by atti?
March 18, 2011
December 29, 2010
pressed flowers, never smell like spring again
by atti?
you’re the most hideous flower
ever pressed in to my palms.
i frequently leave my hands behind dusty bookshelves
for your peddles to be stumbled upon
when my fingers tremble like loose leaf
in virgin fingerprints
behind back corners of back corners
of secret hallways in libraries for the dead,
to remember where they’ve been.
we're everyones dirty secret.
whisperers spit our papercuts
like journalists
and the illiterate wipe their faces across the welts
we call wedding bands,
wishing our scars could spell truth in braille.
the archives of our introduction
became obituaries,
and the death you hid behind the veil
has become reason enough to spill more ink;
if only i hadn't bent the tip of this feather
trying to hammer the day we began to Live
on your tombstone,
and we didn't love in reverse
get dressed before intercourse
smile before you'd cum
resist before i'd force
Evil
-was written across the stone we call home,
on the day we signed the deed
and did the former
to which transformed seed into a hollow tree
that i split and pressed into sheets of grief
with beautiful tragedies doodled like child's play
to entice a read.
the book we wrote, has no authors note
- and the back cover reads:
Hold Me.
you’re the most hideous flower
ever pressed in to my palms.
i frequently leave my hands behind dusty bookshelves
for your peddles to be stumbled upon
when my fingers tremble like loose leaf
in virgin fingerprints
behind back corners of back corners
of secret hallways in libraries for the dead,
to remember where they’ve been.
we're everyones dirty secret.
whisperers spit our papercuts
like journalists
and the illiterate wipe their faces across the welts
we call wedding bands,
wishing our scars could spell truth in braille.
the archives of our introduction
became obituaries,
and the death you hid behind the veil
has become reason enough to spill more ink;
if only i hadn't bent the tip of this feather
trying to hammer the day we began to Live
on your tombstone,
and we didn't love in reverse
get dressed before intercourse
smile before you'd cum
resist before i'd force
Evil
-was written across the stone we call home,
on the day we signed the deed
and did the former
to which transformed seed into a hollow tree
that i split and pressed into sheets of grief
with beautiful tragedies doodled like child's play
to entice a read.
the book we wrote, has no authors note
- and the back cover reads:
Hold Me.
December 23, 2010
faile
lyrics for an
upcoming project: faile
I. Lightbearer
i adorn stigmata
of the nihilist
i dress in absence and ambiguity
i hold on to nothing and spit glass like promises
where love sucks off the nails of it’s own coffin
and crucifixes roll back into heads like orgasms
we feed on the void
i am the light bearer
i am the terror, the light
i am hell.
II. 1988
apocalypse palms
i feel a warmth undone
alone is where i consume my self,
in together i fork my tongue
a wake of vagrants
and i’ve been abandoned by roads
i know home by the number of tombstones
and the monuments of ruin i behold.
i find comfort in its venom
discomfort in my content,
i’ve slithered a million miles
to be guiled in my return to each contempt.
III. Crucified
stack like brick your hair and flesh
begin, construct, rename your baphomet
anathemas and grotesque alike
spill your blood in spite
close your eyes and construe post fame
rue, we’ve painted thier breath for war
we scribbled sunrays on foreheads
and gave them name
we’ve built their crooked heads
we’ve stacked the bodies, then forgot
licked our lips and spit macabre
each cult, each tome
each holy quote rebirthed
you gave murder worth.
upcoming project: faile
I. Lightbearer
i adorn stigmata
of the nihilist
i dress in absence and ambiguity
i hold on to nothing and spit glass like promises
where love sucks off the nails of it’s own coffin
and crucifixes roll back into heads like orgasms
we feed on the void
i am the light bearer
i am the terror, the light
i am hell.
II. 1988
apocalypse palms
i feel a warmth undone
alone is where i consume my self,
in together i fork my tongue
a wake of vagrants
and i’ve been abandoned by roads
i know home by the number of tombstones
and the monuments of ruin i behold.
i find comfort in its venom
discomfort in my content,
i’ve slithered a million miles
to be guiled in my return to each contempt.
