“Unrehearsed Birth” The Schizo Kid Poetics Vol. 4

A Black ink and charcoal self portrait from 2013.

A Black ink and charcoal self-portrait from 2013.

Unrehearsed birth, my talons submerged under the damp earth.  Time stuttering in reverse.  I curse underneath my breath.  The pieces of my skeletal thoughts and fragmented verses, that’s all that’s left.  aligned with the far left.  A tortured scribe; a stubborn narrator.  A stalled elevator.  Suspended, earth-bound by purgatory’s story.  Immersed in cauldrons of selves.  Ideas stacked one on top of the other like disheveled book shelves.  I delve into the wells of hypocrisy, like “Why do artists suffer the worst fate under this veil of democracy?”  Descended from the beat of the drum, expressing real life experience and spitting out street poetry, laced with what some might call cynicism.  Well that’s better than oppression or fascism.   My world’s a collision of hope and despair blended into my expression, to avoid depression or anger…like a downpour in a desert drought.

I pick the pen over the sword, but sometimes the sword looks tempting.  Reinventing the shape of the language, my slanguage of metaphors explores the spaces between politically correct and obscene.  Can I say what I think? Just like a right-wing think tank comes up with new and exciting ways to squash young talent.  Destroy those who question authority.  Hard not to feel subordinated when you’ve been educated by life, not school.  Retooling my arsenal of syllables.  If you think that you’re saved, then maybe you’re gullible.  I find idiocy hard to swallow, but I refuse to wallow in self-pity, staying sharp like a razor’s edge.  Dredging up the mystery of centuries of knowledge.  Make a “to do list” or a “refuse to do list” and let yourselves be heard.  Conjugate my madness like a verb.  I’m absurd, like a caged bird singing about freedom. Yeah, more like serfdom or slavery.

Studious with these vocal chords used for a purpose.  I resurface, then back down into the underground without a sound.  Analyze with these Jade eyes.  My eye on the prize.  I’m broke, but wise.  Never in the grip of vices that can tighten like vice grips.  Slips and tangles like tangled hair.  Sometimes life just ain’t fair.  Hour by hour my mind turns sour.  Refrain the echoes of my disdain.  Viciously entropy and anguish take over your brainwaves, like sitting too damn close to an old microwave.  The brave are few..  I get  misinterpreted or misconstrued by society.

I try to win with a weaker hand, contemplating in quicksand. I understand torment. I reinvent and ventilate my rage. I won’t ever act my age.  This street corner is as good as any stage.  Page after page I engage like the Zen master.  It’s the pursuit of happiness that we’re all after, or maybe it’s stacks of greenbacks; romance from fictional paper backs.  Train tracks are becoming obsolete, but are a metaphor for freedom and exploration.  Navigating territories unknown. I feel abused and dirty. Beaten down like a crumbling city pay phone.

I meditate and regenerate my time and space, like a black board that’s been erased, and replaced by new ideas and new perspectives.  The struggle is more than can be said.  Try to stay fed, and outta the red.  Shoes on my feet. Hat on my head.  Earn my daily bread.   Climbing through wormholes, dead sea scrolls.  The hands of time creak and scrape forwards.  My future is hopeful and fatal.  The skeletal cradle’s namesake is Muddled, like puddled water.  Don’t follow me I’m lost.  This is the cost.  This throne is made of flesh, blood and bone.  My head’s stuck in the wishing well.  The night sky sends me its charms, I try to stay out of harm’s way.  Night turns back into day and I wonder where the Magik comes from.  Where it goes to?  A metronome, a metaphor, a closed-door.  Climbing into bed, not sure that I can endure another.  Back to life, onward and upward.  My words an extension.  Fallen into the realms of ghosts.  A ghost walker walking through the void.  Death is the fate we can’t avoid.  Trembling in the grips of panic and a sense that you’re moving into oncoming traffic.

“Sitting beneath the Dead Moon” The Schizo Kid Poetics Vol 3

I left a trail of paintings behind me most of last year. this is a cyclops I donated to Veith Gallery in Halifax.

