The year punk left me at the pier clenching my fists until they bled
-and why you left you never said. The year the radio said wanna
be a victim, ready for abduction. Year of the pierced labret and the bruised divan, girls drowning themselves in honey, they never felt sweet, blue-green hair pulled from the vats or wrapped in foil, leaking dye on the bathroom tile, girls laughing, from the next room, always from the next room over, as you wandered through the party, in your ripped out jeans, and cocaine sleeves, in your jacket of gravel, in your Expression of Grave Concern, polished to rough, like new skin beneath a sunburn, rubbed absently off, your face which shone, though you never knew, no one told, no one ever does, year of masquerade and ox, that goth club, the one you were afraid to visit, year of “casual head,” year of playing dead, instead of attention, insouciant in her mary janes, Rachael checking your hair for signs of the wound, Rachael saying “I’m sorry, he’s not there,” fading into Sugarhouse Thrift, never seen again, or never noticed, one day, punk rock walked into the river with her pockets full of stones, singing “ain’t it fun when you get so high that you just can’t come,” and she never looked back, the year punk taught you to pop the steering column and said, “you’re on your own, I can’t help you, I can’t help you now,” hurrying back into Denny’s, his pony tail bouncing softly on his denim jacket, Year of Anything Off a Mirror, with nothing up your sleeve, using nothing but your depression, (and several handfuls of clonezapam), you blocked out the sun, stole into the night, stole away, carrying nothing but the pocket in your life that nothing really filled, her hand in yours, as you drove, using an ink blot instead of a map, going nowhere, together, her disinterested hand in yours,
until you let it slip, and she pretended not to notice, Kate’s violet eyes and fugue, perhaps you should have stopped that car, perhaps you should have talked, I never knew how, never learned, there there, it doesn’t matter now, night swelling shut, a punched out eye, the year punk rock took a curtain call, backstage, staring at her hands, “nothing matters to me, nothing matters to me now,” year of the total job, of fucking in canyons, fucking in cars, or trying to, drunk to your very fingertips, someone in the next room, listening in, writing in their diary, “what if after all I am consumed,” night that opens to slit, coarse fabric curved to your hand, laughter in the next room, or in the snow, falling silently, in Salt Lake City, you were fifteen or you were twenty seven,
“what happened,” and glass strewn over the passenger seat, foxes playing in the snow and someone, always someone, saying “those aren’t foxes, that’s your blood,” It was… year of the snow-bank (in which you kept every cent), year of the drift, the year punk took you under its single lice ridden wing and said, “you won’t have to worry about a thing, ever again,” though even then, you did, worrying at your sleeves on a rotting futon, watching your father throw knives, did he hit or miss I never knew, who can say, year of the comical gang sign and the girl who kissed you in the bird refuge like it’s okay baby it’s okay you never learned how to fly, “it’s ok you never learned how to kiss, we can practice,” though you never did, year of the one take, someone in the engineering room, laughing softly, gone before you ever arrived, year of red rock opium and Jon’s impossibly white hands, holding a plastic cup with strands of lime across the lip, year of the dry erased sky, Manic
Panic, my own Lisa saying “what happened,” holding her torn underwear in her hands, “I was only gone for a moment,” Dave taking a long walk, in the back of the bar, at the end of the line, the longest line, year of the torn septum and the stolen cart, the clubhouse we burned down, year of automatic refills, Sadie Sadly, “wearing nothing but her disappointment,” year of wrists, show me your wrists, let me kiss your torn out wrists, until I can see through them, the year punk rock put her hand over my mouth until they’d passed, “it’s safe to come out now,” though it never was, the injury inexact but permanent, the ultrasound revealing a hole in the world, “you’d think we would have noticed,” our parents in the next room laughing, as they took away our dice, stole our vinyl shine, no, they gave it back but no it never sounded the same, neither did we, the year punk rock led me around the back of the house
and came back alone, shaking her head sadly, “no one else is coming, you can go home now, please go” year of kohl lined eyes, sitting in the car with the engine running, “it’s been whatever,” a relationship consisting of unfiltered cigarettes and no vested interests, year we cared, very much, about all of us but also, about none us in particular, writing FUGAZI in black magic marker on mismatched shoes, (no socks), or thinking about it, Nirvana playing on a dirt floor at a livestock show, what happened, a nest of glass on the passenger seat, Ashley in the red rock apartment off of Franklin, Good Dog Comics, everything filled in with black crayon, “do you understand now” she said, and faded, back into the Akbar’s array of soiled whiskeys and the roaches moving between them like lovers beneath the trees, Year of the Permanent Grin, year of sexting and frustration, year you lay armfuls of begonias in her lap, year you folded her hands across yours, she did not give them to you, though they remained for some time, as the feel
