James God Damn Joyce.

Starring. Brief description: dark room, getting darker. Blast beats chomping with the volume at 100, sparse vocals cawing from low in the mix. Top speed. No sleep for the young and the loud. Those drums don't go limp until the record ends. I've been in my room listening to my albums, full albums, reading short stories about the end of the world and nursing glasses of milk. Guitars, alien, guitar slipping strings under my fingers. Once again, these hands are clumsy and I mourn the fingers I owned a month ago. Loud again, darker still. Blue Credit Union lights are the distraction of choice tonight. I quote because I laugh;

"We were walkin' through the park,
A-goosin' statues in the dark.
If Sherman's horse can take it,
So can you."

And once more I want to write science fiction. I'm not the only one born a science fiction boy in a non-fiction world. Give me an alternate universe, one won by loud music and grimy guitar, punk music for a new millennium. Not the blond shit born in the 1970s: it always was and always will be bad music. Relative, schmelative. I'll never listen to and be moved by The Clash or The Ramones. They wrote music for an era that died long before I ever lived. I want new punk music. Not that slimy, musically bereft sludge that they call punk. We call it post-hardcore, but it suits my purpose. I want Bear vs. Shark and At The Drive-In, Hella and Tera Melos, The Number Twelve Looks Like You and Circle Takes the Square. My generation was born into this and it's what I want to hear. Draw me a line of best fit and loop it through the sound until feedback swallows us up. We could use an infrastructural improvement or two to let this new day dawn. This is where Eurotrash go to tan. Nothing we can do about it, just try to find a way to dance along without losing your soul, your mind, your body. Running, jumping, climbing. James God Damn Joyce. A new generation needs him, a writer. A professional. What do we have? Bloggers. Tucker Max. CNN. None of these will do. There were girls. They were tall, tall buildings. There were cars on the highway with slow, slow drivers. Fiction comes to life when you write it down, the truth becomes self-aware but it needs to know what it's looking for. My body's full of city folk and power cables, I am full of skyscrapers and factories. My body's full up to the lids with shit, I am an office building full of computers and account statements. I have a tongue that does me no good, it keeps wagging my shoulders onto airplanes away from her, it keeps the distance because my eyes speak with a terrible stutter.