III. Crucified
stack like brick your hair and flesh
begin, construct, rename your baphomet
anathemas and grotesque alike
spill your blood in spite
close your eyes and construe post fame
rue, we’ve painted thier breath for war
we scribbled sunrays on foreheads
and gave them name
we’ve built their crooked heads
we’ve stacked the bodies, then forgot
licked our lips and spit macabre
each cult, each tome
each holy quote rebirthed
you gave murder worth.
August 30, 2010
goodnight moon, shine
by Atti?
she wore wood grain across her forehead
and the midnight sky went fishing in her eyes for the twinkle
that could splinter the owls hoot in two
a spine that curled like the neck of a harp around her labor
she strummed the roots of the thicket
and washed away the sun
across the basin for days on end
until the vines in her hair grew into the flood
and her beauty turned to music
that sank the devil to his knees and quelled the seas
my siren sang with her wood grain
in knots
i took swigs off moonshine jugs
and when my lips made love to open drums
my drunken bass lines roughed her up
we made love
sometimes music, sometimes she said no
i never once forgot the nature of her beauty
but just got too drunk to see it glow.
she stopped singing songs
and the devil started dancing the like to my whiskey bass lines
in the full moon of the night
the country rumbled in my gut
the milk weed buckled as i huffed and puffed..
and she just watched
as i drank away all the beauty she'd become.
she wore wood grain across her forehead
and the midnight sky went fishing in her eyes for the twinkle
that could splinter the owls hoot in two
a spine that curled like the neck of a harp around her labor
she strummed the roots of the thicket
and washed away the sun
across the basin for days on end
until the vines in her hair grew into the flood
and her beauty turned to music
that sank the devil to his knees and quelled the seas
my siren sang with her wood grain
in knots
i took swigs off moonshine jugs
and when my lips made love to open drums
my drunken bass lines roughed her up
we made love
sometimes music, sometimes she said no
i never once forgot the nature of her beauty
but just got too drunk to see it glow.
she stopped singing songs
and the devil started dancing the like to my whiskey bass lines
in the full moon of the night
the country rumbled in my gut
the milk weed buckled as i huffed and puffed..
and she just watched
as i drank away all the beauty she'd become.
March 22, 2010
"you're funny?" - "i used to be."
The Go-Getter is a 2007 American independent road movie directed and written by Martin Hynes. The film stars Lou Taylor Pucci, Zooey Deschanel, and Jena Malone. In the film, 19-year-old Mercer (Pucci) steals a stranger's car to embark on a road trip to find his estranged brother and tell him that their mother has died. He communicates with the car's owner, Kate (Deschanel), via her cell phone while he travels.
The story was based partially on Hynes's own experiences. After his mother died, and his marriage ended, he took a road trip of his own and wrote "different things," some of which came together in the script for The Go-Getter. Before production began, Hynes and three other crew members traveled to almost every location visited in the film to perform a test shoot, trying various filming styles and techniques. Filming took place between October and November 2005 in Oregon, Nevada, Mexico andCalifornia. Singer and guitarist M. Ward provided most of the music for the film, complemented by songs from The Black Keys, Elliott Smith, The Replacements and Animal Collective.
January 17, 2010
January 16, 2010
Faile
Faile (Pronounced like "fail") is an international artist collective formed in 1999 and based inBrooklyn, New York. They are recognised as some of the pioneers of global contemporary street art.[citation needed] The three founding members are Patrick McNeil (Canada), Patrick Miller (U.S.), and Aiko Nakagawa (Japan).
From initially wheatpasting screen printed posters on the streets of New York and major world cities, they progressed to the more permanent medium of stencil graffiti. Their instantly recognisable[citation needed] pop culture images in posters and stencils have allowed Faile to diversify into other areas encompassing fine art, sculpture, design, fashion, music, andhousewares. Despite this, the core of their work remains printmaking, stencilling, and painting.
Faile produces a variety of classic images as silkscreenprints and stencils. Images are commonly intricate in detail, vibrant in subject matter and somewhat design-based. Often they differ from one another by having coloured ink or paint applied to the background (paper or wall) beforehand.
