1. |
Junkyard Fire
02:17
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I speak my piece, wreathed with grief
while voracious thieves eat our feast.
Our lithium joy is wise to shame.
O sentient void, own your stains
Try to talk to lightning,
fight to blot polite green,
nightly loss of quiet dreams:
junkyard fire.
Our wasted rage knows no glee.
It makes a face loathingly.
It frowns with spite, hooked on dreams,
grounded like tumbleweeds.
China town in stalemate like a sleuth
lays us down with railway hijack crews.
The odor from a restless birth suits my game.
Mother said to spend her purse, use her name.
Easy crown, safety queen;
I see her crouch awaiting sleep.
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2. |
Nauseous Love
02:02
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Would you try once to inhale quirks
and exhale smiles?
Our parents’ shouts, poluted rice
when we make nice
One whiff of joy from boyhood tales,
I watch you squirm.
Your words swap out to robot lines
rehearsed with scorn.
Model fraud! Whine your please!
Craven, cruel… Nauseous love!
A sparrow flies outside my door
to tweet hellow.
It spies me moping somewhere scarce
as it would hope.
I rise to open mealworms,
its wings raise and point.
It makes a terririfying yell
like heinous crime.
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3. |
Richard Scary
01:43
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Mister B hops to the Circle K,
little thief cops his hurt away.
Doctor D trots with a swinging tale,
chocolatey spots on fingernails.
Chickadee C is particular,
never says “please” or “thank you sir.”
Aunt Batty sleeps to a dial tone,
happily dreams to die alone.
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4. |
Crows
03:26
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Draped in wispy tails, a playboy poster ghost
wears leering silken trousers striped like Hazel’s eyes.
Haunting neighbors lawns with icy chalken gazes,
waving shameful latex fingers in her face
Crows! Bruises! Lipstick! Shadows!
Bellwether of hope, the answer to my rage,
am I a man or mope, the shocking anthrophage.
Mousetraps on your sleeve like woven scales of golden
chain mail from abuse forbade my soothing coos.
Leaden tones of grief when no death fouls the air
and all the children breathe for August harvest fair.
Weep for broken pencils, soiled artichokes
and brief bespoken friends who prithee “thanks alot.”
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5. |
The Feather
01:55
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I see a feather outside
soar and flounder, reminding me how
thousands of molotovs in minds
watch their spirit drink like a champion.
Wind shifts West. it blows
like an illusion; smoke from the future
into a fire of Autumn,
singe and smolder, rise skyward!
Doses of wisdom in grapes
soak in the sunlight, ripe and yellow
grown by the winery then reaped,
drained, and roasted putrid brown.
Oil supertanker at twelve knots
slumps through the water: the Great Lake of Stupid.
Twelve dozen rowboats from shore
scrape at the bow with no change in course.
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6. |
Pilgrimage
02:11
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high priest pilgrimage- blood flows inward
rush hour outbound - eyesight smoky
rider, dancer, loner, anchor
wartime grandma - hands shake mildly
hears strange voices - with lucidity
violin maker - reeks of alcohol
sober acrobat - of tranquility
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7. |
Owlish
02:00
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You wrapped your face around my mind,
I sigh hello. Your t-shirt
dress, your fingers drizzling down my hip,
mishapen mouth, it rows your
boat. The words your breathe are sorry flowers,
ambrosia rain, those gardens
plump and savage floating through the air.
I cannot move. Your words,
Soft and plain, easy on the nose
bound by ropes- your eyes to mine.
Lost refrain sleeping in my clothes,
owlish pout, dream with me.
The world has spun us to the coast
and there we met, a goat and
sheep. I count the days but to be drowned.
Your shaven head and crushing
giggle like a kitten you command
as you are drawn by midnight
omens. Your homey wooden thighs,
I cannot move. Your words…
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8. |
La Siren
04:06
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Space between wasted days.
Goldfish bowls throwing stones.
Write me babe, i can wait.
Wrinkled globes weaken odes.
Carnal wisdom I loathe to load
into narrowing boats of foam
along with ripped and soiled robes,
honest air and coiled ropes.
House of spice and wind.
Quarantine of my naked shame,
warring sounds of my failed escape,
shared secrets and dangerous games,
teal gowns of veiled dames.
Maiden glitters like broken poems,
kisses squarely my choking throat.
Swishes down and points to home,
piles of brownish human bones.
Her window opened love. Her tasteless pie was done.
I reached from my salon, my probing hand was gone.
I tried again, again, left right and everything.
A vile wind seized my arms. Her walls are closing jaws,
so close I hope to pause. Though roaches hesitate,
throw punches in the fate, shy grace shall lose herself.
Save face and choose your hell.
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9. |
Long Tongue
01:28
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Shy one chokes upon her salamander tongue,
flails about her lisped smile.
Silent voice avows the rarest odes,
every word a ballet pose.
Bites a filter, peels a paper out,
rolls a tiny cigarette.
Smoke pipes out her lazy wobbling jaw,
just as natural as a cloud.
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Joey Molinaro Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
Acoustic experimental black metal/ solo grind violinist Joey Molinaro’s “stomping and ferocious playing is inescapable,”
(Foxy Digitalis).
Molinaro “executes the spirit and function of hardcore punk and Appalachian folk” (Foxy Digitalis) with “vocals [that] haunt, like a preternatural voice from beyond the pale” (Razorcake) and torrential boot-stomping.
... more
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