plastikfantastik's Xanga

My Last Time In Your Hair

Tue, 22 Jul 2008 22:55:39 GMT

My last time in an anthill

Sawdust and splinters gathered around a new fence

Construction zone grass blades were surfboards

Pointed north to the shore

Sandy beaches, sandy red bodies

Floating bubbles after a cannonball splash

Massaging your body like carbonation

Trickling north to your breast

The dirt under your fingernails

Algae, amoeba feces, nine year old glitter

Leftovers from Raunchy Randy and his Twizzler lip teen

Under muddy waters in a dream

Headless Happy Meal trinkets

Beach glass and twig skin necklaces

Around your neck I saw underwater

Traffic jams of speckles and sandy hair I saw

Champagne bubbles underwear as we

Took up space as though frozen on that lake

My last time in your hair I was an

Amazon motor home in a clearing

Outside my window a waterfall of clay

Fell in spaghetti strands I could roll down

Molding them, leaving fossils of my nipples

Body hair, jewelry, belly, belly button bits

Knee caps, pubic hair, toenails

The clay was harder the farther I rolled

No more molding, here were the encrusted starfish

Bottle caps from a night we drank champagne,

Receipts from a night we argued over flavorless tea

When the sound of bulldozers woke us the next morning

They were destroying a glass house on your street

Inside your mouth was a spider web knot

Growing colder, colder around your taste buds

The workers started planting grass that ants seized

Bubblegum popped in a mass of crows beaks

You’ll need peanut butter to get that out you know

Jack

Tue, 15 Jul 2008 00:01:06 GMT

skin is active, burning, dapper and mature
Frankensetin belly a coveted admixture
barefeet drag on alligator-skin concrete
they're subterranean lochness black lagoon feet
rough and tumble without a humming motorbike
hairy bat and Indian, common elements alike
poison in the tatoo ink is justified recluse
in the daffodils at night a welcoming front tooth
smiling like a hippie breastfeeding next of kin
vampiric sutures leak a vampiric grin
soft light from the moon floats on a pedal's open ridge
twirling like an astronaut in a milk bottle fridge
so many stories flowing, crashing like an inky sea
needle-going crop circles writing calligraphy
magnetized grassblades point to northstar and the moon
rings around his steady eyes, eagle and raccoon
thoughts arise from movie rooms, projected horror screen
audience open up their lips and let their demons scream
graffitied statue head comes to his merry life
sitting in the grass one night, garlic growing ripe
screams can echo miles if a moviehouse is close
freaks in the alleyways consider them verbose
Jack is content looking into the camera lens
understanding mediums and astrological sense
in the air around that night faries, fireflies
whispering into his ear his place among our eyes.

Dweller of the Pebbles

Sat, 12 Jul 2008 16:59:42 GMT

Pebbles cling to my tires like glue

When I drive past your old house

Inside the pebbles tiny ghosts

live in and lease rooms

Inlaid in dusty black rubber

Lay hundreds of stories of your street

Your house was renovated

And your car wasn’t there

As if it was never yours

Are you a dweller of the pebbles?

If so are you now in the rubber of my tire?

Invite me inside your room and let me

Sit on your molecular pebble-dust furniture

While you strum your old guitar

And try to ignore the tenant-ghosts above

Dwell in my tire as long as you need

At least I know where you live now

Now that I’m your landlord, being that

I’ve accidentally obtained your colony

“I noticed that your pebble has been painted

Looks like Mayan codex art.”

“Yes. The drawings keep me within the pebble.”

“What are they? It looks like it has two faces.”

“Two faces. One is me. The other is,”

You pause.

“The other is whoever will dwell here with me

For I can’t stay alone in here forever.”

Were we to actually have this conversation

Over tea in your pebble

This would be the scene where I stand up

And inch to the door I came in from

And on my way out glance at the two faces

Chalky, faded, and wholly unrecognizable

And get into my car

To drive through as many puddles as it will take

To expel my inlaid pebbles into a puddle resort community

Under the sodium light of a street lamp

For years silent in that puddle

Dwelling with the pebble ghosts.

Terrortoe

Fri, 11 Jul 2008 22:03:53 GMT

I’m a prefabricated B-movie

Called “Terrortoe”

I sit in the horror/sci-fi section

Next to “Flytrap”

“Ivy II: The Sprouting”

and various Roger Corman productions

I’m about a mistletoe

And a rich kid who Exploits his parents’ cottage

For sexual encounters over his

Christmas vacation

He’s King of the AV Room

And he’s got the gothic girls giggling

Their black and red bracelets tickle him

Between sheets that smell like a grandmother sunbathing

I’m a cute litte movie about an ego that gets its

Karma in the form of a plot Mr. AV has when he

Sets up a mistletoe he bought off ebay to impress a

Coworker who is way out of his League of Unextrodinary Ungentlemen

He sets up the ebay Mistletoe dangling from the balcony

Of a loft with tons of mothball mattresses and cardboard boxes

That pesky Mistletoe dangles longer and longer

And spider-like appendages grow out of its bristles

It is ego and gluttony all in one tinsel package

He leads the buxom blonde over to the shadows of the balcony

And with enough eggnog and Southern Comforts

He leans in – but so does the Terrortoe

and Toe makes the first move

a bloodfeast of squirting blood

spraying a mixed smell of coppercandy

(kind of a mixture of copper/iron and cotton candy)

And that’s when she left him, leader of the pack

By the time it hits Rich Kid that his prize Blonde

Has not the head to bear goldie locks

Toe has grown to the size of an anaconda.

