From the Vaults (aka the moldy notebook i just had to throw out after ten years)
I haven't touched this thing in years (literally) as far as updates go, but what the hell. though this isn't really an update so much as a nine-year old piece I wrote about 2109 Chambers St, in Victoria. The opening and closing of the poem or whatever refer to the answering machine message at said house, which was a three minute long series of nonsensical menu options on what was supposed to be Purgatory's switchboard system. I feel hella lame posting angsty old poetry here on this thing but hey, I had to dispose of the notebook it probably the choicest piece from after lugging it back and forth across the country and up and down a coast or two for nine years as it had developed an unfortunate case of toxic black mold around the corners. I wrote this for a zine that went through a hundred stops and restarts and never really ended up being finished, and figured that this was as good a place as any to give it some air. anyways, here we go:
Love song for an old punkhouse:
(from the moldy notebook)
Purgatory -
Not quite hell, but a far cry from heaven.
Four wall to block out the wind and rain
But
No heat or hot water
Filthy dishes piled to the ceiling
The sounds of all five
Or six
(Or more)
Residents every move inescapably traveling through every wall
And one neurotic cat
Obsessively clawing and banging it head
Against every door blocking its path
And then yowling to be let out again once on the other side.
A steady stream of ex-residents looking at you
Like you’re invading THEIR space even though you’re the one who pays the rent
And they haven’t called the place home in quite some time.
My room looking like the set of a bad student art film
With walls painted black, green, and off-white -
A bare floor covered in scraps of paper,
A moldy mattress with a smelly sleeping bag on top,
A dying plant in the sink full of dirt
Inexplicably installed in the dresser built into the wall.
A stack of records with no way to listen to them -
Not that it matters as music is always around
(Whether you like it or not)
With bands practicing in the basement
Drunken sing-alongs in the kitchen
Johnnie’s Clash records
And Jonah’s trumpet.
Me in my room with the lights out
And my walkman on trying to make believe some kind of privacy
Until Kitty barges in again….
At least I have a room all to myself (unlike her) and
It’s kind of nice knowing that someone cares enough to let me in
On every little drama in their life
(Though I could do without the biological details sometimes).
There’s always some kind of melodrama
Every little problem mishandled,
Swept under the rug to fester,
Or just framed as BAD ART.
Life as BAD ART -
Don’t buy oil for the furnace,
Just whiskey and a couple of extra blankets,
Then argue drunkenly about Henry Miller
Or why Modern Architecture stinks
For the rest of the night.
Tear the insulation off the windows in hopes of seeing the sun
Then drink even more in hopes of blocking out the cold
As summer is still a long ways away
(And I’ll drink away next months rent money
And move onto the couch in the living room).
Our common bond is WAR
Waged on brains and livers
- And waiting….
Waiting to go somewhere either literally
Like Tennessee or Eastern Europe
Or anywhere in between
Or even just figuratively for that spark
That kick in the ass that will get you out of this rut
And back into the world of
Functional Human Beings
In the business of creation instead of
The sundry forms of self-destruction
We make our stock and trade.
The greeting
On the answering machine
Rings
A little
Too close
To home…..
“Welcome
To
Purgatory……’
(1998/9?)
more updates about, y'know, things happening this year coming soon.