Prince of Dead Dirt and stuck like tuna tar-tar to the roof of the last gasping mouth. I should have something to say but not with these words. A death sentence really for a writer without good grammar. I’d rather be a righter. Fix the wrongs, leave the unforgotten to their misery. I will have a long bath or a long walk, something like that. Spinning in my grave above ground with the others. Toss a dreary aside my way. Looking for the time of day, it is not in the Times. It might be half drunk and passed out. The great groans of the masses and the grim reality which passes. I shall have my tea and biscuits, my PB&J. Let us walk together in the trenches and the tree lined streets. The boulevards of screaming filth they will not hear our cries. The crisis will march towards us, not away.

kll the guns

I will kll the guns, that’s who I will kll.

I will kll the guns and leave them for dead, dying.

This is what I will do.

Pain is not for people, pain is for guns

Man with axe

Computer reads speil

Drive to the store

Flower on the mouth

Flower of the month. Stuck in my mouth. Business side down. My energy up. Young, bitter and bored: constant aggravation. A smart-ass frustrated by the dim-witted. The devil, you know. Degenerated beyond the magic that music makes in your head. My energy up. My energy up. Please sing me songs of days gone by. History as you find it. The underwhelmed are eternal, or perhaps the plain old whelmed. I’ll not give up the ghost at any price. Segue to a downhill stroll. Flower on the mouth. Shucked corn and radiate. Star finder set towards the night sky. Radar radio, nonsuch. A great list of things written down of things for me to do. A great list set in time set in motion. Stand alone against the tree breeze. Stand alone in the garden. Grabbing at straw.

Candy on purpose

Candy on purpose. The matter at hand. Live another day and wreck reigned in to upset proportions. I love the aftertaste that money leaves. The lingering stench. Lagoons filled with murk (oh the murk). Can I revel in the murk? The stand off existence will prescribe then don’t ask why. Shadow makers and mystic fakers and I will drive the car along the pocket. No defense is the best no offense meant none taken. A drawing will always be a drawing. As long as it is drawnt. And side-views cast through rose colored sunglasses take a stab at the night. I’ll take a stab at the night. The night as it was originally intended is a dark thing, a dark thing plopped down along the earth like a soldiers rucksack. Crash glamour is barking and I am still as loveless as a pylon.

Some phrases or titles hit home so hard that they become part of the captions to things that happen in your life. Back in the early 80's on a trip to NYC we went to see this show at the Whitney. You'd be surprised how often you can work this title into conversation.

Curtains

(the door)

Beyond comprehension, awestruck, devastated beyond the tunnel of retribution, sadness. Lost keys in an effort to sideways down the car park. The house not entered, the storm unrealized. Coulda, shouda, winter. Standard lines of truth vs a life well lead. Feet well fled against a sky of high water. Aghast at last weeks unfinished news and the history of good times that will not become of road map. Oh, I’m sorry, did my existence just fuck up your day? Really, I’m not crazy. Really. I’m just relegated to the front lines of my own life, against my will. I will take up arms against the day. Me against them. From the tumbler comes the wicked dice tossed into my face, into my life. Good, smart then fall apart. I hope you find what you’re looking for (the door, the door).

Sonny

Saw a friend

Wrote that once, the sound of empty

Wrote that book, saw that play, bailed that hay. Inside the boat there is no upside right. The moth to the light determined the way north, my hand on the rudder is the only sound I hear. Made of wood and staring at starry skies. Lost ways and slow running clocks are not marked in the journal. So the pages blow rife with empty. And the day starts with anew. But the compass must still point ever which way. Dogs? Dogs. Dogs will not bark at the sea if they are not there. Horses will not bay at the moon. The horse is the boat and boat is at sea. And I will look bow-ward, despite the direction we are headed. Underground is good, underwater is a life worth living. Surface tension, and the book will sink right to the bottom. Eye on the time, with a wheel of lime. The wheel goes round and round.

Section 3 starts Here >

Jr. CHemists revised and revisited

Jr. Chemists—Back in the early 80's when water was just water I was in a band called the Jr. Chemists along with my pals Michael Cornelius and Dawn Kelly. We played our own unique flavor of Punk Rock. Something about intellectual music for twelve year olds. Anyway I recently received a very nice email from Roger Piskulick who was involved in putting on shows in the Phoenix area and he straightened me out regarding some dates on my list of gigs we played. He also provided me with several cool posters. I have updated the pages that I keep on the inter-web please check it out.

Bands of Brendan: Jr. Chemists

Also Michael has been busy putting up some of the tracks on SoundCloud which can be found here:

Arizona Disease

—brENDan

Gun . . . .

Right in two

Cracks the heart right in two, right in two. I’ve opened letters like that. I’ve sat at the crucible and played it like a piano. And it really does warm the fingers. Like a hand shake with Satan. I have devised a plot, a plot to remedy the shark bite. I stand here bleeding to death and I may actually catch a cold and die as the blood puddles below me. Stand tall and be smart. The gift is the hand shake against all unnerving, all undead. The undead do not shake hands. And journeys do not always end in silence. Some with a crash. And home is made of splinters of wood, that get stuck in the hands and arms. Blood, blood flowing unseen, behind the scenes, like hardcore. Like a mail delivery. We will live as visioneers, siding with the winners every time, against all tyranny.

Section 3 starts Here >

LuLu

Here is a great song from Ed McCurdy released sometime in the 50's.
And if you have a daughter named Lou Lou it is irresistible.

