Thursday, April 30, 2015

Brigitte Bardot Where Are You?





Henry back bent over his typewriter, at it again, not wanting to write,  pushing himself to do it. In  a vacuum writing story after story with no feedback.  Having a good wank and talking to himself that’s all it was,  it was pathetic, why bother?

Maybe if Henry straightened up some, it would be easier to write.

Lately obsessed with Bridget Bardot, she was pure light for Henry, legs spread, lovely bush airing out, eternally innocent, the French angel flying high over Paris in the sky spreading, wings wide open too.

Henry particularly loved her first film, “Manina, the Girl in the Bikini.”  Young Calve the hero and adventurer kissing Bardot  by the sea.  Henry imaging it was him who was kissing her,  her young mouth, what it tasted like, feeling the warm fluids inside the mouth, it was an easy kiss for Henry.

In Wah Wah Coffee Shop,  Roy Buchanan on You Tube, Roy a strange bird playing the guitar in strange ways unheard of by man. His work  diverse,  songs tailored to fit new sounds discovered and invented on his guitar.

Life offering nothing new for Henry, it was as though he was locked into it, a lousy, stinking pattern, not for him at all, oh well and anyways, it was overwhelming.

The French painter Modigliani, absolutely nothing to live for, painting in a vacuum, great stuff … nobody cared. In the end, drunk and stoned on the street selling sketches nobody wanted for five francs, later found dead on the street.

Modigliani’s life proved that people in the mainstream are--- stiff in a vacuum occasionally peering out at the world---

Henry speaking to you from his heart he had nothing to hide,  Brigitte Bardot where are you?

Tuesday, April 21, 2015

Green Chains





Henry looking at a blank page early Sunday morning at Wah Wah coffee shop. The same paltry fat chick, same place everyday, first to get the newspaper, sitting on it so no one else could read it. It was the little stuff that chafed him.    
 

The day hot as hell, Henry barefoot on asphalt in  Devils’ Square making mental reverence to  German soldiers frying eggs on the decks of their tanks in the Sahara, wondering if he could fry up an omelet on Devils’ Square asphalt?

Waiting for the fat chick to surrender the newspaper, fat chance, hoping she would drop dead soon, visualizing it. 

Later Henry stuffing his nose full of high octane Bolivian Cocaine, needing the inspiration here, plugging in the jute box, listening to “Rocks Off” by the Rolling Stones and later Roy Buchanan. Trying to get his mind off the woeful and onto the higher stuff.

Out of dire need Henry aligning himself with great poets. 

 

“Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,  
Time held me green and dying  
Though I sang in my chains like the sea. “
 

From “Fern Hill” by Dylan Thomas…

 

Life a prison for him and many, toiling in green chains…

Henry at the end of the grand experiment too, his green chains wilting and turning brown, wanting to say something.

Monday, April 13, 2015

Cooleridge on a Bucking Bronco







 
Henry walking the hallways and alleyways of his mind, he could see their faces, babyish youth. At first sweet and innocent, later on with a hankering to rip things up, he could see them, their faces painted white against the back drop of the night time arcade, resolute not knowing, cooking up something dreadful.

Henry lazy, fazed and fantasying. Dreams and art were inseparable, it had been that way for hundreds of years, maybe thousands. Pipe dreamers smoking opium, Samuel Coleridge writing on the iffy nature of soul.

“The body,
 Eternal Shadow of the finite Soul,
 The Soul's self-symbol, its image of itself.
 Its own yet not itself—“
 

Writing addictive like opium, addictive for Coleridge, the William Burroughs of Romantic Poets, allot of folks using dope to make fresh art. Dope and art inseparable.
 

Henry ruminating  later in Wah Wah coffee shop about a recurring dream of the Old City in Jerusalem, a city of his design through the mind’s eye, flowing and circular, the yellow break road  with danger in the creases, chased by hell hounds and Nazi headhunters.
 

At Wah Wah another day Henry wanting to wrap this story up. He was without inspiration and had nothing to say, just needing a little filler here, a couple more paragraphs.
 

He couldn’t be bothered much with people anymore, most people talking shit, even scientist and doctors. Politicians full of shit for sure, there was a major disconnect between what they said and what was going on.
 

In the end—LIFE— a bucking bronco ride we hold on too with hammer and tongs till the ride was over, some let go and fall off into the Heavens.
 

Henry wondering how much longer he could hold on?

Saturday, April 4, 2015

Henry the Heckler








Man the shit cam out of nowhere. It was the  joyous stuff you would get inside after days of walking through cob webs and mine fields. It came on fast, a big big feeling that left you reeling and looking for the first typewriter you could find.

This big big feeling of joy inside had nothing to do with anything, it was as though everything inside of you was dancing with joy, not a feeling you could get with dope or anything,it was all natural. 
 

Boy oh boy, Henry freakin on the feeling of gettin up and dancing for joy, jumping for the moon, shooting the moon. Love alive and so so real inside, sending out rainbows from the soul, turn up the music Jack.

