A few words about Suicide (Meaning the band!)

So recently it was announced that Alan Vega of the band suicide had passed away, for me this was the first musicians death that made me cry. I didn’t weep for Bowie, Prince, Poly Styrene or Lou Reed. But Vega was the one who made me fucking weep for hours, I was kind of a lost soul the entire day. But I got thinking why was it Vega who broke my tear virginity? I think it’s in no small part to how much Suicide means to me and the impact they’ve had on my ability to preform both inspiration wise and on the scene. I could go on and on about their music and how they contributed to the acceptance of synths in music that we all embrace today, but I’d rather concentrate on Vega and performance aspect. Besides someone else can probs do the music history lesson better them me.

So for those of you who follow my blog you’ll know that while the stuff I write is mostly tame love poems, the stuff I PREFORM however is a lot less so. Most of my performance stuff is based around screaming one word 80 times and putting some prose around it every now and then. In a town like Colchester where we get a lot of the London crowd a.k.a the kind of people that just want to see THAT ONE POEM preformed again and again by white middle class people, needless to say I’m not always well received, even when I cave and do preform the love poem stuff! In those times, like when I’m preforming at a Folk Festival and some 35 year old twat shouts “What is this crap? Where’s his fucking guitar!?” I often think of Suicide, and very often think of their gig in Brussels

For those who don’t know, Vega would often preform his songs not unlike how you’d preform a spoken word poem, at the time of the first album anyways. At the tamest you’d get stuff like Ghost Rider where it’s like delivering the lyrics with a rockabilly tint, at the most abrasive you’d get stuff like ‘Frankie Teardrop’ which involved Vega doing HOWLING screams after preforming lyrics about a man putting a gun chamber to his 6 month old baby’s head and killing it. Couple this with his backing being Rev’s synths at a time where going to a musical gig without a guitar was grounds for a death warrant. THEN imagine that when your opening for Elivs Costello and the only thing in the way of him and the crowd is you…. yeah they put up with a lot of shit needless to say. If you can listen to the recording of them in Brussels I 100% recommend it, it’s an experience

But I don’t think it’s a stretch to attribute the fact I can preform my poems screaming about BPD or screaming about giving a lady multiple orgasms so she’ll buy you a milkshake, with literally ZERO fear of having my teeth kicked in… Well to Suicide’s work with preforming live taking the brunt of that aggression. Vega sort of taught me no matter the kind of performance and art you want to show people, no matter how little ‘conventional talent’ or appeal you have. Keeping on with something real for you and showing the world with enough conviction, you’ll start to change things and change lives. Gotta keep those dreams alive, even if no poetry elitist cunt from London wants to accept me, if my poetry can help one person then I’ll have achieved my dreams~

Just A Man

They knew you as broke-ass Baxter, from the shadows of the estate
The classic story of a candy wrapper tainting a cherry blossom garden
With your beat-up leathers and monochromed dyed trainers
And with one rouge blonde curl that no force was able to keep down
The way you teeter your cigarette left and right when the gears turn
And the little cracks in your laugh when something was especially hysterical
I always noticed them all, from the corner of the snooker hall
So when your eyes wondered trying to track down an ignition for your fag
I jumped at the chance, just for an excuse to give you my name
I can’t get enough of the way you sway in the queue
Who knows what ideas your plotting in that little mind of yours
Miles and miles away before the line starts to move
And maybe, you can take me their one day?

I snuck out by the bathroom window, on a waxing crescent moon
I met you outside the snooker club but there wasn’t much to do
So you led me through the wire traps and we end up at the coast
I perch on seaside debris, clutching the last tin you gave to me
And you begin tell tales of old sweethearts and rebellious youth
The content may of felt short, but god it’s just you just tell it so well
I push the fat of my cheeks up and make sure every inch of you is in my gaze
I couldn’t give a fuck about what your chatting, it’s just the way you tell it hon’
And maybe, I wanna listen to you everyday

My dear all your fallacies are false, can’t you see I’m just a man?
But can’t you see, your so much more then a man to me?
Well lets see if you share that opinion later on still
When you peer at me through the cracks of the door
And you catch me in the midst of an ‘um’ or an ‘err’
It doesn’t matter how much you take my fables
And stitch together An-Frankenstein’s Garfield
It’s all just a character to get excited about
Another one to exaggerate about in prose on lonely nights

How much of me do you wanna see?
I wanna see straight through you
And everything that makes you
Are you prepared to wince and sigh?
Are you prepared to not be amazed by something that makes me?
But you got me to come this far
I want to discover everything you could be
I just hope you feel the same thing for me

As preformed by Domestic

– Lnc0

Only The Obsolete Clutch

The news cut through the deepest part of me
Nights and nights spend hand in hand amidst the clean slate
Putting together our little plans and steps to glory
Reduced to plastic knifes struck in the dragons knees, in one sentence
Oh baby I couldn’t imagine spending my time without you
Buying bread knowing I’m not making you toast just seems pointless
While you rise to the next league in human evolution in another land
Looking at me in my second hand leather jacket fiddling with the pennies
Night after night you’ll forget our curbside midsummer debates
Putting the world to rights, and etching my heart in blood on the concrete
By comparison my sonnets will be reduced to a Daily Star article
My kisses will feel sliver, their greetings will feel like gold
I guess I’ll lay the final right now, may our love not end in a bang
But a whimper of the echo’s of unfulfilled promises and sweet nothings

If you feel you cannot merit your worth to me
In the midst of piles of golden spoils
Smearing my crown with the blood under my fingernails
As I stroke it from atop a platinum ladder
The that one’s all on you my dear
Kisses are timeless and sonnets scar the hippocampus
If your insecurity places a brace on your tongue
And your pride forces sorrow when you should feel joy
Then let me shed your remnants from my skin
As I take off to claims elements unknown as my own

To be preformed by Domestic

– Lnc0

Shackled (W.I.P)

thetartanprelude:

Another Wednesday night spent in solitary confinement
With the soulless drones that regulate the beer stained stools
Clutching my nectar with one hand
Sinking my fingers in L’Oreal tinted forests with the other
It’d be around this time I’d of gotten your call
Bet all our wages in on branded mental…

Oh hey, this was the poem I preformed tonight with words in front of real humans, shit was fucking scary man! Went down surprisingly well for a more soppy one 😀

*For National Poetry Month – 2/30*
I WROTE IT WITH MY WORDS AND TONGUE IT COUNTS

Shackled (W.I.P)