LuLu

THIS

I'm working on some art in the form I like best (8.5 x 11"), collage, words and pictures. Trying to do it all in the digital realm. This is the first one I have completed.

No Big Deal

Hear this in the rotten key:


No Big Deal

OK, Part 3.5

Strewn together like rough caskets for an unexpected slaughter. Tumbled down piles of lost marks on torn down walls. “I used to be this high”. Marked paths can often be lost to wind and rain. But my mind is intact, housed in it’s shell, living hell. Oh well, I scream loudly, melting. Living hell is the best revenge. Good drunk, bad drunk. And days of no plan revealed plain. I will be the offer rid or ridden, the home base, the scourge of the microphone morphine drip. No dope kicker. Shabby the habit that douses the flames. The burning down house will become a friend to the lost souls with no way home. And for every broken neck a double check. Steep stairs and magic marks to the sky as the life that is lived is revealed.

Section 3 starts Here

Dog or Pony?

Do you have it? Try this:

Dog and Pony

Some times a letter, from 1979

Here is one I received from my long time art inspiration Howard.

Mounted to cardboard and sealed in plastic . . .

Grovel then novel

Also, I have signed up for the new boredom. Have you? Not like Tokyo boredom. This is the hardcore, the last rites of stupification. Brain in the deep freeze (deep fried, well you get the idea). Like a single block of solid matter, no moving parts. Aspirin won’t help you. Guns can not protect you. Go ahead, stand against the back wall, this is the firing squad you’ve always dreamed of. Sat in that bar before, sun outside still shining. Bad news for ice cubes and their ilk. Thirsty nights no longer. I’m sad just to hear those words. Blankets on the bed cover up the seriousness of the situation. Short walks and loud sounds, let’s call it even or call it off. A pain like no other. “I’m not giving up” said the ice cube in the sauce pan. “I’m never giving up . . . .

I'm working on this novel that is bent and broken, suffers from no story or characters or words. Hell, I can't even spell very well.

Above a segment, below, the whole she-bang as she stands . . . . .

Ok, said the day

Self-Inflicted Aerial Nostalgia (1989)

Radio Show (Trust the Wizard)

I've been a Guided by Voices fan for quiet a while at this point. But I recently stumbled across this ancient gem a few days ago and was reminded of the off handed brilliance that shines through in most of their work. This whole record is fantastic. Find it, hear it.

Self-Inflicted Aerial Nostalgia:
Yes, perfect, brilliant.

The coffee spill

Whatever

Hüsker Dü-Whatever

Been listening to a lot of Hüsker Dü lately. This is one of my all time favorite bands.

New Day Rising, Metal Circus, Flip Your Wig, Zen Arcade, so many great albums. So many great songs. It's hard to pick out one as a favorite, but this one always rises to the surface for me. The rage, the disappointment, it really is a high water mark.

Have a listen and if you are not familiar with their catalog, well get busy.

—B

Self Portrait color zerox, circa 1980

Waxahatchee

Waxahatchee,
This band is the work one terrific new singer songwriter Katie Crutchfield.
She has two LPs out and has another due in April. I am really looking forward to it. Love the stripped down sound and palpable angst on this one. And if you can't say it in under 2 minutes you are not trying hard enough or you really like guitar solos.

Misery Over Dispute

6ft underrated

Ingress to dirt, 6ft underrated and dying. Like water that needs a drink or brain that needs a think. I hear the sound of gas as it fills my tank. The lost bags and wrong taken bridges are piling up like mad markers to unthought murals. The junk I have lost in my own junk drawer is astounding, remarkable, note worthy. If I have it, sometimes I don’t have it. What I once had, the good times, they are peeling away like the wrapping paper of opened presents. But the paper is the present, and the argyle socks are now made of wood. Hand shake deals over barrels on the porch give way to thunderous rounds of thunder in the distance. Because, well, if you’re on the porch then there will be thunder. Thunder overhead, over heard.

My brain often comes across vague notions of ideas, band names, song titles, subjects for distillation. 

I have a folder on my computer where I put these.

Here is a list of the last several:

The moon, a solid no

My Wild Engines

How I won't mind

pajama comma pajama

I am destroying your paradigms (pajamas)

Slight cracked sanity

Felff (fallen elf)

Wrath and Heartbreak

gruntle

Kill Squares

Gotta get a record out!

Sometimes a perfect song gets written, recorded, released and just falls off the map for some reason.

Green was a band from Chicago I saw several times back in the 80's and they
released a bunch of great records. Snotty young kids with a whole lotta Kinks on there minds. I love the aggressive unpolished attitude of there sound.

Below is a link from there near perfect first LP:

Gotta Get a Record Out

Dogs

Write that book, saw that play, bailed that hay, inside the boat there is no upside right. The moth to the light determined the way north, my hand on the rudder is the only sound I hear. Made of wood and stare at starry skys. Lost ways and slow running clocks are not marked in the journal. So the pages blow rife with empty. And the day starts anew. But the compass must still point ever which way. Dogs? Dogs.

Brendan deVallance at the 

Morgan Street Expo, Chicago. 

September 11, 1983

Burning

I've been going through the archives, scanning into the digital realm. There are a lot of loose ends in the shape and smell of red herrings. Here is one, I'd say this is from the early 80's.

Do not

Do not live. Do not, the world is an evil place full of godless heathens or worse. And the mark up on the cost of your life on this hurtling rock shall not quench the thirst of all the days the universe has ever known. The knife in your gut, yes that one, the one you placed there is not unlike the plug in the full cold water bathtub. You want to pull it out, need to, you do not. You live, you live another day, oh look the wound has healed.