We interrupt your regularly scheduled program to bring you a few messages displayed in Born to Hate Magazine.
The Girl with the Two Tones
The girl with two tones dresses with the right half her body a different color than her left.
The girl with two tones never seems too impressed.
The girl with two tones tells me about philosophies, but tells me the ancient stuff sucks.
The girl with two tones licks batteries for fun, and I think that’s a little weird.
What do you have to say today?
Well I guess we’ll say nothing today.
The girl with two tones had started looking at pictures.
The girl with two tones talks like it’s a lecture, I like listening when it becomes funny.
The girl with two tones does graffiti about how we should care about people around us.
The girl with two tones has a couple piercings, but doesn’t want to prove their existence to me.
The girl with two tones laughs at suggestive ethical commentary.
Why was I waiting for you till the end?
Well I thought that we were friends.
The girl with two tones drinks hard liquor, but only does it in the middle of the desert.
The girl with two tones has a bicycle entirely made out of wicker.
The girl with two tones talks a lot about the stars, but hasn’t seen one before.
The girl with two tones buys books about arguing and how to stop being sad.
The girl with two tones told me she was feeling fine, then yakked on my blanket made by Roy Lichtenstein.
The Shaman Wrote the Answer on my Forehead.
As I try to sleep and enjoy my dreams but I think of what she said, awake in the wake of the workings of my head.
I spend my time sitting down and let the thoughts walk around as the man that’s gone insane, not worrying of the one that’s done this to my brain.
How can I lay around and blame myself for all the things I said when the other is fast asleep comfortable in bed?
Now I’ve got a cursing, nursing shaman answers on my forehead.
She says she’s out on patrol.
You don’t believe in love, says that’s never occured to me, not sure which is which either way, but now I need you more than ever.
Says I’ve got got some heart abd too much determination to boot.
Says it’s kinda cute, but nothing left to do, so she takes her spot on the bed and flips the TV to cahnnel two.
They want to prove that I don’t know how to dance. Says she’s learned it from her ex man and makes me the fool after I’ve dropped dead.
Now I’ve got these screamin’, demon women making phone calls in my head.
It seems this time it has made a fool out of me.
Calling on a disconnected line but I’m not really home and feeling not so fine.
I lay upside down and walk around despite my broken back and contemplate all the features that I seem to lack. The television gets up and starts yelling words I just can’t seem to understand.
I lay awake, can’t sleep no more, the nightmares exchange some bets on how I’ll handle what they have in store and hgow much I can stand.
Now I’ve got a rambled, scrambled tranmission coming in on broadband.
It’s the shaman saying I’m out of control.
I think the girls get the wrong impression that I’m stoic because I don’t have much to say til I start to speak and work too hard to be composed in my heroic complex way.
The shaman has been in the kitchen since a half before noon. Listening to all my old tunes and looking for a fight.
Another day you’re vicious about the time. You didn’t listen close enough so you get what you deserve. I couldn’t lose my nerve because I knew that the shaman was right.
Just some disheveled, reveled devils counting how many nights we have left.
The shaman wants to take over the role.
Hello, Hello, Hello.
Hello, hello, hello, this is the word of all your saints.
I promise you that it means a lot and not for the bleeding heart that feints.
Broadcasted is the message sent down to the mass by god.
Filtered out by those above from the odd, obscured, and flawed.
There they squabble fighting against their friends in the name of war.
Disregarding the damnation that they have laid upon the poor.
I promise peace at the end of my sword if you only stay in line.
Amongst our congregation, no one has ever said that things weren’t fine.
You’ve only ask for self respect and dignity and for what you should deserve.
Martyred in the flames for we can’t preserve.
We can’t allow the mass to divulge in such heretical anarchy.
You know it’s for reasons, reasons, reasons because of all the powers that be.
So here we are today with arbitrary rules to see what should be done.
Give your send off to the lady that loves another one.
We promise that everyone is welcome except for those you that are not.
Especially the ones of you that love too free and happiness is sought.
You run away from our loving arms to go with others trying to elope.
We bring you back to our normalcy or corner you to the ends of rope.
Now, and now, and now, how can you be so unruly, outspoken and proud.
