The Hollow Chamber

the road is endless
as the mornings stretch
with
white lines
that now and again
begin
to resemble arrows

where are they taking me?

first past and lastly
passing the gaping
death throes of the raccoon.

staring at me.

eyes frozen on its final gaze
the day runners, night lights
mesmerizing
the pied piper leading the flock astray
they are mechanical
hollow but miraculous.
glowing with a stream of light

who are these pesky creatures?
where are they going?

along this infinite black top
what is their purpose?

probably dreaming
as i am dreaming now


my face contorted like his
(cognitive awareness be damned)

like him
i live
i react
i fuck
i fight and scratch and bite
to survive

my fingers are bent from
poorly healed fractures
my knuckles shake like
marbles in a bottle
when i get so fed up
when i get so goddamn tired
with everything before me

what is this?
did we actually build a reality such as this?
this is progress?
this is our evolution?

our hum and buzz
must have pursued this
poor creature, like a fly
that climbs on the stye
of his silent, dormant eyes

the death knell resounding
resonating in his hollow chamber of a chest
life like marbles rumbling through
black tarry lungs
the same tar that adheres to the sticky
copper hue of dried blood
on its eerie grin

it laughs at death
it condemns this fuck of a world
where constructions like
this are possible

in all its complexities
luxuries
insecurities are
mechanical wet dreams
writhing alone in bed

& dont we feel
as fantasies?
some sort of drip of cotton candy?
we a virus
or disease
slithering
about a cerebral cortex

its a vortex that
must have formed
with a massive crash
with a clash and slam of a car
that damns
rodents to a automotive
graveyard
bones and body parts
becoming dust
one patched tire at a time
amongst the crush of the
bristles of the hardended
brush of another truck
trying to wash
away the grins
while the dim of the skylight
mixes with the sin
of the street lights

the the fright on the faces of children
marveling and goggling
as they pass
the gruesome scene
where it lives forever
in their dreams

the hollow chamber
of memories
out of context
with fatigue
regret
intrigue

& in my swollen lips
& as i utter this mix

the phrases i mutter
coalesce
into the mp3
recorder
in order to
elicit
this confession
a document of the disorder of a malady
only experienced

since we rose up
on two feet from
the face of the
curious chimpanzee

& at some point
he and she

began to speak
like me

a voice echoing
alone

in a hollow
chamber

Mars & the Scratch of the Battlecats

war is said to be
territories
of vigorous dispute

holy
ancient
sacred
noble

manifest destiny

that is everything

i get it now.

i can fit in their sugary, fat mouths
gaping
warning you not to come in

but you go anyways

there you will see
they are stuffed with
photographers, reality TV stars, and status updates
and somehow they still show their teeth

and they smile like jack-o-laterns

the full moon accenting their cheek bones
the fur of the wolf on their paws
the cries of the lambs of sacrifice
left to walk the red carpet

we are voices in vehicular
slow motion

the manslaughter of pumpkins

smashed
gunk
seeds grown
out of the semen of
vast memory

we are the collective consciousness
of ancient video games

and dusty abandoned penny arcades

exposed and standardized
explicit to be rated
sanitized

specific cosmetic surgeries
and injections make them so
sparkling in the screams
of their own bigoted salvation

they glisten with quickening waves
they smear the blood from galactic entities still unknown
wiping it onto the faces of the beyond
and go for the last will and testament
of interplanetary euthenasia

captain!

I, again, draw your eyes to their lips
as they glow in the fog from a distance
where
from their horns
we hear them call out various ships
leading them to wreck and sink
to the Bay's ocean floor
the bridges only watching

their massive robotic eyes of Ginsberg
in the faded photograph
sitting
on the caramel colored windowsill
still spitting
lyrical pentameters
doomsday imagery
every stream of digital information

illuminated by
purple greenery
cataloged
electronic
and
illustrated by

hypnotic technologies

a strobe like
pulse like
repetition of
invigoration
and debauchery

just taste our
disorganized labor force
and comaraderie

please

oh
Mars,

make me yours...

