and ominous, like set pieces for a David Lynch flick.

we agree to forget the previous evening and focus solemnly upon the Sunday drive to the Sunday obligations…

(reproduction=doubling the bill of memories)

Your son your daughter your fuck your marriage.

Your pink barrettes.

Sterling, sterling, Sterling…I want to take it.

I know.

I feel like we can pull something out of the hat.

Yes. When we’re together. I mean, when we’re on the same team.

I know what you mean. I got you. Sterling, you’ve got to start realizing that I’ve got you.

Yes.

And Fitz too.

And Fitz too. Absolutely.

He’s kind of like the origin.

What do you mean?

Of both of us. He hatched me in Oxford and then I hatched you.

OK.

You feelin me?

There’s only one problem with any of that.

Whuh baby?

Everything that you do—I happen to have already done.

comments are great but i've gotta say i'm kinda glad they're down right now. i'm raising a beer to all of you...



most needed, most cheated, most weeded.

I met Jamie. Sometimes I still can't believe it: I met the guy I saw. After all that time. Actually it isn't so much time to meet a stranger you saw on the street, if you think about it.

He was just someone walking in front of me, early in the morning, a year and 10 months ago.

Now I go to his site everyday, to find out what he's up to.

With his jeep and his fly ass loft.

And his cameras and typewriters.

Paint and patience.

i hope you don't think i'm some kind of asshole, jamie.

i hope i was a little bit like you thought i'd be.

p.s. don't tell anyone my real name.

make me over; make me out

bemezine


Nighttime’s the right time. You know what I mean. When the fairies come out. And the wolves and vampires and disco dan-cers. Nighttime’s the right time to be on the prowl. To get shit looks on the bus and to give them back, to undress someone with your eyes.

Fitz asked me so did Jules really have a big dick and I said yes she really had a big dick.

And did her titties look real?

Yes they looked real, except in the hot tub, then they were too shiny and round.

Did you always pretend to be a boy or did you get to be a girl too?

Get to be? What the fuck you make it sound like I was her slave or something.

Well, weren’t you, in a sense? I mean, I know that’s how you liked it in the past.

Oh, I liked it all right. I liked it in Amsterdam, doing a couple of hits and going out to the garage, shaking uncontrollably as I took off my clothes and lied down across the hood of the old Saab that was just beginning to rust, my tits spilling out from the loosened ace bandage wrap, a winter draft blowing between my legs, nipping at the warm dampness that only got worse as I waited, biting the inside of my mouth and listening intently for footsteps or the jingle jangle of keys, becoming distracted by the hum of the Amstel river only a few feet away, certain that the scurrying in the wall was a rat, certain that the gleaming, hollow car could secretly feel my body and was somehow mocking it.

Finally she came, throwing open the door and belching loudly.

“Hmmm, ahhh. I can smell you from here.”

“Ok,” I said, wondering if she meant my pussy or my feet, both of which I’d scrubbed with peppermint soap.

“Shut up!” she hissed. I closed my eyes as I heard her lock the door and walk slowly down the steep Dutch stairs in her stilettos.

Beneath the click-clank of heel striking wood, there was another, more subtle sound that could be made out: the soft rustle of the heel of her hand rubbing her crotch through her silk slip.

Oh, I liked it all right. I like waiting for her to tell me off, I liked waiting to be punished and put in my place, chosen as an extra and left on the sidelines, alone in the bar, holding a glass of melted ice while I watched her run her hands through some boy’s soft, floppy hair. It was a sick and twisted happiness, but I felt it nonetheless and it was all mine.

(Nighttime’s the right time…)

In case you’ve never had it, gingria is just like sangria but with a healthy dose of Tanqueray thrown in for kicks. You all know how I need kicks, party people. The key is to stick that shit in the freezer—after one gulp you can feel the numbness start at the top of your neck and move its way up your skull. It’s like huffing gas.


art is for losers

"Fassbinder"

One of Fassbinder's most unusual and daring films, In a Year of Thirteen Moons stars Erwin Spengler as a man desperately in love with his business partner. He decides to have a sex change operation, becomes Elvira, but this fails to attract the love of his beloved. Instead, the new "she" finds a series of damaging relationships and betrayals. Fassbinder uses harsh color, asymmetrical sets, a dissonant sound track and alternating narrative techniques to evoke the pain of Erwin/Elvira in a film that stretches the boundaries of conventional storytelling.
(In a Year of Thirteen Moons)


Do you remember the afternoon when we first saw it, four summers back? You were just “Sterling” before I put the tape in, before I put it down and laid it out. The whole sick mess. You were barely more than a ghost. You had white hair, a white face and swollen red lips. You were the shook one with your hand in your pocket.

We watched the movie and shot dope. We used the same works and the same toilet. The Do Not Disturb sign was duck taped to the door. U2’s “One” played on repeat in the background.

When it was over you sat transfixed watching the different shades of black pass across the screen before it turned into static. You didn’t want to believe it was really over.

