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.
I sent the poem you sent me
to a devout, widowed, Catholic woman;
and, upon seeing it, she gave up her life of prayer,
certain that God either never existed, no longer exists,
or that He exists but must be evil. I can’t say why,
but I hope that this little poem somehow
brings you the peace you’ve been looking for.
Oh wait! I forgot! You keep reminding me
that you’re looking for war, not peace.
So you see, all of my theology
is either unworkable or unmarketable.
Conservatives reject my religion
due to my penchant for hookers, gambling,
smoking, drinking and blasphemy.
Liberals reject my religion
because I can write and they can’t.
Hence, my poetry career is ruined forever.
I actually prayed to God about this
and He said that he doesn’t like poetry,
or poets; and therefore I’m standing
on solid ground. My fan club now
has no members. My book sales
are zero. Immortality stars right here.
My last letters from the late Donna Lane
are etched in my mind. As she lay dying,
she told me to tell everyone to fuck off.
Because of her courage, I’m hoping
the people of the world will erect shrines
in her honor. She forever refused
to believe anyone’s bullshit.
You’ve got to love that.
She had a blue ribbon face
on a state fair body
He was a duct taped tilt-a-whirl
living on rock
She whispered secrets to elephant ears
He saw himself in Mötley Crüe mirrors
Switchblade combs cotton candy
roasted corn and melted butter
scatter on the floor of the camper trailer
Together they part
and walk away
on pixie dust
ah yes that scheduled simping,
Sunday morning, hungover n’
horny, where one wank won’t
do it and the dehydration and
a takeaway and the shame and
second wank and often the
weight of the blues setting in.
but Monday welcomes a fresh
menagerie. then there is a
love letter of endings I
never expected in the pages
of a Carson McCullers book
from the NI lass who’s
impossible to forget.
I’m feverish, get the paracetamol.
’cos spring snogs summer pure slop.
today I feel like a boy who got
his pants pulled down
at the public pool.
I gape at the long running sitcom
suddenly going into syndication.
you cheap whiskey vomit into the pig pen
bent over the fence
with your ass in the air
and the fat sows squeal and run for the snack
if your ass falls in and you passout
those bitches will gnaw you into another dimension
and the old woman up in the trailer
is glued to the QVC on-line
she’s spending all your money
on a robot vacuum cleaners
and jars of rejuvenation cream
and she’ll want to screw
after wasting all that cash
it happens every time
but can you get it up when she spreads her thighs?
will you even make it to the door
with those sows closing in
and your head spinning like a broken bladed fan?