let me feed your children
with bullets and powders

let me shield them
with thy pugile weaponry
M-16s and AK-47's
metallic heavens
of fiery judegment

i beg of you

let us in

we are chosen
wise
beholden
to
fists
fractured knuckles
mass destruction
and
intergalactic
terrorism

let us in

to the 9 lives of the
lingering carnivores
the scavengers
scurrying

battlecat

Where I Traveled With Night

I travel only in the night
her bosom wrapped around me
her tongue in my mouth
her hand down my pants
her arms pulling me close

yet i still am able to turn away
from the reality of this journey

into further darkness
further intrigue
further mystery
the more i learn
history

endless faces of certainty
not in their words of eternity
fresh on the feeble lips rips
holes in my mental

dysfunctional
hypnotic
repetitious
liberal in instruction

mindful of this limited space
a place in the jungles makes the case
behind another ancient vase
it is silhouetted
with a glowing from a far
as the ghosts are congregating as
the shores are receding
purely
twisted seaweeds and reeds
from long forgotten man made ponds
the frond of the palm is yellowed
decayed
and crumbled under my pillow
waiting

for them to grow again and be alive
with the aid of my synthetic dreams
ghosts moaning in ecstasy
swimming out to shipwrecks

they who wear no clothes

they who are not ashamed

they who are photographs on the mantel

they who are steaming shirts against an iron

they who are sitting at their mohogany desks
dipping their ink in the seabed
their tan quills frayed, betrayed
by their own writer's block

and what of these diaries?
what are my gifts to the next generation
to ruminate on?

lost in a sea of information
lost in its constant turnover
a rover gone off to Mars?
will they carry these soundbytes
stapled as fingerprints
to more wires, more ceramic conductors

will the next archaeologists
simply use a search engine into
the soul?

where am i, oh night?
why are you taking me into your bed?
where am i off to?

where do we travel in these days of
explosive evolution?

will they find me here?
will they remember our unholy union?

New Mix Part 2

Galactic Son Presents: Dante's Inferno of Summer Slam Songs.mp3

Check out the new mix!

Galactic Sun Dante Inferno Summer Slam.mp3

Ghost of the Sirens
And I'll be stuck here forever
Living in the ghost of their songs
and ill be stuck here forever
moving on
we're moving on

burning nights and burning dawns; must we turn these lights then turn them off?
as the phantom twists with muscle twitch on burning bones, our city burned like this,
we never heard a-voice quite like this, but it's burning through our ears like mist,
our phantom city so statuesque now its burning eyes in robotic crypts

robotic fits of robotic rage, their long sultry hair like spider veins,
with golden eyes and one syllable names, the stables burn bright in robotic flames
as robotic men work middle class trades, sirens sings their suffering into sunken graves,
our robotic sun on the horizon fades with sparkling lights on its longing face

longing mothers and longing trains ride tracks made of steel and chimpanzee brains
longing sludge as its wheels roll on with the black tarry surface like panther claws
and we rattled in cages as the engine moved on, captured in the notes of enchanted songs,
the longing of their eyes as our blood was drawn, did nothing for our stomachs in turning knots

turning world with its turning ribs, they slowed down the earth with a simple flick
of their longing fingers of their longing hands dipped into oceans and forgotten lands,
as the turning spectacle of the world now ends, the religious go insane for their wasted sins,
our turning heads became turning sands, and the wind made us into

sirens

then

And I'll be stuck here forever
living in the ghost of their songs
and i'll be stuck here forever
moving on
we're moving on

Ghost of the Sirens

Work in Progress

Ghost of the Sirens.wav

Bobbie Brenner the Winner

new song

Bobbie Brenner the Winner.wav

gG- The Fibonacci Sequence

Fibinochi Sequence (featuring Mad Sc.m4a

Bobby Brenner was the first to meet his maker's end
from the heart of his enclave deep within a Bayou lagoon
as our moon caved in with shaded craters and split

yeah, we'll know soon,
this devil ...

was out on the mend.

While he targeted pointy fingers at the far off train
chugging through like gristle glistening on the tarry roads
with the maven of the albino crow ceased his game of peck and receive,
yeah, that's how the devil plays his game...

only to win.

To dwell in darkness of the morning while we sleep awake
each sound a gong of fury forsakes a will to escape
from the country side hiding a curried sunrise of
the memory of his mother as the lights dim down.
yeah, that's where it all went down,
this devil...

decided to wait.

No sounds could ravage all the ruins wrought by reeds of river streams
and steam rose from the estuary and baked his calloused feet
each victim's blood clot like coy fish in the middle of the Dead Red Sea.
"yeah, this blade shines for all damnation," he screamed.

look how he gleams,
look how he dreams that, in his mind, Bobby Brenner will always be a winner.


in his mind, Bobby Brenner, will always be a winner.
in his mind, Bobby Brenner, will always be a winner.
in his mind, Bobby Brenner, will always be a winner.