THE VEINS

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THE VEINS

Once, if memory serves us, life was a banquet where every heart was generous & where wine flowed through every vein.

& THE VEINS live in a state of permanent infatuation—or intoxication—a state of permanent noise, in which they are so absorbed the world is nothing but blurs & blotches. THE VEINS stretch through every limb, shimmering like shells under taut skin, with everything that flows through them hemorrhaging out across guitar strings & stage floors.

With clotting never an option, THE VEINS have decided to pump harder than before. Rock ‘n’ roll, punk rock, glam rock—all of it swirls around in THE VEINS’ sound. THE VEINS are gonna keep your heart beat alive.

LET'S HEMORRHAGE

NOTES ON DANDYISM

NOTES ON DANDYISM

Ragged Dandy found dead under

the Eiffel Tower, June '63—so he slunk

back to the Bowery real ashamed-like,

head pulsing with some sort of sick

from his jokes & guises.

"Back to what you know! Back to

something / anything worthwhile," he

screamed—but he'd still lay awake

sweating & beating,

with eyes dull & rapid, watching blue shadows

cast from the television flicker

over his hollow face.

Like some sad little saint

caught in a lie he watched what

he believed cave in & crumble. Slumped

over sipping rum "so ya gotta catch something

new," feverish shouters, but the girls

just giggled & walked away—so Dandy

sighs-cries & falls back in bed

like a little orchid grown too top-heavy

tilting out of the pot.

Look in the mirror, mascara runs down

cheeks in thick black streaks

& it sets in;

the slow sick realization:

there is no God—only

Ragged Dandy & television.

ARS POETICA

ARS POETICA

O Sister—last night I had a dream. It danced through

my skull in volts of blue—like the haze of a comet smearing its tail

across the sky until stars distort to fragments so frail

beneath the blankets of dust that your fingertips could tear into

their pulp—ripping them apart like papyrus. & last night we whipped

across the turnpike like rattlesnakes—the smog that trailed

behind us was gorgeous, thick, like ripples in sand. & we sailed

until our skin began to wither—& finally you tripped—

fell from the car the way decaying petals of an orchid drip

to the ground to rot—& your limbs were like wisteria

tossing its flowers through the air while the sun painted your lips—

caking them in shades of jade—& you laughed with the deliria

I watched drizzling down your brow while you lay in the dust

that swirled in sunset colors tinged with chemicals around us.

& Sister, please—what can I do about my dreams?

WUNDERKAMMER

WUNDERKAMMER

Act I

The sound of a crescendo stalls stale in my lungs. Capsules litter the floor like pebbles, & as I step, they embed themselves in my soles—my lips salivate at the sight, & with eyes melting like a greedy child I finger my fedora, felt mixing with my skin as I press it to my face. I drink the faded perfumes woven through the fabric until I’m laying across the floor—I’m Elizabeth Taylor!—I tremble as men press their palms insatiably against the door. They press & caress & finally the room crumbles—collapses under its own weight like an eagle’s nest & I’m left sprawled in the ash.

Act II

Children spin & swirl through the dust, their Peter-Pan-limbs flailing graceful & smooth. I call to them, lips heavy with pills & sunflower seeds: fresh beautiful things! cherubs! dance across the pavement & let me worship your fading freckles! Costumes ill-fitted & tattered they flock to me—fold into my arms & wither like daisies. We shiver at the shrieks of a squirt gun that echo through the scene & I trace the chin of each Shirley Temple that sits so devout on my knee. With delicate fingers stroking their teeth, they mouth silently, pressing “Je est un autre” into the hollow air.