Blink

This house is full of ghosts, spun webs and wind
Twenty five years ago, as seen on film
It was alive, with sun and light and joy
Tall grass, green eyes (strobe light without a noise)
The walls are stripped bare, the ceiling destroyed
What's left? Just the dream, in a corridor.
Night light, square tiles, all three doors are closed
Down stairs, turn right, on a carpeted floor
His ashes condemned without a fire
Raindrops on broken glass and rusted nails
The sun is bluer these days, it's colder
The smell of wood, smoke, my face has grown pale
Blink once, warm light, bedside, I fall asleep
Blink twice, blue light, nightlife, dead on my feet.

Angstrom Phillip Woodwim

Ben-Fulton in the Mist

Figures in windows with grass coming out of them;
Ben saw the river, water-ful and pulling with the moon
The moon in a coffee spoon, swooning with the lady
The lady counting sugar cubes
Cubes of mathematics
Because she was lonely
Lonely in the mist near the river with the figures
In windows with grass coming out of them.
Petite femme dans le gazon, aime moi,
Comme ces figures dans les fenêtres
Avec du gazon et la lune et le sucre en cube
Dans ma cuillère dans ma tasse le matin;
Tu es mal-odorante. Ma femme mon amour
Dans la brume qui marche.
Wo wohnst du, mein bitte kleine fraulich!

To Woo

Not John Woo. He is my enemy.
I have heard the flight of
Fiery bullets in the night
Through the very essence of my being
I have many masks, and one vision
Of birds boring into my brain
My skull cavity transpersed
Transversed, violated, for I have
In one man, found my nemesis.
He is John Woo.
Every man is so special. But John Woo.
He is evil.

Angstrom Phillip Woodwim (1819-2026) was born in Manchester, Kentucky, in a small baseball park overlooking a town. On a beautiful morning in August 1917, Angstrom found a minute (read: small) time machine on his porch and travelled back to 1775. He never returned. He wrote black poetry on sheets of granulated paper which he had customcrafted by the smith of the Indian village in which he never perished, later to be read by mankind, better than Shakespeare, for whom he had no respect. But he loved Queen Elizabeth. Ben Jonson, once wrote of Woodwim: "He truly is of this age. For many years birds on his balcony crapped on his poems and his neighbors burned his books (several times he was burnt at the stake by angry villagers) and for his blasphemous poetry, women shunned him and gave him smallpox. He is a true luminary, the precursor of the french movement led by Charles Baudelaire. Although his poems were all written in german, and his toes were not unlike Yeats' toes, his poetry was never recognized in Ireland."

Grey Suit

I'm on my way to a place where the sun appears at irregular intervals, a place where no one sleeps. A man in a grey suit knocks at my door, like he's done a thousand times. I wonder if he would come if I asked him not to. I don't sleep, ever; I look at a stream of letters, they're not talking to me. Just one symbol at a time, for ever. And the man at my door (I wish he wouldn't come so often) I wish he never existed. Like a starving animal exhaling for the last time I think: why bother? If I ask him, will he go? Knock. As I'm looking through the peephole I realize he's the only thing I can count on. Not the sun, just a man in a grey suit. Knock.

Matrix and the Serpent

The crazy poof cat waits under a chair
He lurks and wants to ambush and bite me
He jumps, grabs my leg and gives me a scare.
I call forth the serpent man, run kitty!
There's a girl, she whisks the purr purr away
The serpent man is angered, he hisses,
Pif paf escapes her grasp, he cannot stay;
The snake is coiled, his life's in crisis,
Under the stairs he goes, he wants to hide
Forever and ever, forked tongues and eyes
He will endeavor to avoid, besides:
His poof is eternal, he'll never die,
Arched back and racoon tail, he bites the snake,
The evil creature was just a fake!

The Elephant

A half circle coffee stain
Staring like an elephant in a window pane
Still, it's not what I wanted.
The elephant stands upright;
He looks at me and says
"Make the best of your life,
Make the best of your time."
Sure, why not, I tell him.