The figurehead of our distress that isn’t apart of our crowd.
With anarchist wasting all the spoils to help the weary and slum.
With Antichrists on the streets attempting to uplift just about everyone.
Not to worry, we can write the narrative of their hate and villainy.
And all their attempts to take control and keep you blind with lewd philosophy.
They might have you, but they won’t had me.
From the Feigned Intelligent
I woke up and she broke my hands off.
She leaned down and stuttered with a scoff.
Took a couple pictures of the ceiling stains,
but the afternoon was too dark as she claims.
The downpour hasn’t stopped all day,
but swepy away the devils playing in the streets,
leaving the day weighted and gray and mundane.
She leaned on my shoulder with a nose bleed.
Blood clot dri-dri-dripping with heavy flow.
No r-r~reason to plead for my life, for the lot,
for what’s left and her apparent gift.
Her dirty golden hair laid over as the only thing I could see.
She told me today was the day,
she decided to end me.
Didn’t want to be,
anymore of a bo-bother,
being starved off coke and water.
P-p-perhaps is was the n-neglect to respect the apostle,
I’ve never noticed despite being the one studied the closest.
Regarded as rife with fault, despite wounds from a battle fought,
left with the attainment, burdened with
sub-sequential higher thought.
No time for the r-rh-rhetoric, honed by the ones studying,
sick of it, to prefect it,
fuck Aristotle.
Deemed ir-rre-irrel~levant as it resists the antithesis.
Words from the sycophant, hellbent to execute the one claiming as the feigned intelligent.
Took a nap in the midday, responding softly to whatever she would say
as she laid over me to watch me sleep
either for herself of for something else.
She sprung up with the sound of the doorbell.
Ran swift to the d-d-door, and then almost fell.
P-p-pr-pressed against to see who was on the other side.
A man with a long stride.
The man was there saying he had a gun ready.
Holding it steady,
p-praying it’ll go through.
We replied that we had one too.
Paused then asked if he could come in.
He saw my sweater and said he hated it,
then looked over to her dress and flipped over it.
Carried a mountain of debt and priceless artifacts,
but ate our whole ice box.
Didn’t care f~for our talks but the f-fou-fountain of death.
Then he left and now time for another rest.
To me she hymned and hummed, mumbled then mutters, murmured to rambles as the way it drummed to sleep as the way she stutters alluded, determining which way it suited.
Through the shambles of do-downpour, laying on top of me causally waving a loaded forty-four.
She said it’s for e-entertainment, so take a moment to lament but I’m still not sure how I’m suppose to do that when she looks at me so sweetly.
She Doesn’t Care About Me Anymore.
An Artistic Social Eye
She came with art avant-garde.
Then likened me to a retard.
Said it was a bad look to be the hater.
Then ate directly off the cheese grater.
Asked me what the art was all for when she has the hunched over sense of shoegazing-core.
Spoke to me only in d minor.
Dabbled in this and that and a babbling writer.
Wrapped up in the newest Saran wrapped antithesis, despite how much she insists we went on with what we decided.
Ripped up my personal made flyer.
I should’ve just been a bus driver.
Lost to a lie of the romantically ambivalent.
Just an evil man beat the aggressor’s intent.
Film twenty six minutes of her bawling her eyes out.
Listening to a band that never existed just to pout.
Applaud for the agitator, friend to the queer that never shows up to seize all the glitz and glamour.
It’s a rare make of art, forged in a few days but never had time to start, got bored and tired of responding to me.
I like the cold look of disgust she give me.
As she drags out the mistrust of the oligarchy.
Take a moment as her shirt rides up.
Mid day drift as my mind gets stuck on a new avant-garde melancholic riff.
The alcoholic won’t answer.
Drunk in the desert clinging to her mezcal liquor.
Has a new maker.
Better mind, better looks, better work, but doesn’t quite enjoy being a hater.
How is it with me? The second class citizen.
Nothing there to like about a fool that always smiles, never knowing that we are just a muppet with nothing true to say.
Grab any other reject, looking good enough, and have them show their tits and wrangle as many dicks to satisfy a dying mind since you don’t seem to care.
Buy a dirty magazine to read and objectify the women making a living far more gracious than yours.
