blind moon (artemis rev.)

death's head in cashmere
stares, coolly
into the swirling patterns of the ice
that melts into his whiskey.
each shot stabs into the frosty night
the fire outside is loud,
not quite as loud as the record player
which rocks back and forth
perched precariously on a chair arm
here's looking at you kid
that and my god damned innocence
as it has brought me nothing but grief
in a world as perverse as this one.
the fake fur on the naugahyde stool next to me
is making me sneeze
making me sick
sick
you make me sick
love sick.
you can take a sabbatical on your sabbath
but there is nothing sacred
about my saturdays.
I just do another kind of work,
pulling all of this lead out of my chest
from cupid's bullets
the lead that weighs me down
makes me do stupid things
makes me treat you like someone different.
thinking about pink carnations
that grow in your hair
long white fingers,
and eyes
brown eyes,
very pleasant
filled with a kind of dull lust
a little disappointed
but ready.
I like that.
this brings a smile, then
a sigh and an obscenity.
a good smile. sharp canines
a good coincidence,
but a smile always noticed.
that's too bad though
they warned me about you.
don't try my luck, they said.
I wasn't making any presumptions
wasn't playing dice or even browsing tables
just curious
but they insisted.
it was good advice but things
things didn't go the way I planned
here I am drinking the remants of whiskey
and lukewarm beer and
trying not to sound like some maudlin crooner and
failing and
counting the mistakes on both hands
wondering
when the sun'll come up
when can I see it on that beautiful bronze hair
like artemis' helmet
telling myself I won't say anything ever
because once she knows
yeah once she knows I'm out the door
along with all the rest of those silly fools
who wanted cheap love off of a girl without a brassiere
and how could I blame you
for crimes imagined
but men we're just awful creatures
that comes with the modern world,
we're all awful
we're all just cunts.
when is the sun coming up?
when am I going to be sober again?
what time is it in los angeles?
I'd like to know
I'd like to go back to being myself
because
thinking about you makes me feel
awful rough.

the art of the cigarette #1

lucky strike

state express

murad

st. paul

casanova

pall mall

further introductions!

while I'm at the posting on this very dreary fall evening-

martin bemberg over at Lamictal Glade shot me an endorsement and he's really much more deserving of it than I.

I've been happy to call Martin my friend over the past odd month or so that I have been living here in Fayetteville, Arkansas. Past the fact that he is just an all-around fine fellow, he's also a founding member of a local band, the Memphis Pencils, who you can listen to here.

I've repeatedly stressed to Martin how great I think his band is and I have a reputation for being a harsh critic. The Memphis Pencils have a excellent musical aesthetic and a virtuoso grasp of texture that they share with fellow Fayetteville contemporaries St. Anthony. (This is no coincidence: St. Anthony's Neil Lord is a former member of the Pencils and a frequent collaborator with Martin).

The Memphis Pencils are characterized by evocative lyrics marked by literary whimsy, songs that move from one catchy movement to the next in a way that conjures up late 60s baroque pop, and sometimes endearingly ramshackle vocal harmonies aided by the band's unflinchingly brotherly demeanor.

now that I'm done plugging I hope that's enough to get you to give them a good chance. Expect more scribblings in the coming days.

-SD

an introduction.

the raphael

There were the violet stains of red wine on the white linen. I draped it over the curved rosewood arm of the coat rack. I took a look around me, closing the door behind. The room was small but comfortable, walls a decidedly unsubtle pale yellow hue. At one end was the closed door to the bathroom, where the shower ran with a dull roar, past a well-made mustard yellow bed, littered with Italian giallo magazines, facing a rosewood armoire. On the other was a white cornice window, of the Second Empire style; it was opened to the blue evening of the foggy gray city beyond.

The old television in the armoire was playing RKO matinees in start black and white. On the end table near the bedpost, a Chesterfield cigarette laid smoking next to its package in a sallow ivory ashtray. The lean cigarette holder was meershaum chipped and yellowed from use. On the windowsill was a black-and-white dress, patterned in a way that reminded me of Rorschach test inkblots. I smiled and stretched my arms, unbuttoning the linen vest, removing off-white shirt and pants, tossing them to the floor by the window. I put on a pair of brown houndstooth pajamas and searched the liquor cabinet. There was some gin in a tall bottle with a Spanish label. I poured it into old-fashioned glass from the armoire; silver droplets scattered across the table when my hand shook.