I left a trail of paintings behind me most of last year. this is a cyclops I donated to Veith street Gallery in Halifax.  Spray paint on a wooden panel.  2014

Etchings, sketchings and silently the dead moon waits for the password.  It takes it’s pound of flesh. Losing my breath. My disease makes me want to leave.  Just gotta roll up my sleeves. Starting to believe in this graveyard of dead leaves.  She holds me back from the ledge.  Back from the edge.  Out of service, this machine blinks in the dark.  Suffer for my art,  So, Do you wear the mark ? Mirrored sideways reflecting the image looking curiously back towards my line of sight.

Invisible scars, keep my pen scratching between the notebook’s pale blue lines.  I recoil, I try to unwind. I stay standing studious and blind.  I find the best thoughts surface when I let go and give up…Fill up my broken cup.  Moving with the tangled weight of joy and doubt. Making sanity a liar, crawling, soul searchin’, ain’t nothing that I’ve found.  This  Automatic writing dangles from my finger tips, eclipsed by the dead moon.  I’m in the sanctuary of the bastard sage.  Infinite like a painting seen through the eyes of the ages. Pages and pages tossed like refuse on my living room.  Lifting my head up to stare madness and torment straight in the eyes.

The information, and the intonation of my voice.  It’s echoed through this hollow space.  Ethereal and Crushed under the vice of life.  Lifeless, the solitary artist.  The moon restorative to the man spinning the cornered narrative.  It resonates as the words bend under my pen.  Spent the dawn, sent the demons home to reflect on what they’ve done.  Books on shelves, manuscripts.  I dove into the torrent of the writer’s room, the place where the desperate joy sits.  Where thoughts are hatched and peek through the winding thatch.  The phantom at my side, to whom I confide.  The place where I step cautiously inside, so as to not be swallowed by the empty page.

Explain, explain my refrain.  Drained out the urge to stop to lay blame.  Unhitch me from your whipping post.  The Phantasm  of dreams that lay dormant.  What spooks you the most, the teething ghost.  I’m the pale neighborhood demon host.  The dusk, the glowing dust, I must somehow turn my poisoned thoughts back to trust.

The opinions of me and my minions seem to fall on deaf ears.  The constant pull of torment and fear.  Just when you think you’re in the clear, the dark rider never fails to appear.  I erode and extend my verse to you like a romantic gesture under the lamplight.  It’s a fixed fight.  Did ever feel you can shine like a new dime that’s been doing time?  Climbing out of bed to face the demands of isolation’s request.  Just do my best, keep the cards close to my chest.  I look to the crooked sky into the crow’s naked eye.  The burial of  my liberty is all that’s ever offered.

Shape-shifting metaphors behind locked doors.  Left behind to cringe and explore. The duty and the abandon.  My resignation is forth coming. On the mend, around the bend. Back to give the eulogy, purge the entity that is me.  Shed my skin and begin anew.  I walk in the shadowed narrative that’s true.  The shade of my eyes is black and blue.  Deer in the headlights.  Snake bitten and smitten with you my love.  Late into the night just laying in the bed, gladly nursing love bites.

The Schizo Kid  2015

“The Docks of Rotterdam” Poetics by The Schizo Kid

To live a moment, a decade.  Hands black as the ace of spades.  The dockyard plastered in ash and fog.  This visited lost place.  Tall tales as long and deep as the harbor.  The symmetry and the certainty measured in tides.  Salt water, Death was nothing but a symptom of age.  A small fortune hidden inside a boot heel.  The young sailor’s worldly possessions.  A boot knife, a billy bat, and a locket.  A yellowed photo tucked carefully into his coat pocket, obscured by weathered faded ink.  A mermaid tattooed under his rib cage for good luck.  The screeching bare knuckle quarantine called home.

Amnesia, no solitude. Survival was just a rude business left up to the hand’s of fate.  Hemp rope, clinging to hope, splintered wood and stale bread.  A polished coin hung around your neck with leather.  Eyes squinting and soaking in the sting of the sun. A bird bath, a fish hatch and stacks of wooden crates like a heaving grave yard hugging the deck of the shore.  Disguised eyes.  Friendship was a myth seldom told.  The necessity of strong drink and fast women.  The sun slumps over and fades like a worn clock.