In more recent work, multiple classic core images are combined together as a composite on large canvases to give an appearance of layering and the wear and tear of the street. As well as this Faile are now producing varied-sized paintings on wood and glass and have experimented with laser etchingon screen prints.
Posters, prints and originals are not only signed but have “1986” handwritten on them – a reminder of the year of theSpace Shuttle Challenger disaster.
Dualism is commonest concept visible in much of Faile’s work.
“There has always been an attempt to embrace the idea of duality in our work. Love/Hate, Peace/War, Violence/Beauty. This has a distinct place in the world we live and can always be felt as a constant push and pull. That kind of duality has found its way into our work by juxtaposing certain visual, language and symbols which represent these ideas.” - Miller[1]
As well as having their work featured in many publications, Faile have published four books - Orange, Death, Boredom and Lavender. Orange and Death only exist as hand-built books with an edition of around 80 each. Boredom and Lavender have been published in limited edition as well as their hand-built counterpart. The books are each a collaboration of work by various artists (including Faile) and combine music, writing, fine art, street art, photography and design.
The Minority
by Joseph Ledgenz
we like revolution weather
solar dust and brimstone
several birds of one feather
can’t kill us with ten stones
we sculpt clouds like hand puppets and paper masks
we’re voodoo dancers naked at a sacred mass
we’re riot inciters with polite anesthesia –we
lapse into sacraments to exquisite corpses
quite lightly and leisurely
collapsing in fragments to exit the courses
we’re philosophic assassins for hire
we’re hollow earth shelter seekers
pissing water art and breathing fire
the sin of men’s selfless teachers
we’re the roman candles of discourse
audiophiles to our own voices
we’re the heavily saddled gift horse
the audience files to our own choices
weighing down our ghosts with magnets
paperweights for the paper thin
with skeletons in our cabinets
laying face to face with fate again
you lay awake in the plains and badlands
we’re the walking talking cadavers in black
unearthed birth of the 21st century bad man
victims of past words and matters of fact
we frighten the masses with airwave treachery
allegedly sever syllables spoken ill legibly
several silly fools want to tote the new weaponry
loaded for the bloke who spoke the truth epicly
we, the people of the united fates of apathy
laugh as our lair dilapidates rapidly
swoon to the moon with our bags packed happily
and crash back to earth when the clock strikes apogee
nasty as we have to be, black pageantry in action
spooning food for thought that couldn’t feed a fraction
of the population, hoards getting shot but not inoculation
vacant state of disarray displayed across the nation
play the doctor diagnosis, patience only serves to hurt you
we’re the voodoo priests who beseech to curse you
the few who sleep will rue the slew who sneak through curfew
and slink beyond the breech of decent virtue
we’re the victorious veterans of a holy holocaust
we’re the one’s who find all when all is lost
we like revolution weather
solar dust and brimstone
several birds of one feather
can’t kill us with ten stones
we sculpt clouds like hand puppets and paper masks
we’re voodoo dancers naked at a sacred mass
we’re riot inciters with polite anesthesia –we
lapse into sacraments to exquisite corpses
quite lightly and leisurely
collapsing in fragments to exit the courses
we’re philosophic assassins for hire
we’re hollow earth shelter seekers
pissing water art and breathing fire
the sin of men’s selfless teachers
we’re the roman candles of discourse
audiophiles to our own voices
we’re the heavily saddled gift horse
the audience files to our own choices
weighing down our ghosts with magnets
paperweights for the paper thin
with skeletons in our cabinets
laying face to face with fate again
you lay awake in the plains and badlands
we’re the walking talking cadavers in black
unearthed birth of the 21st century bad man
victims of past words and matters of fact
we frighten the masses with airwave treachery
allegedly sever syllables spoken ill legibly
several silly fools want to tote the new weaponry