But go ahead and shame them while you cry the night alone.
But no one likes a whore that isn’t humble and perhaps if we have the honesty to know that we like the person too.
So shame the corporate designated provocation, a pretty face they can use before they can condemn them to hell.
Another provocative inclination to why you’d like to hate them as we swoon for nothing anymore interesting to hear.
It’s art I can’t even afford, so says the laborer that should have access to own the art they love.
But at the cost of feeding themselves for a week.
Even the independents that raise it for their efforts far past what the people in the slums can afford.
So to the museums thanks for the access while you molest and attack the ones that run it all.
Fuck them and all the over zealous galleries that think the one they have what deserves a price tag that means nothing more than the notoriety to see who can spend the most.
Another set of lousy makings.
Whores on Rock and Roll Beach
The horror of the hot rods, drag racing on the beach.
A summer of fun is bound for us til the attention of a patriotic speech.
No more kissing or any kind of love.
Death to you and damnation from the one above.
No girls for girls, so she hides it away.
It must not be really love if she’s happy in a blasphemous way.
Rocking girls walk up and down the strafe.
The devil’s music playing, hair a little long, no one else is safe.
We’re just punk ass slobs without any jobs and don’t think we even should.
They’d arrest us for loitering if they could.
Our minds is trying to sell us some ambition.
We’ll just wait for all of them to die because we’ll most definitely out live the intention.
Well the kids are bored,
Their plans for the day reeks of defiance.
Their corruption is losing grips of reliance.
Whores in bikinis running down the beach.
Gave a kiss to every person as the fanatics screech.
Authoritarians came running with batons in hand.
Grabbing everyone they can.
Throw us in jail for the way we look and the way we move.
Pigs beat them down like they had something they needed to prove.
Another mom and dad that hate that we exist.
Ashamed of us because we believe to resist.
Our general attitude is corrupting all the neighborhood kids.
Rolling down the street, they’ve got no place to hide.
We’re ruining all their joy and pride.
It wasn’t us this time when from the beach we heard the excessive beat.
There goes more girls in bikinis walking down the street.
The boys never stood a chance.
The girl with the beat wanted to dance.
With one look they turned into monster mash.
Just wanting to listen to some rock and roll smash.
Didn’t take long to attract the poise.
We’ll if we’re dying here we’re sure going to make some noise.
Well they sure have no respect for the law.
Traces of lipstick on the remains they claim at the scene.
A man in uniform, dead to an endless government loan.
Screwed in the end with nonexistent pensions blown.
Set up a body they got from a crime covered up last week to get attention on there side.
Another pathetic attempt called out when no one cried.
Just wanna love who I want to love.
Just wanna spend my days without control from a voice you heard from above.
Just wanna go around without harassment from my look.
Or for suggesting I’m a crook.
Just wanna live without strife.
Yeah just wanna live my life.
Not Too Cold of a Sunrise to Cry
I sulk every sunrise says the gas pump attendant.
Another lonely evening.
Waiting on a another fearful day.
Too young to hurt.
Too early to cry.
Told his daddy that he cared too much for what was going on.
Said he was a fool for thinking for the less.
It wasn’t up to him to clean up the mess.
Too young to worry.
Too soon to save a life.
Too much in a hurry.
I may smell of gasoline.
Well I broke my daddy’s heart.
We had something we stood for from the start.
I ain’t too young notice,
I ain’t too young to try.
Getting too old to deny.
Red lights and the slumped over hooked on smack.
A field of empty bottles.
Speaking to empty heads.
Sunken hearts for the dead.
Trying to change some evil ways.
Too much of a fool to admit,
Too proud and full of lies.
To my indigo friends.
Another day to be too old to believe.
They’re too young to die.
Something for me to do out in a lonely place.
Someday, we’ll see that they need a friend to pry.
Maybe someone will come around.
Maybe meet me in the night.
Not too closed off to waste some time.
Not too frustrated to fight.
Another day working for my life.
Hoping someone will meet me on this stretch of road.
Guerrilla Girl Chewing Gum
Listened to recordings of Guerrilla Girl chewing gobs and gobs of gum.
Big mouth open from end to end says she talks too much.
Or was it too loud?