Emptied treasures.  Contraband hidden expertly.  These tarnished men, polished yet grayed by sweat and every ship is a replica of 20 more laying at the bottom.  Looking out small portholes like a scratched fish eye lens.  All depth perception lost to nausea.  A floating fever.  The mind a cruel storage unit eclipsed by the moon, disappearing into the horizon.  Self taught survivors.  Warming their hands over a candle flame.  Untamed by the disorder and the chaos of life.  A permanent huddled void.  Iron and rust, scarred faces and arms like tree trunks.  A thumb  tack put squarely onto a withered wall map. Life, death’s end paraphrased then sold over a card game.  Dog eared notebooks, tattered leather-bound books.  Playing cards with Naked ladies peering  suggestively with bare legs and long necklines and rouge applied like a second skin.

Bad weather, stoicism squeezed into stretched cloth.  Nothing regal or formal about this existence.  No aristocracy or pleasantly here…Just back breaking work, then the manic childish fever of shore leave.  Men spending every penny on cigarettes, scag, booze and women.  Patched sails, pale Norse faces.  Mended shoelaces.  The purification through pain scattered across tattooed arms.  Faded patches where the ink didn’t take.  A lover’s name carefully but obviously covered with a banner or a ship’s anchor.

The quiet necessities of life, like frantically weaving hemp rope for sails by lamplight, like a women’s braided hair…but too long to be attached to a lady.  Palms, faces and knuckles swollen and cut from scuffles. arguments over gambling debts.  Each man carrying vices to remain sane.  The sailor grin’s like a child with kerosene hands.  The constant splash of the sea.  Awkwardly walking out onto the dock, as if drunk with sea legs, and money to burn.  They spend everything that they earn, then get back on board the purgatory of this life.  The evidence of the staggering and sobering death toll.

A pirate image that I pasted to my cassette case that I used to store things in The Schizo Kid 2014

A pirate image that I pasted to my cassette case that I used to store things in
The Schizo Kid 2014

“Broken Glass Passing underfoot” Foreign land poetics vol. 2 by The Schizo Kid

“Self portrait” on top of a map of Iceland
The Schizo Kid 2015

Free verse, cursed by desire and plagued by fraternity, and a certain mad Justice. Falling back into the hands of fate. There’s nothing greater than my solitude, except maybe true love…but has this love come and gone. Along these cliffs, Underneath these clouds. Under the rain pounding like a soft warrior. At least there’s a story here…a footprint, a written fossil, of a life teetering on the edge of obscurity. The lottery of suffering. A misfit, so I claim the sullen pride to not be part of your clique or tribe, just a solo scribe, changing tides. Oceans of uncertainty, pushing all the black swans to the outside. Silent offerings, the sacrament of emptiness and the unfortunate train wrecks of my past. The broken glass passing underfoot.

Allusions or delusions made to save space, a state of grace. Fears not yet faced, displaced by the rudeness of these time constraints. This is my time and my dime. Just tracing my outline…erasing my shadow with invisible ink. Makes my heart sink. Underneath the underworld churls and clears a space for my spirit to reside. Worlds collide. Upside down is now right side up. Fermenting a belief in the foreverhood of nothing, and a certainty in uncertainty. I hit the bull’s-eye in the dark. This ark of experience, grown through failures and triumphant victories over the darkness, that can consume without warning. That’s what they don’t teach you in class. Divert disaster. Live through the pain. Push through the strange forests of the future. This human, or is it alien condition. My poetic intuition fails to cover rent or tuition. In the warfare of survival, the soldier must soldier on and hang tough. Become a machine with warm blood, a semantic flood. Steel nerves. Unnerved as the observer of chaos, rank and file. File my unnecessary emotions under “Destroy immediately.” The silence of discontent, a lament, turning this water to cement. Discipline sharpens my mind, and dulls the suffrage. Skipping the tutelage of anger channeled into alleys reserved for such a purpose. Anger is just beauty in a primitive notion. The motion of the heaving ocean of existence begs to be calmed. Subdued like a feud turned outward.

The awkward truism that we’re all capable of compassion and murder. Purging the symptoms of infection in body and metaphor…behind this locked door. My hermitage, my heritage. A crude shelter from the rain. A strained relationship to the human life, as these words fall from my mouth, I’m way south of normalcy. Everyday’s a new acid test. The all too familiar arenas of death or refuge. The subtleties of rebirth, the prosthetic arms of faith. The bird’s cry doesn’t seem symbolic or angelic, it’s just hunger and frantic need. I’ve succeeded with my battle tested theories. My youth’s just a wounded animal, a severed limb, beyond the boundaries of sin. I’m a vessel, a ghost, a thick fog. Terminal in madness, the only element that isn’t temporary. The formulas are lost in the wind, this strange world without end. A stranger to the nicety and certainty of life and death.

