Paradise Circus

Words Of Advice For Young People

People often ask me if I have any words of advice for young people. Well, here are a few simple admonitions for young and old.
Never interfere in a boy and girl fight.
Beware of whores who say they don’t want money. The hell they don’t. What they mean is they want more money. Much more.
If you’re doing business with a religious son of a bitch, get it in writing. His word isn’t worth shit, not with the good Lord telling him how to fuck you on the deal.
Avoid fuckups. You all know the type. Anything they have anything to do with, no matter how good it sounds, turns into a disaster.
Do not offer sympathy to the mentally ill. Tell them firmly, “I am not paid to listen to this drivel. You are a terminal fool.”
Now some of you may encounter the devil’s bargain if you get that far. Any old soul is worth saving at least to a priest, but not every soul is worth buying. So you can take the offer as a compliment. They charge the easy ones first, you know, like money, all the money there is. But who wants to be the richest guy in some cemetery? Not much to spend it on, eh, Gramps? Getting too old to cut the mustard. Have you forgotten something, Gramps? In order to feel something, you have to be there. You have to be 18. You’re not 18, you are 78. Old fool sold his soul for a strap-on.
How about an honorable bargain? “You always wanted to become a doctor. Now’s your chance. Why, you could have become a great healer and benefit humanity. What’s wrong with that?” Just about everything. There are no honorable bargains involving exchange of qualitative merchandise like souls. Just quantitative merchandise like time and money. So piss off, Satan, and don’t take me for dumber than I look. As an old junk pusher told me, “Watch whose money you pick up.”

- William S Burroughs

“There is nothing left to say. I’m so weak for you, and I’ve had to bottle that up inside for so long. Every close moment, every struggling day away from you. I saw you laying next to me and the words I never thought I would ever speak became so right.” Oliver saw the black van approaching. “I am no longer afraid. I am going now but listen…I’m coming for you. It won’t be tomorrow, or the next day, or the week after. But I will make my way back to you.”

He whispered his final three words, unaware the payphone had already ended the call. 

Bruised Lips

Rose petals pinched too hard
Open up
Dead tissue ripped from the cage
Harlequin red speckled black
Lick it clean.

 

Inner Melody of an Asshole

I stole this guys girl. Asian hipster chick, in adidas and slim jeans. Thick rimmed glasses falling on the floor. She picks them up slow-mo, bending down like we’re in The Graduate. She’s a shark at a singlemans party.Turn these lights out, let me take you right now. I turn her round, whisper that I want my tongue inside her like I’m spelling supercalifragilisticexpialidocious. Sirens in her eyes; this girl don’t need me to teach her how to doggy. 

A small red dot, risen from the ground, smooth and wet. That was the first trace of an anonymous girl, which much like her life, remained unnoticed. Several paces further another red dot had been joined by two more. With each step the dots dripped down onto the tarmac, fusing together and spreading out. It was the splatter pattern of the anonymous girl bleeding out. On this lonely journey, she finally lost the will to run and walk. Bloody knees scraped raw meant she must have crawled further to no avail. Her last gasp she gave to the earth.

Was she ever someone’s reason to smile? 

I slid the glasses up, eyes adjusting to the dimly lit room. The tablet beside me on the bed still played out the possible scenarios of the girls demise through the lens’ of the glasses attached. Rested on my head the girl died a hundred times. The problem with the reconstruction software was it couldn’t account for sound. Every detail from the crime scene had been scanned, her body itself had become just a holographic shell. Loss of sound pushes you far from the victim. Much like watching the world through the window, reality in all its simplest glory becomes another screen. Everything was just another screen. Another lazy attempt to rationalise the cruel layers to the world around. 

Red Eyes and Tears

On the way to the gallery I lost myself. Deep in the crowds of the kings cross station I stood transfixed, my toes wriggled in the Swede slip-ons teasing the yellow line. Would someone push me in? It wasn’t unheard of; the odd maniac throwing people on the tracks was always whispered around station crowds. If it happened though would I just lay there staring up to the ceiling as the rails between me shook violently? An unstoppable force crashing threw me at such a speed would be quick, would it feel like my body disintegrated to ash or sand.

