Posts

Showing posts from February, 2013

Serious Ink – Illustrated by Andrew Goldfarb

Image
“Pinstriped skin? You want pinstriped skin?”
So, needlessly, you repeat it. “Okay, okay. The Pinstripe Kid.” He’s old. He fetches his needles and a jar of powdered black ink.
“Take a couple months. At least weeks, you know.”Yes, you know. The man slakes the ink from a cracking teapot. Though chilly, you take off your slacks. “So what’s up?”he asks.“You pissed off
at your mother?”But when he asks, it’s at the back wall, an aside. So you don’t say anything.“Fuck,” he barks, laughs or coughs.  What?“Hell. Stripes. You know? Never mind. You ready?”
You are. Each etching stroke feels like bursting across a finish line.

A vision quest vision. Livia Stein, illustrator

Image
What happens as I watch a spider’s web
over a small stream: after many hours,
a wave of bugs on an advancing wind
washes over the spot. “It’s the spider’s
fortune,”
I think watching several wing pairs

stick and tangle. Only then do I hear
the approaching rustle behind the swarm.
It’s a woman in hiking boots, long hair,
and a bikini, swinging, like Occam’s
Razor, a broad stick to de-web her way.

“Hi.” She could be Goddess in human form.
“Ya’ll having a party over at Bonne’s?”
“It’s a retreat.” Her hips shift and she seems
to give, by repetition, a koan:
“Ya’ll having a party?” I don’t know. Her

weedy pubes spin out thick and uncontained.
When she blazes on, the spider web’s gone.


We're out of control, and cocktail sauce. Livia Stein illustrated

Image

Discharge - Derek Wilson, illustrator

Image

Miserable Mofo and the Less-Blown Minds – Lauren Ari, illustrator

Image
"I'm a wearer of the dark. I have a dark suit." —Dave Thomas

Despite the violent oscillation of our heads, some of us punks were able to half-wonder: what will become of us? That caricature motto, “No Future,” begs certain questions in the aftermaths.
Crocus Behemoth blew our minds often, mad head warbling a la climaxing teen; and better than those sound-scrapes, his bitter perspective conveyed diagonally convinced us of our own foresight as punks.
But bands split up. A crash time-stopped D. Boon. Pop culture punks bit the dust on drugs (yawn) while other artists coupled and had kids, went to sew the sutures of middle age… Crocus took up the accordion, whined
on about himself, swimming past his art and the girlfriends that came and went with it.