Buddy Guy playin “Sweet Home Chicago," Henry’s home town, Henry 16 years old in the 60s goin into the city on weekend nights to  hear Buddy Guy, Junior Wells, Muddy Waters, Paul Butterfield play. He would hide a flask of Southern Comfort under his vest cause he couldn’t buy a drink.  He could feel the blues deep inside,  it was more than just thinkin about where it came from somehow.

Riding the “El Train” goin home after the show,  2am smokin reefer between the cars where they connect. Henry so cool and ahead of his time, same as always.

Living life mostly in his head, dreaming about busting out allot, less and less likely the older he got. Don’t get me wrong though people old Henry still had plenty of jam. 

Henry the heckler stirring up the dead, livin a secret life on the web, singin this song for you, poetry and music, dreamin bout the blues.


Tuesday, March 17, 2015

Henry Itching


 


Blasted,  writing like a fire ball, crashing with head empty, the power came and went, it never asked you if it should, you had to reach out for it.

It was a difficult mix, getting blasted, measuring out just enough to make it (writing) easy.  Henry could write best on reefer, his worse stuff was “Drunk writing”.

The great ones just had it, working hard, born to do it. Henry was the laziest writing under the sun. Sadly it got down to doing it because he had to, an addiction, not a higher calling for him.

Writing alone wasn’t fun, reading your stuff at coffee shops and in bars would be great fun.  It was Henry’s dream to tour the USA and read his stuff to small crowds.

At times a feeling would well up inside of him, the feeling like a whore house on Saturday night, it was as though the order that held the world together was eroding. It was a great feeling like a world wide party, like anything was possible. It was a feeling of full blown self love, as though the shadows of past failure and self doubt melted away. 

Henry in old age on automatic pilot,  no more psychic lessons to learn, soul waiting for what came next.  Maybe the ones who died  young had to come back and do it again? Henry finished, just waiting.

The internet was the biggest diversion of the century.  Think of the work hours lost to social media. Henry would rather dick around on the net than write. It must have been different for your Hemingways, Dos Passos and Henry Millers, they, dedicated to their craft.

Henry would rather be somewhere else than where he was, always itching.















Saturday, February 21, 2015

Fat Chance Henry





Henry didn’t want anything in or out of the world, having to siphon every bit of fire to get through the day took most of his energy.

Besides the usual, the spirit drip-drip stuff, he had a dose of the Chinese Virus to boot, like a hurricane in the tubes, more powerful than a speeding anti-biotic.

Sometimes between dreams he rose above decaying physicality, seeing with clarity, dancers in his head filling the joints of brick-work to a better day, mind breaking-lose, free for awhile. 


Dreams for Henry better than real life. His dream-machine, psyche and libido caressing the inside stuff. Waking a let down ending sadly with an understanding— real life never as good as dreams.
 

In Wah Wah coffee shop watching old men drink coffee,  gray as  print on a newspaper, prune-faced. Henry old too but, his mind was a whore-house, potty and zealous, digging it, life's a boon. The grey-haired and prune-faced fucks bored the living shit out of him.

Old artist rocking on into old age, the Bukowskis and William Burroughs turning old age in for kicks, riding the bucking bronco,  juiced to the moon, Henry loved these guys.

The Rolling Stones playin on colored-radio somewhere near Memphis. Henry heaping on some fine cocaine, his nose full of the stuff. Keef Richards spinning rainbows on a banjo,  fuck a star, a drink in Arizona, down and out in West Virginia, you  get what you need.

Back at Wah Wah coffee shop another day, Henry wanting to wrap this up, there wasn't much left inside, his work lacking,  a recurring pain, writing for what and who knows why?
 

A rank affair looking for an exit, a way out,  getting worse not better.

Of course he would like to think that his shit was great art, ha, fat chance Henry.  

Sunday, February 1, 2015

A Second Rate Poker Hand




Dancing to music out of tune, finger-tips raw on the key-board, dog-eared and crisp.

Henry saw G-d and spirit as made up stuff, and dreams as film shorts, reruns, brain-waves run on celluloid, take it at face value he thought.    

Henry two years old visiting Navy Pier with his mother, she smoking and drinking with pals. Henry up and moving about, he falls off the pier into the mucky lake. Drowning, on his way out, he sees a light above at the end of a spiral-tunnel, anti-matter pulling him in. 

The baby wakes on the pier, pulled out of the muck, close to but not making it into after-life, retrieved and brought back to life.

Henry full of ingratitude, inarticulate at two, wanting to scold whoever pulled him out for cutting his trip to the abode of G-d short. He wanted what was up there, babies are captives of mothers bent-on protecting them. 

Humans cling to life, afraid of death inventing after-life, conjuring and stirring hidden voodoo, imagining allot, lost in a head-trip of self-hypnosis.  

Henry, anointed and plenty wet by the age of two had nada to bring back from his vision of the heavens.  

In old age Henry a half-ass Buddhist, unholy, for whom reincarnation was nonsense. 

Life full of pain, pain relief, then pain again. Ouroboros, mythical snake coiled and biting it's own tale, the circular grind in donkey time.         

Life as pain, the residues of delusion and schizophrenia, escape just a illusion. 

Henry thousands of miles away from Jesus, the Devil, the Moon, the abode of G-d, any of it. Assured it was a bunch of rot, pooh and who yah.

Life a second-rate poker hand.