A fractured tree, a stone rounded by the flow of the Ocean tide. Beside my shadowed existence, there’s a stubborn Scandinavian persistence, that line of thinking that anything can be controlled, organized, and actualized in due time. The difficulty in trying  to undermine the genetics of sickness. Storms of my brain chemistry, and nothing to do with today’s forecast. Motorized footprints lead me to the mountain top. Hedging my bets, erasing my regrets with the possibility of today’s fortune. The misfortune of others. These time trials set into stranger’s eyes. Sometimes life seems contrived. I’ve survived birth, death, birth, rebirth, the damp earth and death’s hand. My echoed breath on the telephone. I’m an infant with an adult body. Deities with sharp teeth underneath my skin. waging war against complacency and fear. Turning modern concepts of poetics onto its ear.

Come closer to this agent of objection and rejection. Nature’s cruelty called “Natural selection.” Can I make a quick suggestion…Run, escape, create before it’s too late. Stand tall and let me hear your battle call. Circling the city, like an animal spooked before a big storm. Forlorn eyes strained to focus on my future, not the ancient past, and the constant rear-view mirror of my whole life. Losses real and imagined. Sanctioned lines and my lack of belief. Underneath my layers of spirit and armor. A sunken ship. I imagine all the images are frozen like permanent ink. I’m just a one man think tank, a broken spectacle. Whatever I am, it’s not recommended, nor does it come with instructions. Destruction of the soul is vanity, insanity is just a sane man’s reaction to an insane world. This is my curled ink pages unfurled. Endorphins gained through stretching my physical limits. My words of advice might suffice. Run and keep running until you collapse or run out of breath.

I’m shrouded in distance and pace. My face is just jagged edges that will eventually turn smooth. Agitated, I feel subordinated, an ornament of last season’s decoration. A consummate professional in the long-lost art of disappearing. I try to be precise like German engineering, never ever fearing man and his theoretical creation. another vocalized fossil, my imprint, my literary footprints. Avoiding the traps of hopelessness and vague idealism or self-delusion, confusion, like being an intrusion in your own skin. This thousand yard stare, my ammunition inked out like a stockpile of verses. Serated, vocally lethal. Expressing myself before that becomes illegal, Head up and feeble, the dust under the microscope of lost hope and the regression that blisters your feet.

“Misunderstand” Foreign land poetics vol #1 with The Schizo Kid

    Soliciting needed inspiration from other worlds and the curve of the street.  Overwhelmed by the underhandedness of this world.  Curled up inside of this womb, or is it a tomb? The belly of an emerging birth. The slow-moving scenery creaks by in my dreams.  Summarizing my life into paragraphs, paradoxes, packed into boxes.  Paraphrasing my existence into these words and stanzas of raw prose.  Something that everyone can understand…Where I reside it’s a very foreign land. I plant my flag, but doubt and madness drag behind my like fishing line.  The compromise of my eyes, I’m  left to wonder.  Just who in the hell’s sky am I under ?  I can give myself some credit, or a stern reprimand, and assume the burden of truth.  The storm that blew away my roof. Now my words and my thoughts are all scattered like seeds…tossed into the fall’s unforgiving wind.

    I remain the reluctant host, the ghost writer that creates my shadowed narrative.  Documents our lives and haunts us or helps us,  Stirring up the urge to purge.  The resurgence of past lives flood the present. Returning my words, my composition back to the land of the living.  I try to be more forgiving.  The splintered world of the Re-incarnate. silhouettes set in ceremony.  So, I re-emerge as wind.  This life’s just a stepping stone, a symptom of the infinite space that dwarfs my life into particles of light.  Falsifying my passports to countries that don’t exist.  I scratch my head then deliver another verse.  Like a metronome of rain.  It’s all in the delivery what my third eye sees.  When I die I’ll all of my royalties, I’ll settle all my debts and leave my regrets behind.  I won’t always excuse my illegible penmanship. I dreampt of something offhand, my pages turn into sand. I misunderstand just where the hell I stand.  Across the water, the sunrise blinds my weary eyes. Is truth really truth, or just another disguise ?  It’s uncertainty that I always actualized. A dark seed that precedes with the clinical procedure of living.  Everything seems fake.  Maybe my life was a mistake.  Draped in the mundane reality that crushes our dreams…splits it’s tattered seams.  Muffle my screams into silent resignation.  Surviving is my sole destination.  This is my curtain call, so I stand tall.