itself remained as you died on Mulholland Drive, for only the first or second time, Danica brushing the stars from your hair, “there’s been an accident,” and there had been, “there has been nothing but,” you almost said, almost, but you never said much, or you said it with cigarettes, you said it on the guest list, you said it with your absence, you said “year of the RE-MIX,” and the cold in Houston came up through the floorboards to remind you of every place you’d been, and what’s become of them, year of “yes but never again” and her
hair pulled back, year of the nineteen year old, the thigh gap, the generation gap, snapchat, hazmat, tell me, where did you think you were going, what did you think you were doing, licking the hesitation from her, but it’s still there, it remained, as she did not, disappearing into
the crowd, into the boarding house of the calendar, already, even then, A House On Fire, a fall, isn’t it possible, you dropped the ball, you should have taken the call, “adding it up” with your mortar and pestle, have you learned nothing, nothing at all, Our Lady of Whatever saying “I’m sorry, I am so sorry doe,” in her feast day clothes, in her Day of the Dead and
sulk, smoke curling up from the poem why, oh why did you put her here, all of them here, I had nowhere else, how can you be sure, I can’t, you never could, “hlp hlp said the starling,” screaming beat me out of me in the recovery room, I can’t stand it, then don’t, I can’t stop, little one, you did.
STAY PUNK NIGHT SWIMMER CLUB (Swampy at the beach) (4157)
THIS MIXTAPE DEDICATE FOR HUMAN RIGHT IN ACEH! On Saturday December 11th 2011, 64punks ranging in age from teenaged to mid 30’s were unfairly arrested at a show in Aceh on the island of Sumatra in Indonesia. Over 200 punks were at the show in support of a benefit for orphans. After arrest the punks were forced to watch as they and their friends were forcibly stripped of their haircuts. Men and boys had their heads shaved clean and women’s’ hair was cut short in the fashion of a female police officer. The police then forced everyone to take a communal bath in a lake. Indonesia is a predominantly moderate democratic country but Aceh is by far the strictest when it comes to enforcing morality laws. Shariah law is still allowed in Aceh and the deputy mayor Illiza Sa’aduddin Djamal has stated she thinks punk is a “social disease”. Many of the punks are not originally from Aceh and came to support the benefit for orphans. Many of the punks are working people and have families to support; some are now at risk of losing their jobs because of this illegal detainment. Not only is this a violation of individual freedoms but it is also an abhorrent and blatant violation of human rights. Currently we are organizing mixed tapes, zines, protests and gigs here in Indonesia in support and to benefit our punk brothers and sisters.
(You can find VOL1 here)
No war but class war (and Australia might be late to everything, but the class war the rich are waging is intensifying.)
I can’t be punk because I believe government has a purpose. That could be the reason I always have that sinking feeling I have.
Sonny Rollins wore a Mohawk hairstyle long before punk rock co-opted the look as a fashion statement. Sonny first wore it in 1959, and intermittently in the 60s. Sonny wore the hairstyle to acknowledge the suffering of Native Americans, and drew parallels with the plight of African Americans.
Although he is rarely recognized for it, Sonny infused social commentary and American race relations into his music. It was why he wrote Freedom Suite. Many people don’t know the history or cultural significance of the song. It was the catalyst for albums like “We Insist! Freedom Now Suite” by Max Roach and other socially conscious jazz songs and albums. The message spread to other African American music genres.
(via jhnbrssndn) (via atane)
There are countless great punk bands. There always have been countless great punk bands. There always will be. Punk rock is in a constant state of renewal and reinvention. A hydra built on frustration and ineptitude and loathing and hope and love, both immutable and transitory, obsessed with sincerity and silliness, aping the Ramones, ripping apart The Germs, building up the Circle Jerks, shredding the Minutemen or Husker Du or The Dicks, leaping from Crimpshrine with a line wound tight in its heart and spit in its eye, screeching vindictive oblivion over riffs stolen from F.Y.P., throwing the best parts of The Clash into a huge giant clustering fuck of melody and power, poetry and bile and dumb fucking attitude. Punk rock is dying, dead, birthing, alive in every single 4-beat count-off and song sung like it was the last one. And the most interesting stuff to me will always be what’s going on right now because it’s fresh, fresh as a wound, and falling over itself because it doesn’t know where it’s going. It’s a van full of kids in the dark and there’s a show somewhere out there full of people who also know the words to Propagandhi songs.
Yes, yes, yes. Thank you.