I sat down at the brocade chair near the window, smelled petroleum from the cars below, and read “Nostromo” by Joseph Conrad until the shower stopped, letting my mind wander. After a few alcohol-soaked moments passed in the soft amber lamplight. Looking to the side, I noticed the half-eaten remains of a grilled cheese sandwich on white, royal-blue striped china. The door swung open as I faced it, indirectly, one hand on the book in my lap and the other on the armrest of the chair.

When I looked up I saw her leaned up against the frame of the doorway, a lemon bathrobe hanging over her slim shoulders. She wore a black shirt the color of licorice. Her short-cropped auburn hair was still damp and lay in fringe across the shining irises of her eyes. Scarlet speckled her cheeks as she smirked at me. My eyes shifted downwards to the image of a garish yellow revolver embroidered on her black panties. It was aimed at me.

“You took long enough,” she said, as I took a look at her, one-eyed, through the kaleidoscope of the glass, examined the diamond pattern cut into its frosted surface, and shook my head. She was going to make a lecher out of me.

“I’ve been here twenty minutes,” I answered. She laughed, a short, incredulous laugh, and let her head roll across her shoulders as she smiled, brown hair swaying.

“And getting loaded already.”

I gave her a smile both guilty and proud.

“I only drink when I’m nervous.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes,” I continued, and gesturing towards the pleated gray heap under her dress at the window. “And that’s the most buttons I do believe I’ve ever seen on a pair of pants before.”

“Shut up,” she said, half-jokingly, and let the bathrobe fall from her shoulders before sitting Indian-style on the bed. “Do you want to watch a movie?”

“Sure,” I lied, and rose from my seat. I sat down on the oriflamme print of the yellow blanket, and admired the neatly folded linen underneath. I laid down next to her, my hands behind my head against the pillow, and kept my eyes on the television. Gradually they drifted to her, looking at me demurely.

“How was it,” she asked.

“I’m no good at snooker,” I replied. “I think maybe I ought to quit.”

“Well how do you like that.”

Silence. I thought about kissing her, biting her lips.

“Gee, I’m tired,” I finally gave, shakily.

“How long are you staying.” she asked.

“I leave tomorrow morning.”

There was another pause. She twisted over to face me more, putting a hand on the chest of my white shirt.

“If I kiss you I’m going to feel like hell in the morning.”

“That’s okay by me.”

artemis

tonight I stab the dark
with alcohol and cigarettes
each one's a dead soldier
laid to rest for you.
the frost is very fine,
and the smoke on my breath
hisses with every word.
all the matches you lit for me
are stubbed out,
buried in the ashtray.
there is a death's head
hiding under this cashmere
and he's looking at you.
I think your eyes are sad and wild
with a dull lust for desire
and the pink carnations which you pluck
they're growing in your hair.
the faces you seem to look on
are tired, as are you
and the smiles you wear
are faded and threadbare.
the speakers have no voices now
you've torn out all their throats
the politics they peddled
will reach your ears no more.
you're finished with men,
and how they've stopped evolving
from jaded beasts with appetites
that you never could sustain
to rockefellers and vanderbilts
who would gladly take your name
your world is writ in black
on pages few will ever see
and you know above all earthly things
what you'd have someone to be
artemis, you're done
you have no use
for lovers
anymore,
especially none
simple like me
stuttering when you look at me
with lost lonely brown eyes.
I could never match
the beauty of the nature
you've fallen in love with.
the earth is your only husband
and the sun that shines
on your beautiful bronze hair
like your hunter's helmet,
it's your lady-in-waiting.

courier (9/2/09)

it was a rough morning.
I ruined my suede shoes
in cold September puddles
my cigarette fell apart in my mouth
and I had to fight off
horse jockeys in their cars.
I was spitting tobacco,
oilslick haircut
and a black eye.
my predictions, for worse
usually come to fruition.
when it gets too thick
I drift to the alleys
and cut my teeth
on a blue harmonica.
singing songs about trains
lovers leaving
arriving
usually late.
the smart decisions, well
they usually end up just as tough
no, I don’t want
to shake his hand
I don’t want to make nice
for my own sake
for your sake
tell me, did
you stop to think about it twice?
no,
I wouldn’t have either.
al green keeps singing on wax
those beautiful black souls,
give me credence to swoon.
no common beauty,
are we really the same?
smiles have become
synonymous
with the kind of life
you like to lead.
so one of us
must be doing it wrong.
surely,
it won’t last?
after all,
that was your excuse.