    It’s all tumultuous, I’m tongue tied.  Pulverized into the purgatory of verses, and the darkness of our culture.  Retroactive mind scapes, all is ever so askew.  Walking with a crooked precision like a broken pool cue.  I write, then I write, then I write some more.  I always say busy hands are crazy hands, the blank pages are desert sands.  The gladiators have been reincarnated as professional hockey players,  The general managers are the Roman senators of course.  The fans, of course, are the Plebian hordes.  I’m not sure who the emperor is, but I think it may be Don Cherry.  My ears ring from living inside of my headphones.  My wires get crossed, and across the street there’s a man who looks like he’s come back from the dead.  I push past the sign post of the desolate realism that says, “Hey some of us are drowning, throw us a fucking life-preserver!”.  I’ve always been a keen observer.  A poet warrior has to be the fastest learner.  I’m the sole earner, yes the only bread-winner of the people who reside in my physical frame.  I’m not laying any blame, but my family tree may be awash with a slew of madness/genius tight rope walkers.  Coffee does the trick first thing in the morning.  Maybe I’m mourning my lost childhood.

    I’ve got synapses, neurons, and frontal lobes all firing and back-firing on all cylinders.  Distilling my pages, here’s one for the ages.  Poetics and ramblings stored away. Piles of notebooks that age to get better or worse with time. I can’t decide.  The grizzled sage, I’m turning the pages.  Let’s fast-forward to death. I’ll probably say looking over my weary shoulders, “What I wouldn’t give to be alive.”  Alright, well here I am. What’s your major malfunction as the sergeant might say, as spittle falls from his lips. At night, I just write in longhand.  Then this crippled machine soaks it all in. It has to, it has no choice because I’m finding my voice

                                                              The Schizo Kid   2015

2014-05-07 10.59.44

“My Demons” This is my way of poking fun at my Schizo-Affective Illness

“My Demons”

My demons, well many poets and writers wax poetic about facing their demons. I have been struggling with this as a person lately being on the tail end of really manic episode, I am faced with a brutal depressive phase, I can only describe as absolutely hellish. So, this is my little ode to my demons.

My demons are unrelenting and cling to my heels like chewing gum. My demons are suspicious and malicious and just don’t give up. They make me want to jump ship. My demons dangle from the paddle of my doomed dingy even though they are the sole reason I left the boat. My demons leave me with very little hope. My demons make me forget how to cope. My demons wind me up tight as rope…do they ever quite?? NOPE

My demons don’t pull punches, they just attack in clusters, formations and bunches, My demons shift gears and throw me a fucking curve ball, this is what I am trying to explain to you all…Yes I have Medications, meditations, cope mechanisms, shaman’s vision’s, I can make good decisions.

Still, my demons

A photo of my work feared demon, the" Pirate demon" Coming aboard to torment me

A photo of my work feared demon, the” Pirate demon” Coming aboard to torment me

My demons come in the dead of night, My demons are not bark just all bite. My demon’s eat well and take yoga to maintain perfect health…My demons can make a racket or be silent and stealth. My demons love to see me suffer in pain. My demons are arseholes of the highest measure. My demons torment me in all types of weather. My demons refuel at the “Circle K” and gather much needed snacks. My demons make me confuse fiction and facts. My demon’s go on a “Low-Carb” diet. My demons say “Trust us we’re your friends”, but I don’t buy it. My demon’s wear kooky outfits and short cut denim. My demons try to have their way, even though I try not to let ’em.

“The Knotsmiths” An Intro Into The Least Known Profession On The Planet

"I Need a Fuckin' "Knotsmith" immediately!!

“I Need a Fuckin’ “Knotsmith” immediately!!