loaded for the bloke who spoke the truth epicly
we, the people of the united fates of apathy
laugh as our lair dilapidates rapidly
swoon to the moon with our bags packed happily
and crash back to earth when the clock strikes apogee
nasty as we have to be, black pageantry in action
spooning food for thought that couldn’t feed a fraction
of the population, hoards getting shot but not inoculation
vacant state of disarray displayed across the nation
play the doctor diagnosis, patience only serves to hurt you
we’re the voodoo priests who beseech to curse you
the few who sleep will rue the slew who sneak through curfew
and slink beyond the breech of decent virtue
we’re the victorious veterans of a holy holocaust
we’re the one’s who find all when all is lost
January 15, 2010
bike for three
Bike for Three! is a "cross-continental collaboration" between Canadian hip-hop artist Rich Terfry, also known as Buck 65, and Belgian producer Joëlle Phuong Minh Lê, also known as Greetings from Tuskan.[1][2][3]
Their debut album, More Heart Than Brains, was released by Anticon on May 26, 2009.[4] While Buck 65 and Greetings from Tuskan have ongoing solo efforts, they say the band "should not be thought of as a side-project", and the album "NOT a one-off affair".[5] Though the two have never met in person,[6][7] they have been making music since 2007, and the album has been "finished" since June 2008.[4][10] The album marks the first time that a Buck 65 album features completely electronicproduction.[9][11]
"lazarus phenomenon"
The boy was an old cat and the girl was a clever mouse.
Didn't matter where they went, in whichever house,
Motel, suitcases and rental cars,
Photos and empty bottles memories and mental scars.
Raising heck, surveying damages, appraising wrecks.
Long nights and fights that ended with amazing sex.
Moments that were equally quiet and uproarious.
Frequently slow dancing in the kitchen, it was glorious.
Unknowns, they broke each other's bones and built camp fires.
They jumped out of windows and lived like vampires.
They'd bathe in the same water, same anguish.
They spoke bad French but laughed in the same language.
Frequently slow dancing in the kitchen, it was glorious.
Unknowns, they broke each other's bones and built camp fires.
They jumped out of windows and lived like vampires.
They'd bathe in the same water, same anguish.
They spoke bad French but laughed in the same language.
The boy was an old cat and the girl was a clever mouse.
Unswimmable waters and flames they could never douse.
One minute they were millionaires, the next they'd be the poorest.
What he liked about her was that she could see the forest.
Steering clear of some troubles and averting wrongs,
They drew curtains and died together over certain songs.
Opposites, theirs was a friendship of the rare sort.
They'd steal books and talk dirty at the airport.
Evangelists amongst themselves, it was scandalous.
Company was kept by Joan of Los Angeles.
Diamonds and crying eyes, short tempers and fast drives.
Promises and unsolved mysteries and past lives...
Unswimmable waters and flames they could never douse.
One minute they were millionaires, the next they'd be the poorest.
What he liked about her was that she could see the forest.
Steering clear of some troubles and averting wrongs,
They drew curtains and died together over certain songs.
Opposites, theirs was a friendship of the rare sort.
They'd steal books and talk dirty at the airport.
Evangelists amongst themselves, it was scandalous.
Company was kept by Joan of Los Angeles.
Diamonds and crying eyes, short tempers and fast drives.
Promises and unsolved mysteries and past lives...
I can't help but wonder,
Will you recognize my face?
I hope so...
Here it's perfectly dark.
The girl was a clever mouse and the boy was an old cat.
Diamonds are forever, but they were never told that.
He'd lay there beside her, awake for safekeeping
While she'd ask questions to the river while she was sleeping.
And who by accident? The emptiness had grown quick.
She stood on his shoulders but for heaven he was homesick.
Long before the end came he already missed her.
She went slowly out of focus and he died without a whisper.
And I can't help but wonder,
Will you recognize my face?
I hope so...
Here's it's perfectly dark.
Will you recognize my face?
I hope so...
Here's it's perfectly dark.