“What happens next,” you asked, your voice as flat as a pancake.

“The movie leaked out of the TV,” I said. “It’s my movie now, and you’re the star.”

You trudged over to the window and leaned your head against the sill.

“Where are the cameras?”

“Hidden. Everywhere. Can’t you feel their harsh glare burning up the room?”

You lit a cigarette and ran your good hand through your hair.

“When does the shooting start?”

“It already has, Sterling Fassbinder. Everything has already been changed forever.”


jg

Where I end and you begin

i wanna get sweet valley high with you.


That’s right, sometimes I walk the street with the last two fingers on my right hand curled into my palm, pretending I’m Sterling Fassbinder. I’ll start swinging my arms in my usual style, but then I remember how she keeps the hand in question jammed in her pocket, and I do the same. Immediately, my gait changes into her lurching stagger.

The hackneyed, hunched James Dean wounded animal thing that gets her all that LES pussy.

Sometimes, late at night, when the sky turns nuclear pollutant purple and the puddles spin with stars, I hold my hand over my face and imagine how it would look if two of the five fingers were missing.

I remember when I visited her in the hospital on her sixteenth birthday.

She avoided looking at her bandaged hand draped lifelessly across the pea green sheets.

“That’s not my hand,” she said.

“I know,” I said. I remember the hysterical chirping of birds in the trees outside. A plane cut a high arc above our heads. Somewhere a sprinkler was spurting jaggedly.

My eyes zoomed out like a camera. As always I was desperately trying to take in the whole thing, to memorize the details and stash them away for future use. There was her bleached blonde hair. At that time it was cut and gelled down in a Caesar. She shifted to one side and stared at the blinds. Her face was pale against the sheets. There was blue pen ink smeared on her cheek.

Everyone thought she was crazy, that the nuttiness of her bible thumping parents had finally cooked her noodle. They thought that explained why she took drugs and dressed like a boy and cut her own fingers off on a classroom paper cutter.

“It’s the acid,” they whispered, “It’s her father who beats her ass with a pipe.”

She’d been let down, beat-up, lied-to, hated on and now she was going to be kicked out and locked-up in a mental hospital.

I was sixteen myself. There wasn’t a damn thing I could do but sit around with my hands folded. By way of saying a prayer (something I’ve tried but can never actually bring myself to do) I instead wished for sudden, supernatural powers. Wing’d feet, laser shooting fingertips, bullet reflecting wristbands—that sort of thing. Or I would have been fine with a gang of berretta toting goodfellas. We’d line up shades on and guns blazing. I’d free Sterling and leave them all in a sea of blood.

surrender, surrender, but don’t give yourself away

If I could have had only one power it would have been the ability to go back in time. That way I could switch places with her as a little kid so that she could be me and I could be her.

This would make a cool tattoo or hardcore album cover if it wasn't already used by something else.

Meanwhile, in Australia...

...the good people have put on their winter sparkle


Tell the story, Sterling.

Tell all the stories; go for it.

I know I’m through with holding things back.

Kick out the jams, motherfucker!

I give you full permission, in fact I encourage it.

I’m the bad guy, the villain.

(there’ll be times)

The tranniechaser fag hag.

(when my crimes)

I give myself up to it; I grasp the smooth bone handle of my authority.

(will seem almost unforgiveable)

Okokokokokokok?

Yes, I’m the leader of this crew.

Yes, I’m the administrator with the passwords.

(I give in to sin)

I wear the brightly colored shirts in the outlandish style.

I leave my notebooks open on your bed

So that you may read and judge

(because you have to make this life liveable)

You can’t quantify me

Contest me, deter me

Tonite, I’m in the hands of fate…

I walked the block with a bop

Smoked blunts by the water

Fell into a dream at the bar

Woke up with some fag’s tongue in my mouth

I gripped his glitter-covered shoulders

Muscles rising and falling beneath my fingertips

“I always fall asleep during the best part,” I told him

as I tried to take a step back and ended up doing a half-curtsy instead

He was holding my face in his hands

Looking down at me sweetly

drunkenly

“…and by the way, sir,” I said, regaining my balance

(I give in to sin)

I’m not a boy,

just a blue toy.”

(because I like to practice what I preach)

i'm up in the clouds

ryan mcguinnis

Don't let anyone who does drugs all the time try and tell you they're not running away from something.

After a certain point you're taken over the top, over the precipice.

Your fuckin nerves are shot

Low eyes, heavy lids

The shadows of tree branches shake against the blue and yellow windshield.

In protestation,

In proclamation...

I have yet to discover a harsh truth for which I can’t find an antidote.


From: "jenny ." [Save Address] [Block Sender]
To: trueboy@graffiti.net
Cc:
Subject: real bitches do real things.
Date: Sun, 29 Jun 2003 20:18:07 +0000

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yo.

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>From: "TRUEBOY *"

>To: "jenny ."

>Subject: Re: real bitches do real things.
>Date: Tue, 01 Jul 2003 02:43:46 +0800
>
>like what, yo?


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