Let Me get started by saying that most of you may be scratching your heads, saying to yourselves, “Knotsmiths”?? What in the hell is “The Schizo Kid” talking about. Well, “The Knotsmiths” have entered every facet of modern society. Where there are “Hyperbolic adapters” and “New fangled PVC Cords” there are “Knotsmiths.”

We have all been there eh, It’s fuckin’ 2am and you are wrestling with that mangled, doomed mess of cords that is bundled up in your frustrated palm, while you curse your head of screaming, “Fuckin’ Fuck, these fuckin’ headphone wires” then you collapse exhausted and fuming in tears. That is just where the “Knotsmiths” enter the fray.

“The Knotsmiths” are like the fuckin’ mob or the “Masons”, except they specialize in untangling that bungled pile of cords you frequently contemplate sledge hammering in exasperation. Fuckin’ Headphones wires, Doomed Auxilllary cables, lawn mower extension cords, Dvd Cables, “Playstation” cords, fuckin’ HDMI connectors, toaster cord extenders, amplifier cords, fuckin’ matted and obliterated I-pod charger cords, Dread-locked guitar cords, knotted and double knotted skipping ropes, telephone tangled extenders, looped up “Playstation” controllers and list goes on and fuckin’ on. Who the fuck is supposed to untangle these fuckin’ laundry list of cords, You?, The neighboors?, the municipality? Hell no, you have make that phone call that you knew you didn’t want to have to make, You bite the fuckin’ bullet and call the most hated tradesmen on the fuckin’ planet “The Knotsmiths.”

Now just keep in mind, these ain’t fuckin’ lawyers, engineers or medical fuckin’ professionals, nope, they are fuckin’ “Knotsmiths.” Everywhere that there are cords and tangled up fuckin’ cables the fuckin’ “Knotsmiths” aren’t far behind. They are total pros, that’s why they are so fuckin’ successful. Their untangling techniques are secretly handed down from each generation of “Knotsmith.” Who else is gonna untangled that fuckin’ mess of fuckin’ cords behind your son’s fuckinm’ “X-box”??? Yeah, and who else could possibly get to the bottom of that pile of “Doomed extenders” and fuckin’ “Hyperbolic power bars” behind your home computer desk?? You gotta call a “Knotsmith” right? Of fuckin’ course. But, then you have to pay them double scale just to ensure that they don’t run amok, which they always fuckin’ well do, if you let ’em

After the “Knotsmiths” arrive, you gotta watch ’em like a hawk. You may get a strange “Visa” bill from “Mexico” a few months down the pipe…But that massive bundle of auxillary cables in your kitchen drawer is all neat and ready to link your devices. “Knotsmiths” ‘ya can’t live with ’em and ‘ya can’t live without ’em. We’ve all been there at 5am screaming at a pile of skipping ropes lumped next to your workout DVD’s.

Sometimes when the world gives you lemons you make fuckin’ lemonade right?? Just remember they are total pros, just try to tolerate their presence long enough to get it all in order. “Knotsmiths” fucking “Knotsmiths!!!”

Flashback to “The Schizo Kid” 2007 From A Tattered Manuscript

Hook your eyesockets into the bramble of lunchtime eatery noise. Conversations blending into tones….high….low…Middle of the pack. Whatever goes in my mind is demonically challenged, and completely subjective to my opinion…or lack there of. What is the meat, the substance of existence. Maybe being withdrawn and elusive is a cocoon of neccesity.

Seven million swamp creatures out of ten agree that they are immune to hypnosis and brain manipulation of any kind. I just use simple “Hip-Hop Economics” my son. This ain’t “Moral hooliganism” or “Unorganized toilet flushing living” ungentle readers, it is real dirty, gritty life. Establishing a center within the (HQ) for “Dream Interpretation” and “Extra-terrestrial Heritage Research.” The research aims to prove that “The Schizo Kid” and his weirdo brethern are in fact the vital link between this world and the next.

“Mega-advanced hyperbolic ion-detectors”, catologued lives, lived, re-lived, altered, taken out of context, then fed through a fuckin’ paper shredder at “Maximum Fuckin’ Speed.” Delerium on the exercise machine at the local gym. Head spining way too fuckin’ fast. Seeing spots, then a sudden flash of insight. “A FUCKING VISION.”I see a vieled beautiful “Demon-Godesss” flashing a smile in my direction. It is love at first glare. Two lost ships, real gone, lost souls. Two “Enigmatic Alien Portals.”

