When your existential crisis has an existential crisis,
drink until your blood coagulates into a fine wine,
eat until your flesh turns into tasteless wafers,
take a dip in the River Styx, but not before
drowning one toe at a time to test the temperature,
then unplug the rubber stopper from the levee
below sea level after forty days of rain,
and flush us all counter-clock wise
back to the past tense.
I taught
high school English for one day,
more than enough to know the job
wasn’t for me; I must’ve told them
to pipe down a gazillion times;
come last bell I was in bad shape,
my throat raw, my voice reduced to
a painful rasp; no wonder we keep
hearing about teachers having sex
with their students; after six periods
of ear-splitting chaos it must be
highly cathartic to plug one up;
even the gabbiest, gossipmongering
cheerleader will find it hard, if not
downright impossible, to talk with
her mouth full.
I showed Dad the back page
of my comic book.
I wanted a squirting flower
(you’re soaked, sucka),
live Sea Monkeys
(make ‘em sufferrr),
but most of all,
a pair of $3
(only)
X-Ray Specs!
See right through clothing, brosky.
Scientific optical principal totally works.
Dad copped the load but the only
thing I really needed was the specs.
For starters, there was like Deborah
Black, Heather Horsey and,
(oh, Jesus),
Natalie “the rack” Cockburn.
Would have to be careful
around Ms. White in class.
Kept asking Dad, and fucking
praying to God.
The specs did not come. Fuck
God & fuck the Sea Monkeys
into the fucking ground.
Dad, where are they?
Soon. Promise.
Dad, where are they?
No fucking idea!
One morn when I was choking
the chicken in the shower,
the specs finally came.
Few weeks before,
I found me a switchblade and I
did murda the box with that lil’ mutha.
Can’t say if I wore them all day.
Can’t say that night I prob saw like
Dad’s dick by glow of my Batman nite-lite.
The cage door closes
and he is someone’s daughter,
someone’s Brittany,
passed around like butter,
bottom bunk bumping
and lipstick for the pig,
commissary property and certain
protections on the yard;
the guards running drugs and numbers,
more favours in Favourland…
our little Brittany sent to the infirmary
to be sewn up brand new;
no one likes a loosey goosey
when all you have is Time.
seven German beers and 10mg in
I suddenly remember
that my Mom called me a Son of a Bitch
once
another beer and she messages me
how r u?
we just arrived
in Vegas
I suddenly remember
and call her
to wish her
Happy Birthday
commences and only
the poem flies through
the fingers. stories, novels,
plays, they remain stranded
on an island engirdled by sharks the
size of tankers. it’s alright, I
drink, recapturing the essence
of my soul which I
almost lost over a love not
worth a nickel. only the poem
comes easy to the fingers.
nothing else,
stories, novels, plays,
they remain far away,
stranded in an island
I cannot reach
‘cause it’s too far from the shore
to swim to.
it’s alright,
I drink
slowly recapturing the essence of my soul
I almost lost
for a love that wasn’t worth a nickel. another
fifth drained, one more
bottom reached; it didn’t
contain the coveted answers, the
search continues. new fifth
cracked, a mix of junk and blow
shot into
the vein. not even powerful
speedballs can
kill me. no one else
around, all alone on a Saturday
night, it feels supernal. exhausted of
meaningless company, unwilling to
indulge in conversations that lead
nowhere. another gulp, another
shot, still alive. I lock door and windows, embracing
the imposing darkness. I see
my grave overlooking
a ravaged shore, a turtle comes to take
a piss on it. substances rush through my blood, destroying
a heart that died years ago. I broke
someone’s heart two days
ago; it’s alright, as long
as I drink. my wrongdoings turn into
blurry, insignificant
images. I disappointed yet
another person, a speedball injected
in the neck kills the guilt, turns remorse
into an alien emotion for lesser creatures. my muse
abandoned me, all the
inspiration I’ve left comes from
the sharp, dirty needle.
Acclaimed transcontinental duo Vapor Vespers are back with Ghosts Before Breakfast (Bad Egg Records), their second long-playing release. The follow-up to their critically-acclaimed 2020 debut, One Act Sonix, this 10-track collection of music-powered spoken word will be available via Bandcamp (pre-sale April 5) and streaming services including Spotify beginning May 3, 2024.
Vapor Vespers is the brainchild of NYC and Hudson Valley-based multi-instrumentalist/producer Sal Cataldi (aka Spaghetti Eastern Music) and award-winning Alaska playwright, actor, slam poet and sometime standup comic Mark Muro. The pair’s musical and personal relationship dates back to their teen years in Queens, N.Y., where they bonded over their love of boundary-pushing musicians like Sun Ra and Frank Zappa and the recordings of writers and music-powered spoken word icons like Lord Buckley, William Burroughs, Charles Bukowski, The Last Poets and John Cooper Clarke.
The duo’s latest collection ups the ante on the cool grooves, intense guitar riffage, synth textures and the verbal hijinks and narrative absurdity showcased on their debut, something underground radio institution WFMU calls “a supremely cool fusion of spoken word and progressive sound.” Highlights from the 10-track collection include:
Underground radio institution WFMU called the Vapor Vespers “a supremely cool fusion of spoken word and progressive sound,” while NYSMusic.com praised their “blend of spacey synths, spicy guitar, ethereal drones and deep lyrics, a mesmerizing blend of hazy electro-funk and searing, lyrical poetry that redefine what music can be.” NYC’s Good Times Magazine called the debut disc “a wild, indescribable sonic stew that mixes outrageous lyrics and storytelling with expert musicianship that recalls everyone from Steely Dan to Was (Not Was) to Frank Zappa.” Fresh Underground Podcast labeled it “stunning slam poetry and electro music originality in the tradition of Joe Frank.” Anchorage Daily News said “Cataldi’s music gives Muro’s narratives more urgency, veering between funk-jazz acid trip and graphic novel accompaniment, a collaboration that is something to behold.” Musicians for Musicians called it “colorful and inventive, a perfection of onomatopoeic expression.” Psychedelic Baby Magazine noted its “tripstastic slams of storytelling and genre-skipping sounds” while Radio Spiral called it “as imaginative as it is atmospheric.” KMS Reviews might have said it best: “Push that play button and get ready to float in a sea of sound. It’s an album with a mystical glow that will keep listeners enchanted.”
For more, visit www.vaporvespers.bandcamp.com, Spotify and www.soundcloud.com/vapor-vespers.
or maybe you do
but only because it’s Wednesday
you won’t love me on Thursday
although you may love me on Sunday
because you go to church on Sundays
and you think you love everyone
on Monday it will rain and
you won’t love me anymore
love is never constant or unconditional
but it’s okay with me
that’s why we have dogs.
I had a dream about you
That didn’t feel like a dream at all
Where your shoes are kicked off
In the floor of my bedroom
The TV is playing in the background
That we’re not watching
The moon is like a night light in the sky
Of this dream
Where my fingers hook the loops of your jeans
And hands brace your hips
As you slip yourself between these lips
I wanna be yours cos right now
No one else will take me cos I’m
Just a modern guy stuck here in
This postmodernist world where
We’ll have tories, either Red or
Blue, always in power, and I just
Dream of you and me running
Away to nowhere miles from
Anyone where I’ll write love poems
& drink only the cheapest of French
Red wines.
Horror Sleaze Trash 