Sunday, July 29, 2007

Layne Staley

Staley's stark confessional lyrics are similarly effective, and consistently miserable. Sometimes he's just numb and apathetic, totally desensitized to the outside world; sometimes his self-justifications betray a shockingly casual amorality; his moments of self-recognition are permeated by despair and suicidal self-loathing.

Could there be a more convincing endorsement of the man's music? In an age of tripe "heavy metal" lacking in menace and convincing "darkness" makes me wonder why so many who follow the genre consider the 90's to be a "dead period". Most death and black metal today chant uselessly about this and that, but this music was the true black.

Monday, July 23, 2007

William Blake

"...the road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom."

William Blake

Thursday, July 19, 2007


Rilke, she said, don't you love Rilke?
No, I siad, he bores me
Poets bore me, they are shits, snails, snippets of dust in a cheap wind
Lorca, she said, how about Lorca
Lorca was good when he was good, he knew how to sing, but the only reason you like him is because he was murdered.
Shelley, then, she said, how about Shelley?
Didn't he drown in a rowboat?

Charles Bukowski

Monday, July 02, 2007

Bret Easton Ellis

I'm thinking about throwing up but do some bonghits instead, then flee. Deal with it. Rock'n'roll.

Bret Easton Ellis