We promptly elope and open up our own “Version Of Reality.” The version we prefer is one of focused madness…channel out hatred of morality and disdain for the “WHOLE FUCKING CONTROL APPARATUS.” We birth 2 or 3 highly intelligent “Reptilian” baby oddities. They are so odd and beautiful that they draw in curious onlookers….and passers by. By the light of the moon the “Hybridized Monsters Of Power” try to invade our cave, our special portal to the “Ghost Realms”, only understood by those who dwell in them.

Exerpt of “The Lizard Boy HQ Chronicles” is as follows…

“Late in the cold evening, sensing the need for an ommision. Surviving someone else’s opinions. Puzzled by the solitary man’s struggle for solace, to drink from inspirations “Twisted Chalice.” Exiled like Napoleon, they say “NO MAN IS AN ISLAND” well, I am in spiritual hell, can you see my soul, can you even tell. I have had my fill wrapped up on in this “Demon-goddess’s” spell, I am in need of her heart, I’m going back to the well.”

The Schizo Kid 2007

Des (A.K.A) “Chief Maniac” and “The World Tour Of Hotel Bathrooms.” Volume 1

"Des, Get Back In The Fuckin' Bathroom Now!!"

“Des, Get Back In The Fuckin’ Bathroom Now!!”

Well, when we talk of “Chief Maniac”, we speak in “Glowing terms.” The terms of the rules regarding “Chief Maniac” and the “World Tour Of Hotel Bathrooms..” are as follows…We had to lock up Des (That will be the abbreviated “Monikor”, to ensure that his identity remains private.) Basically, it is the story of a punk lead man, so fuckin’ foul, evil, offensive and destructive, that the only way the band, “The Doomed Planet” could tour, was to lock Des in the fuckin’ hotel bathroom pre and post-show to ensure that Televisions were not” Smashed”, and hotel furniture not “Plundered” or hotel phones weren’t “Ripped to shreds.” Also make fuckin’ sure Des does not have access to hookers or bald caps or extra jackets to smuggle in contraban or Extra Caffeine…we kept that “Fuckers” Coffee quota mega low for a damn good reason.

Now, “Ungentle” and “Doomed” readers, by the start of the tour, Des was usually already in a Psychosis similar to a snarling “G.G. Allin” or a raging and cackling “David Yow.” We had to lock this “Fucker” in the hotel bathrooms, to avoid the destruction and embarrasement, and, of course, “Crippling” hotel bills, and the unwanted run-ins with “John-Q Law.” We would mash anti-psychotics and hide them expertely under pepperoni pizza slices, stir in valium or ativan into his “Ginger Ale Quota”, and just hope that That “Fucker” wouldn’t rip off the shower door, defile hotel linens, or tunnel his way into room 308 next door.

We couldn’t really just give Des “Clothing priveleges” or even “Socks and underwear priveleges.” Well, of fuckin’ course not. Des would routinely sneak mashed up books of matches and firecrackers and just set his “tighty whities” Aflame…”BBQ-ed socks and underwear anyone??” I remember we used to tell Des we were in Europe, when we were actually in fuckin’ “Toledo.” Besides, he wouldn’t know the fuckin’ difference…It was all a blur of “Level 9 Hotel Bathroom Meltdowns”, and psychiatric meds fed via whatever god damn way we could get them into his system. I remember the infamous “Chicago fiasco” of 2004. Well, let’s just say that Des went on a rampage and managed to sneak out into the night after a ripper show, he phoned a “Pizza Guy” then paid him 50 bones to let him wear the uniform, and off he went. By, the time we found him the next day, he had gone and spent the tour gas budget on booze, strippers and had a half sleeve tattoo of a giant serpent on his left arm.

Well, well, well, let me just say, as the drummer, that Des is just Des. We have to continually medicate him and keep him under control. Or, under control enough to get him onstage and back into a fuckin’ cab, then safely home for the night in the hotel bathroom. Now things like hotel soap, handtowels and shampoo, we just right those particular items off completely.