…

Rent me today!

I’m cute, unfriendly, and deliciously unwatchable!

"Two Dreams"

Sun, 06 Jul 2008 17:59:52 GMT

Two Dreams

The flesh on my heel wore away

The indolence inside wakes me today

Dead flesh dangles where the wound was made

Infection looms if the redness decays

A grandfather clock turns another gear

Inside this room it’s all I hear

Was it my shoes strapped on too tight?

Was it giving up the end of my night?

Now I know that I walk a rocky street

Two dreams in my head drip to my feet

If the rocks cause my foot to shake

The friction will make my blister break!

Blood will speckle all over my socks

All because of large uneven rocks

Soon, I think, I’ll give my foot a bath

Before my wound becomes a crimson gash

In this time of solitude and rest

I’ll find another shoe to test

Two dreams to last

A road not so vast

One dream for the street

The other to keep

Turning mechanically with the gears

Flavoring like salt my meals

Nutrients for another day

Vitamins to make the blister go away

Saturday, June 21, 2008

Sat, 21 Jun 2008 12:19:23 GMT

twig break on the eye of a hyena’s baby

drop head on the bar it's a drunken lady

sound twist from the radio above her blonde head

swig swig grog bottle falls and the neon flashes red

black coat dangles a key from a Mardi Gras necklace

coke snot dribbles on to her open chest

her kid stands under chair, dust tornado from the ceilling

feet dangle from the stools and puppetshow his feeling

vampire's bile served to all the patrons

homeowner bible warned of these Satans

outdoor Florida hurricane made us a phone pole archway

kinda like McDonald's in the middle of a freeway

water spout rumbles from the anus of a storm cloud

rain falls from el nino's swamp ass and spirals all around

cars move like the letter P arround the jailbroke pound

nextdoor rave lineup runs for cover, knocking over gnomes

grownup children all around escaping broken homes

a fishnet slut runs knee high in rain blot leather

Dustin Diamond opens up a combo pack of tar and feather

rotten bouncer pulls turnstyle rope and wears it like a turbin

ringworm dog spits out his teeth and crawls in his suburban

Yankee Doodle went downtown riding on his Harley

stuck a porn star in his lap and called it 'I'm not sorry'

Jack-O-Lanterns line the streets

trampled on by drunken feet

what once was broken now befriended

fairytale fridays never ended.

4:08 hate / 4:40 sorry

Tue, 10 Jun 2008 18:12:44 GMT

4:08 hate

i wanted you dead in my head

in your dark room on your dark bed

with your shot dog whine

you bullfinch swine divine

your red haired mystery

words that mixed history

shower curtain of funny words

talking on radio waves from other worlds

George Noory and shadow people

red eyed mothmen out your keyhole

letters sent wrongly from a prisoner

kitchen of vitamins and "non-greasy" burns

small teeth and pale Nosferatu skin

brown wooden wall and purple curtain

organ and bench and heavy weights

stickers clung to your guitar case

mouth of protection and eyes of prescription

books labeled with post-its, words from a drunken tongue

hidden pizza boxes and organic candles

heavy doors with squeaky handles

dark room and dark bed, earwigs on your pillow

spinning purple triangles out of your foggy window

old photos in your drawer and blackened matches

underwear and socks, jeans with patches

keepsakes from the yesteryears and fuzzy TV

turning video cards and talking to me

wasting your time and losing your head

in your dark room on your dark bed

4:40 sorry

i heard your voice at the end of your song

'i murdered that one' you said, strumming along

the sound was a yellow labryinth, glowing ambition

color of a school bus changing with a listen

giddy clown laugh via telephone

new sun guitar melody when you played alone

burning back American Spirits under UFOs above

Nick Drake brought you stereo love

"I can take a road that takes me to the stars"

I won't forget you if I get that far

the ghosts all around you, photographic orbs

just specks of dust spiraling forth

that night will go un-lived for the rest of my life

i'll carry the dust and toss it to my headlights

and watch the orbs float up to the smoky sky

where my memories of you will lie

and our lost spirit of youth will ride

on the nights we shared under a trampled-on roof

your unused accordion's song will be proof

sorry, friend, to watch you floating away

but the new sun guitar will play

and it will free you with its ray

in the pocket of my dream

Sun, 08 Jun 2008 19:58:17 GMT

In the pocket of my dream

you were there

in the pocket of my dream

"watch out" said a friend

tugging at the cloth on my shoulder

past me walked a girl on campus

with a smile interrupted by flowing

American hair like street lamps intersecting

houses as the hair would interrupt her picket fence

teeth.

i chased after the girl on high school cement blocks

and turned her around as she walked into an

auditorium, ready to give a recital

"what's your name" my teeth asked hers

she bubbled out a soft, sweet name.