January 14, 2010
where the cockroaches kiss
by Atti?
struggling to smell the difference
between the pefume she wears behind her ears
as you teethe at her quivering neck,
and the stench of the motel where you fuck like strangers
but later call it sex;
where you forget whether it's dusk or Dawn
and just remember you'd forgot to call her.
her throat opens wide
as the moans bleed into traffic horns,
police sirens, and mouths as filthy as their children
spit glass across the mattress
filled with eight naked body bags,
and of course you two-
squirming as if you knew what you were doing,
with his forearm pinning down her greasy hair-
she pretends she likes it rough
just because she thinks he does.
they rock back and forth like infants
trying to remember what it was like
to sit in their mothers arms and feel
what love really is-
without the crooked smiles that forgot
the difference between disgust and lust
just because it's always so painful
that the corners of her mouth have just learned to lift
with her skirt to make the tears look like his work
paying off,
without showing the shadow of a doubt
-that is still trying to figure dusk from dawn
so it can decide wether or not it's time
to make an appearance.
if home is where the heart is
-it makes sense they'd be so hollow.
they lock eyes,
but only because neither has the key
to what the other is really looking for.
they stare so deep that the room blurs;
their pupils grow so wide they swallow each other whole
-they stare so deep into each other's eyes
that they just look right through to the other side,
and feel just as alone as they did
the day those dusty old vintage motel sheets
started to collide.
they've been fucking in the same rotten room
for so long
that their standards for the outside too
are gone.
he'd of never known he climaxed
if he hadn't fallen out of her broken spirit
and into the pages of the bible
that wasn't even placed in room 12's cracked nightstand.
it would have served no purpose
to the two who'd stoop so low as to continue spending
eachother when knowing all along they were
worthless.
so they smoke the broken roach clips,
left in the ashtray
from the moment they noticed-
neither one of them even smoked.
they'll make it routine and call it adventure
as the habit forms and the love becomes indentured
-two slaves wondering which is the master
as they both eat the leather
and clentch their teeth reaching up towards the rafters.
she used to call for jesus
and now she's call for me
-she used to call for jesus
but she never believed,
it's just what she thought you're supposed to do.
and we'll keep fucking like we're siezing today
while tomorrow giggles behind the curtains
and the night masturbates
in the room next to ours with his first date.
and i'll keep telling this story in third person,
and i'm sure she'll do the same
because we never loved, we lusted
but we never knew the way-
we never trusted ourselves to get there,
so we stopped at a motel along the way;
with each stop we take,
we get a little closer
to getting further away.
struggling to smell the difference
between the pefume she wears behind her ears
as you teethe at her quivering neck,
and the stench of the motel where you fuck like strangers
but later call it sex;
where you forget whether it's dusk or Dawn
and just remember you'd forgot to call her.
her throat opens wide
as the moans bleed into traffic horns,
police sirens, and mouths as filthy as their children
spit glass across the mattress
filled with eight naked body bags,
and of course you two-
squirming as if you knew what you were doing,
with his forearm pinning down her greasy hair-
she pretends she likes it rough
just because she thinks he does.
they rock back and forth like infants
trying to remember what it was like
to sit in their mothers arms and feel
what love really is-
without the crooked smiles that forgot
the difference between disgust and lust
just because it's always so painful
that the corners of her mouth have just learned to lift
with her skirt to make the tears look like his work
paying off,
without showing the shadow of a doubt
-that is still trying to figure dusk from dawn
so it can decide wether or not it's time
to make an appearance.
if home is where the heart is
-it makes sense they'd be so hollow.
they lock eyes,
but only because neither has the key
to what the other is really looking for.
they stare so deep that the room blurs;
their pupils grow so wide they swallow each other whole
-they stare so deep into each other's eyes
that they just look right through to the other side,
and feel just as alone as they did
the day those dusty old vintage motel sheets
started to collide.
they've been fucking in the same rotten room
for so long
that their standards for the outside too
are gone.
he'd of never known he climaxed
if he hadn't fallen out of her broken spirit
and into the pages of the bible
that wasn't even placed in room 12's cracked nightstand.
it would have served no purpose
to the two who'd stoop so low as to continue spending
eachother when knowing all along they were
worthless.
so they smoke the broken roach clips,
left in the ashtray
from the moment they noticed-
neither one of them even smoked.