Of course, we never notify Des when we hit “Europe”. “Europe” seems to feed his “Hedonism” and “Destructive Lunacy”. For example, in “France”, a mecca for liberty and the arts, we can’t let Des catch wind of it. Too many “Leftists” and “Free-spirits” to send Des into an anarchistic frenzy of booze, spray paint and mayhem. Of course, Des, due to his “French blood”, has a raging fondness for “Les Femmes Francaises.”

In the French punk scene, all the young “Punker” “Up and Comers”, are assigned to the infamous “Pee-pants patrol.” the “Pee-pants patrol” are a group of young and aspiring deviants who have to earn the respect and brotherhood of the old and cranky “Punk Rock Veterans” on the scene. The sole job of the “Pee-pants Patrol”, is to just piss their pants. When the cops are watching or “Government Goon Squads”, we just radio in a “Mandatory Pants Pissing.” It is “100% legal”, and our only way to voice our anarchistic discord with the “Powers That Be.” Bien Oui!!!

These young vigilantees are keep under close watch in one of our “Squats” or “Hyperbolic Anarchist Bunkers”. Here’s how it works… “Sock priveleges”, “Shoe priveleges” and “Full clothing and leather jacket priveleges” aren’t just handed out. These privileges have to be earned. These out of control French possee are issued sock and hat priveleges only once they cease hiding matches and crumbled up wads of gum, and “Anarchist pamphlelts” in their socks. We even had one doomed member named “Le Phantom sparker” who took 4 years to get his “Sock and clothing priveleges!!!” He continually set fire to his shoes and socks, and applyed bald caps and layered socks expertly hiding lighters in his socks, to set his only wordly possessions ablaze. He was, of course, revered for this commitement to being an anarchist.

If Des ever caught wind of the fact that we were in “France”, we would defintely have to put extra “Ativan” and “Zyprexa” into his ginger ale, and mash the epival into his sushi and pizza, and elegantley slide his chow under the fuckin’ hotel bathroom door. We pretty much have moderately medicating Des down to a science, just like “Zee Germans.” “Germany”, as a “Dutchman”, Is like that total psycho older bother that you respect, but have to keep your eye on.

So, “Eastern europe” went ok for us as a band, except for a “Level 9 Meltdown”, when Des realized he wasn’t being let outta the fuckin’ hotel bathroom to view the infamous castle in “Transylvania” once occupied by “Vlad the Impaler” or as he is known “Dracula” or “Count Dracula” or I once referred to him affectionately as “Drac.” I remember, after I had finished screaming at that stupid tourist vessel called the “Harbour Hopper”, asking “Dracula” to turn off the fuckin’ sun. I yelled out loud, “Drac” buddy, Turn Off The Fucking Sun, I am fuckin’ sweatin’ through punk tees at an astounding fuckin’ rate, and I fuckin’ hate laundry detail. Especially when my “Ginger Ale Quota” is mega low.

Fuckin’ “Eastern europe” was fine, and we had Des so fuckin’ well medicated during our encore night at “L’artiste Zero” in Paris that he sleep like a baby. A baby that is 36 and rips hotel rugs up with pen knives and thinks it is terribly funny to order female escorts, then send them to get pizza and beer. “Scandinavia”, whole other kettle of fish. Des, managed to exit the hotel bathrooms 3 or 4 times. And, the infamous “Ravensburg Hotel” in “Oslo, Norway” “Tunneling fiasco” of August 2012…”FUCK WHAT A TOTAL NIGHTMARE.”

Des, tried, somewhat succesfully in “France” to join the infmaous “Pee-Pants Patrol.” By the time we left “Europe” the band was totally broke as joke, mainly due to the “Oslo Tunneling Fiasco.” After Des failed to consume out “Zyprexa Infused Ginger Ale” he went and ever so gently remooved the bathroom sink and tunneled his way from the band’s “Room 308” all the fuckin’ way into “Room 310.” We were off to do a radio\TV promo in downtown “Oslo.” That “Crazy Fucker” just flushed the fuckin’ ginger ale and consummed tap water, before ripping it outta the fucking wall. Well, it was “Punk as Fuck”, I will attest to that fact. We thought he had his morning quota of “Hyperbolic Psychiatric meds.” No such fuckin’ luck. The hotel bill was “Astro-fuckin’-nomical. So, I wish we had of left Des with the fuckin’ “Pee-Pants Patrol” in fuckin’ “France.”

…Quebec and Maritime tour Coming in Vol 2