Perhaps she talks to herself too much.
Guerrilla Girl thinks it’s better this way.
Had too much at the party standing against the wall.
Everyone came and thanked her and she slipped away to puke.
Guerrilla Girl tells me she has a hard time talking to the people there.
Never feels in place with anyone and perhaps she’s self aware.
Mom and Dad say that she’s the wrong one for me.
Guerrilla girl assures she’s the only thing I should see.
Broke what she wanted bent, always hoping to leave a dent.
I’ve got no experience with girls with no experience.
Rubber bottomed shoes paired with a romper clad in plaid.
Stomping out to bootleg record, going to the places where people not like her live.
Guerrilla Girl tries to be representative of the scene.
Keeps me under her heel to see how long til I give.
Guerrilla Girl got KO’d when she fought a group out in the parking lot.
Dissed their indie records.
Guerrilla Girl confronts the cops and doesn’t bat an eye.
Guerrilla Girl feels like she doesn’t taste too good.
She spends her time supposing she’s misunderstood.
She thinks perhaps she’s worried I’m wasting her time.
Someone behind her back said she was a whore.
Heckled for the things she does and scared of what’s in store.
Guerrilla Girl insists she’s not a tyrant because they tell her so.
No hard feelings even if it looks that way but who’s to really know.
She’s a bit of a guerrilla girl.
Wiggly Guitars.
Another ending to the days and you step into the humid stream.
Another metal head banging out noise.
Everyone’s standing around not knowing what the insinuations mean.
They are out arguing who will go first and who is stuck with last.
It’s a puddle of various faces making up the Friday night scene.
Too much competition worries the debut band.
The people don’t mind, they’ve heard every chord.
Other places stole away a potential fan.
Every hardcore set is melding together.
Spent everything they had on a rusted white Chevy van.
It’s all he can afford.
When it’s time, he’ll do his thing.
They don’t really mind.
Toiling away on the daytime shift.
Hecklers in the crowd, stalking the night to ruin creativity.
Dressed out in their worst ripped up shirt, and platform soles.
Aggressive to the girl’s certain pop and the other’s new style indie.
It ain’t the metal they’re used to knowing.
Thrown out for the lack of responsibility.
The bands are playing to a crowd of the other bands playing.
The anarchists backs to the wall. I’m not the rebel you are.
But they all turn me away anyway. Rather ramble together, no interference.
I’m not true cause I don’t yell as loud. Is it friendly, poetic, too much prose?
Standing on stage as odd for wearing denim instead of leather.
Listening to the latest wiggly guitars, deep drums, and bends.
They seem to beg to differ when they play a little joke on gospel and blues.
Frightened of competition, when they started with so many friends.
They play and play to drown out the rain.
Enjoying this chance of happiness when they have nothing to lose.
Nothing Better I’d Rather Do
Everybody seems to have somebody better to talk to.
Something a slight bit better they’d rather do.
It was the end for everyone else at the scene.
She started, “I know how it seems.”
She turned and asked me matter of tacitly, “Wanna go see another show? I don’t wanna go home.”
We could head to the all night diner on West 19th, or the last of the racers dragging out in the dried bayou.
Whatever you wanna do.
Don’t get any ideas.
I just thought you oughta know.
I just don’t wanna go home.
I got a few thoughts in my head but they only come out so and so.
She went along with me even when my voice is low.
Can’t smile too wide to the people we walk by.
Can’t let them hear it in my tone.
Too excited and I don’t wanna go home.
Cut a few flowers from the landscaped towers, then parade through the park leading up to the dance hall.
Right at the end of the night, slow dance time, praying that I don’t fall.
Don’t wanna make a fool of myself just yet.
I couldn’t let my chance slip away but I couldn’t help but fret.
Gotta enjoy every bit that I can with the luck I have on loan.
I can’t beat to hear her say, “I wanna go home.”
Take the risk of putting my head on her shoulders.
She stiffened up a little, I thought I ruined our night.
I reeled back a little, then she squeezed just a little more tight.
I couldn’t see her face in all the flashing lights.
Was this the end, am I gonna have to walk home alone?
She leaned down and said softly, then again with intent.
“I don’t wanna go home.”