they'll make it routine and call it adventure
as the habit forms and the love becomes indentured
-two slaves wondering which is the master
as they both eat the leather
and clentch their teeth reaching up towards the rafters.
she used to call for jesus
and now she's call for me
-she used to call for jesus
but she never believed,
it's just what she thought you're supposed to do.
and we'll keep fucking like we're siezing today
while tomorrow giggles behind the curtains
and the night masturbates
in the room next to ours with his first date.
and i'll keep telling this story in third person,
and i'm sure she'll do the same
because we never loved, we lusted
but we never knew the way-
we never trusted ourselves to get there,
so we stopped at a motel along the way;
with each stop we take,
we get a little closer
to getting further away.
January 13, 2010
you're not that beautiful
by k-the-i???
you’re not that beautiful
nope, you’re not that beautiful
you are not that beautiful
(but I'm lying to myself)
by k-the-i???
you’re not that beautiful
I see you, you seem shallow, what comes next:
the rivers separate, thunder storm performing tipple bypass
unless your heart sees, some sunlight on the situation.
great ideas staying away from, I’m not, ready to play any more games.
what’s your name?
and aren’t you ashamed of your attitude acting all rude for no apparent reason?
seasons change,
so I guess if you would just open up your heart instead of being close minded,
and disrespectful,
leaving me with no actual answers to why we never got together.
so I’m making up my own answers to why is seems,
like everything was perfect one night,
then next morning feelings change.
I could never cater to the pussycat,
granted that I still like you, and that’s a fact...
Miss Portland Maine universal Jersey girl.
my heart is fucken bro-ken;
still I think I fell in love with you too quick.
all I wanted to do was get to know you better,
our bodies felt so good together.
so whether or not we could make this work,
that was one night of a connection made so I’m still waiting to see
this answer- please talk to me.
actually you don’t just act like nothing ever happened.
but it’s true,
we felt energy and I’m asking you to remember me (asking you to remember)
I’m asking you to remember me.
giving me no other chances to the melody.
seriously (seriously)
when I’m in the same (same)
when I’m in the same (when I’m in the same)
when I’m in the same room with you,
I can never stop looking at you;
you seem to do the same,
so what’s up with this lame way of taming lions?
all I ever wanted to do was give you the world.
the day you avoided my phone calls
I felt so, I felt so vandalized
so I went out to the city destroyed it with graffiti.
met up with JD Walker, and we sat down with a long conversation about reality.
he explains to me, don’t worry.
but my biggest weakness is a girl:
my emotions jump ship, hit bone,
outta place, without my subconscious thinking mutual friends.
thought we matched
or maybe it isn't true,
all but this, all but this..
it couldn’t even make that sense.
we had to fall into the abyss.
it’s now another day and all I wanted to say is, why?
why can’t we establish a relationship?
I care for you; you care for me
we combine to form a perfect family (yeah that’s funny).
talking to me, stop ignoring me
I’ve finished to diminish myself, from this story
you’re not that beautiful
you’re not that beautiful
no, you’re no that be
but imp lying to myself
but imp lying to myself
really, you’re not that beautiful
no you’re not that beautiful
you’re not that beautiful
but really, imp lying to my self
you’re not that beautiful
no no no no
you’re not that beautiful
you’re not that beautiful
fuck outta here
word up
the artist
Hailing from Cambridge, Mass., but a musical nomad of sorts, K-The-I?? has traversed the USA pushing sonic boundaries with his unique brand of densed-out boom-bap. Armed with a commanding voice and a gritty production aesthetic that recalls Bomb Squad-era Public Enemy and signature Def Jux recordings, he crafts tracks that swell and pulse with an immersive gravity. Making an appearance on Bigg Jus and Orko Eloheem's recent NMS album, Imperial Letters of Protection, K-The-I??? has earned the respect of many of indie hip-hop's elite, including Thavius Beck, who offered to produce his latest full-length. Whether writing epic love letters or harnessing bugged-out electric currents, K-The-I???’s music has a personality and urgency that demands your attention.
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