Fortune

Wings. Breasts. Drumsticks. All of it floating in a pool of butter. Enough to clog the hearts of a small village. Yep, I ate a full chicken. For the first time I felt like Fortune was smilling at me. Fortune, that’s the girl sitting across from me at the table. Her hair is green. Love. Not really, curiosity mostly. I feed her twice a day. She doesn’t complain. She never says a word. Now is the before sleep meal. She looks happy.

I found Fortune five years ago, she was sleeping under a bridge and my car broke down. She wasn’t moving but she was alive. I picked her up and put her in my trunk. After I got home I put her on the bed in my spare bedroom in the basement. For three days she just slept and stared at the ceiling. I figured she was going to die of dehydration if I didn’t manage to get some water into her. I stole an IV at the hospital where I worked. Fifteen IV bags later I heard sounds in the basement. She was looking for something. Probably drugs. She stank and was so thin I was amazed her frame could hold her up. So I put a bowl of rice on the night stand next to the bed. She was oblivious to me. She ignored the spoon and started eating the rice by shoving her face into the bowl.

In five years she hasn’t said a word. Maybe she can’t, maybe she’s a mute or something. I wont bring her to the hospital to find out. I don’t want to. What if they figure who she is? Can’t let that happen. I have a fascination for this thing. This girl. It’s not sexual or perverted. More like the affection you feel for a stray cat you pick up. I called it Fortune.

I’ve done some research, missing kids, milk cartons and all that stuff. Nothing, as far as the rest of the world is concerned she doesn’t exist. I want to keep it that way. I’m not a pervert or a sicko or a serial killer or any of that crazy shit. I’m a normal guy. I think. Her hair is green because I dyed it.

Today is Friday. I don’t work and I don’t have a calendar. It could be Sunday all the time. I just know it’s Friday because on the TV across from the buffet table is the Friday evening news. My picture is on the left corner of the screen above the news guy. The picture is from three years ago, it’s from my hospital card. I was a doctor. But I quit. I’ve found something more interesting. A Ghost. Forgotten. That’s what I thought, until now. Must have made a mistake, must have picked up the wrong cat.

What I want to say

That's what I'd like to know, have I nothing to say? I sit down with my guitar, bust out a nice riff, sing a pretty little melody over it, doo-doo-doo style. Ok, that's good, now I want lyrics, not just words, but something I'd like to scream from the rooftops with a megaphone. Problem is, I'm not sure what I'd want to scream on rooftops. If I was put in front of a microphone, on a stage, and a million people were there, a huge crowd, waiting for me to say something, what would I say? "Listen, I'm sorry for the inconvenience but, because I'm such an apathetic loser, I have nothing to say to you people, except maybe that you shouldn't have wasted your time coming here. Next time you'll know better." Geez. That's great. I did write three verses; they're disjointed and they don't convey anything, really, they're just words that fit the music.

If ever all the stars in the sky
start to fall down in a gentle rain.
Tell me this, tell me why
Take your blank stare elsewhere;
You won't have to take the train
to go home, you're already there.

Si jamais toutes les étoiles dans le ciel
Tombe comme une pluie éternel
Dit moi, dit moi pourquoi
Tes yeux tournent autour de moi aujourd'hui
Mon esprit est crevé, parce-que je manque d'air
Seul en enfer.

Here's the song: Si Jamais

Let me go

I feel your grasp around my neck, again.
What should I do, I can't shake you off.
Your cold fingers press against the back of my eyes.
I'm tired, so tired, I just want to sleep.
Get out, I want you to get out!
I'm not going to beg you, that's revolting, you're revolting.
It's what you make me, what you mold me into.
That's what frightens me the most, the pallid, the formless.
You're the monster that destroyed me.
I'm rebuilding, so just get the fuck out.
When I'm done, I'll never see you again.
You just wont be able to find me.
I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.
You make me small, you make me shit.
Stop, stop, stop strangling me, stop.
I'm afraid that if I look myself in the eye, I'll see you.
I'm just afraid that I'll give up, and let your hands crush me.
Let me go.