"I can't love you now," she said, "but if

we don't fall in love with someone within the

next year, let's meet right here"

she shuffled back into the full auditorium

and played that flute like an Amazonian

javelyn-thrower in the big red hurricane on Jupiter,

her fiery brown hair twisting around the flute like licorice

and her eyes twisting around with it, wandering to my invisible

place behind the yellow-brown bricks

in the pocket of my dream.

Before September

Sun, 01 Jun 2008 21:53:24 GMT

We were a different country before 9/11. A new Josh Hartnett film is being released this summer called "August", which symbolically shows two ideological dotcom boomer brothers about to hit a huge loss once September rolls around, portrays the ignorant state we were in, as a country, before 9/11. Through these two brothers, I'm guessing, the audience is supposed to ponder the more oblivious cultural landscape of America pre-September 11th (hence the title). Or maybe it's not as deep as I'm hoping it will be...

Here's a few videos I used to watch in that era that is further evidence of the cultural oblivion that existed at the time.

FALLING
I was in eighth grade when 9/11 happened and me and my twin brother Nick used to wake up every morning and watch music videos before school. One I really liked in the late August 2001 era was Afrocelt Sound System's song "Falling". The video is light-hearted, image-rich, and has a great progression. It starts out with a close-up shot of a man's eye viewing the skies as he falls through them. His eyes shifts around, his pupil dilates, and then the camera pulls away to see a man falling through the skies on a crisp, moderately cloudy day.

Obviously, this became very inappropriate after 9/11 and got pulled from VH1's rotation-- and rightfully so. The video incorporates interior and exterior shots of a jetliner, a man falling in close viscinity of a skyscraper, people inside the skyscraper watching his fall, and all with an innocent, unassuming tone.

What does this say as us as a country in late August, early September 2001? I think it says a great deal. To the statement Bush made about his administration being completely dumbfounded by the idea of such an attack, some of the imagery and media of the times suggest it was right on the zeitgeist of our fears and inner-ponderings. "Falling" lyrically has themes of transcendence and uses its title to show us passing through life. This video is evidence on how we have changed, on how such imagery that was once light and fluffy has become something ominous and coldly literal.

THE LONE GUNMEN

On March 4, 2001 another video, (which has been scrutinized by many for its odd closeness to the events of 9/11) "The Lone Gunmen Pilot" found the three computer-whiz protagonists trying to stop a remote-controlled jetliner from crashing into the trade centers. I used to watch this show with my dad on Friday nights and probably thought that the espionage plots could never be successfully executed in our country. The WTC car bombing in 1993 was one thing, but it was not a collassal terroristic attack by any means. At the time, we must have felt unstoppable.

STAIND - FADE

Another video that was taken off heavy rotation on VH1 in September 2001 was Staind's video for "Fade" due to its imagery of a crumbling clock tower. I'm not sure if it was banned or if it just wasn't picking up, but its imagery sure took on a different meaning after 9/11. Intercutting the footage of the band singing under the crumbling clock tower is a strained young office worker (derived from Edward Norton in "Fight Club" -- another contemplation of anarchy in the 'indestructable' pre-9/11 America). This odd pairing of crumbling architecture with a depressed office worker shows a Kafkaesque transcendence at work, and it's very odd to me that the falling clock tower serves the release to the tension of the office worker.

I hope the film is good, that it accurately captures the mood of the era, and adds the symbolic layer that Oliver Stone's "World Trade Centers" needed.

(c) A.J. Detisch June 1st, 2008

my room in singapore

Sun, 18 May 2008 23:30:25 GMT

My Room in Singapore

My youthful spark

Like living as a voyager in Singapore

Surrounded by black-haired beauties

Crispy, fried novelties

Livening up the stillness of my room

Faucets dripping in the morning soon

After my nights of cold, quiet sleep

A bus huffed, leaving

My ticket slept under a blanket of dust

The boys in the streets rung their rusty

Handlebar bells smiling with small teeth,

Confused smiles, kept from the rain

Standing next to drainpipes watching strained

Me getting on the bus that splashed at the clicking feet of

Business women, too distracted by their cell phones to notice.

Two years later a pale forearm was revealed

After her pouring the fresh water of my hometown

Into my cold crystal glass which I held tight,

I looked up and saw the smiling dimples of the

Waitress-deity fading into the smoky beehive kitchen.

Families eating on the tables between us

A graduate girl still dressed up in gown and hat

A well-fed father stroking the curls of his infant daughter

My family waiting, smiling at me holding my chopsticks

which condensed water balls have clung to in their

resting on the glass table.

I smile back, warmly, unsure

A bus outside regurgetates a floating mound of black smoke

Lingering like a balloon unfocused in my eye

And I’m back in my room in Singapore.