On the back seat of the ford focus I found myself gazing through the sunroof, the sound of children running home to change from school surrounded me. The tinted windows hid my sweaty sloth appearance from these cheery imps springing off the curb with swollen dry tongues. My lips pressed together, chapped and scraped like two sun dried caterpillars, sunlight scorched my right side through the roof. I felt like a dog left in the car without a crack in the window, left to die accidently. I tilted my neck to view the silver urn strapped in by the seat belt next to me. Round and glimmering with content. While rolling up a spliff between my fingers I spied her coming out the house, closing the door behind her. Wrapping her long grey cardigan around her body I wondered if she was naked underneath. She peered in, unable to see me until I rolled the window down. I stared at the opening of the cardigan that spread out as she peered in, enough space for me to see the slight curve of her breasts. I tucked my bottom lip into my mouth scraping the dry skin, picking it off as we just looked at each other. Her maple eyes oozed from the passion we had last week, she cocked her head at an angle. She couldn’t see the urn. She wouldn’t want to anyway.

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Portrait Of A Serial Killer

Why do these words that flow from this rotten mouth infest their minds?
So deep I fall down, never gonna get back up again
I want this wretched life hung from the great tree of life
Watching me swing in my own lies
Watching me drown in my own wordy wordy lies
Well I try, when I’m laughing, crying, spluttering
I tried to be me but this disease it spreads!
They’ll laugh again, they’ll cry again but they’ll laugh some more

As the angels glow I fall far from grace
I’ll be their sin with this knife in my hands
Sleep soft my lambs while your brother feeds his habit
Its the little things in life that matter most
But wheres my sense of reality, and which self portrait
Am I painting in this inky black blood?
Only so far with thick lipped prayers
I snare all within poisoned webs that
Create a masterpiece of bitter taste

Scratch my eyes Father
It was me who shot your brother
Cut these fingers off Lover
I feel nothing for you
Cripple me Friends
I have tortured you all as fools
Forgive me Mother
I need that soap crushed down my throat

Insane assaults from this battered mind
Which can pick faults from the Mary herself!
This road I’m on seems too narrow
Splendid were the beginnings of friendships
When all truth and love did consume me
This trick spun from the devil himself
To invert the beggar to a rich man with mere word
Is a heavy curse I no longer vault

Forgive me Father, Mother, Lover, Friends
It is time for me with messy fingers to cut all odds and ends
And without pleasing words transcend

Moneyball Review

“Baseball is like church. Many attend few understand.” Leo Durocher hits the nail on the head. Coaches, talent scouts, the media, and managers preach the traditions of a game that is flawed in so many levels only an ex-player turned general manager can see through the cracks that subsequently screwed his own life over. Billy Beane (Brad Pitt) is that manager who turns the traditions and logic on its head when he uses Peter Brand’s (Jonah Hill) system of rating players on numbers and statistics. This leads to the duo signing up a band of misfits Major League Baseball has deemed poor due to factors such as smoking weed, “old-age”, and throwing the ball “weird”.

Pitt and Hill surprised me with their performances, with scenes between the bartering manager and awkwardly nerdy counselor being hugely entertaining and intelligent. Pitt adds a bubbling depth to his character that steals the show, each scar and bruise is held down for the sake of his daughter, who adds that much needed humanity. The films intelligence and humor can be drawn from legendary screenwriters Aaron Sorkin (The Social Network) and Steven Zaillian (The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo, Schindler’s List) collaborating.

Although lack of scenes with team players and actual baseball enhance Billy Beane’s detachment from the game and solitary life. Quality beats quantity with great actors throughout the film adding realism, Chris Pratt’s loveable loser, captures the viewers attention most. Actual scenes on the field is concise and strikes perfectly; most memorable being when Pratt makes his first unexpected home run.

As Billy Beane states: “How can you not get romantic about baseball?”