Andy Seven's Blog, page 4
November 26, 2020
Dreams That Money Can Buy
Dreams That Money Can Buy - Andy Seven Ltd
Thin emaciated petite
and pale blonde
she had the gift of grift
deaf mute picking pockets
Shoplift shuffles
watched by 69 eyes
circuito cerrado
like an electric fly
like a hydra
the larcenous Medusa
weaving through aisles at all the busy shop floors
drifting and floating her way out revolving doors
Hitting up subway trains
a restless madame
shifting fingers
which never linger
restless grabbing claws
without a pause
Jamming the aisles
are oceans of crowded men
she’s sacrificing herself
for a fondle or ten
as she grabs wallets and watches
and scattered foreign swatches
Handbags with trapdoors
passageways in her purse
the take on her bed
the harpy’s nest
Irish coffee and a smoke
as she kicks off
her high heels
she flies again in the urban dawn
Copyright 2020, Scuzzbuster Music (BMI). All rights reserved. From the forthcoming album Minstrels Anonymous, to be released on January 2021.
November 14, 2020
Power Trio
Power Trio
Three guys walk into a bank
wearing cheap plastic rock star masks
there was Elvis, Gene Simmons and Ringo Starr
customers stood in line and
laughed at them
It was the day after Halloween
month end deposits
rent payments
welfare checks
Elvis swiveled his hips and flashed
white hot lead
shot the underpaid security guard dead
Well the laughter all stopped
and everybody dropped
Elvis covered the tellers
Gene Simmons swagged the merchants on the floor
while Ringo watched the door
Elvis shucked “thankyouvurrymuch”
Gene told everyone they should be honored he’s robbing them
and Ringo nervously tapped his feet
A few beats later you could hear a siren wailing
backbeat later a tear gas canister came crashing and sailing
Elvis moaned, “We’re caught in a trap,
we can’t walk out”
Shot Gene Simmons in the face and
his tongue flew off
then he shot Ringo in the neck
ever run riverrrun jugular fountain
then he put the gun in his mouth pulled the trigger
and went down to the edge of Lonely Street
Copyright 2020, Scuzzbuster Music (BMI). All rights reserved.
From the upcoming album Minstrels Anonymous, available on Bandcamp in January 2021.
November 7, 2020
The Rooster Chews Tobacco
He awoke in bed in a crucifix position. He always found himself waking in the crucifix position, arms spread out to the edges of the bed and his legs locked together pointing down and his head pointing up to the ceiling. His eyes blinked once, twice and then he bent himself up in the bed, ruffling his hair.
He slept fitfully that night; he heard a lot of hooting and hollering outside. Not unusual for a marina where all the swells got drunk in their yachts and made a lot of noise. It bothered him because it was his first night out of jail and he wanted to have a peaceful night’s sleep in his houseboat, but no. Big Jason Gulliver was pissed.
“Fucking, fucking, fucking assholes”, Big Jason grumbled. “Fuckin’ lifestylers. Ruining the bay with their rich kid bullshit”.
He woke up in his street clothes, a soiled t-shirt and baggy fatigue pants. He leaned over to put on his Doc Martens when he saw a rat scurrying across the bedroom door. He picked up a boot and threw it at the rat.
“Get the fuck off my boat!” he yelled.
The bedroom was as Spartan as it gets. There was his bed, barely big enough to fit his gigantic frame; a small dresser filling in as a hamper as it collected an unwashed load of clothes; a tiny nightstand with a lamp for his paperback reading, and that’s it. The room was completed by a window with a dirty curtain faded by the sun.
On top of the dresser sat a cassette player with dozens of cassettes strewn about, some buried under a few banged-out paperbacks like Sartre’s “Nausea” and Burroughs’ “Nova Express”.
He got up to face the music, face the world, face the city that paid to put him away, and above all else face his friends, even the ones he owed money to. He fetched back his boot and put them on and walked out the front of his boat.
He stepped up to the dock where a blonde man with a trimmed beard waited for him.
“Oh hey, Jason, I figured it was you. You’ve got a phone call”.
“Tell them I’m still in jail. It’s probably somebody calling about their money”.
“Well, okay. I didn’t know you got out already”.
“Well, the fuckin’ rats didn’t know either, goddammit”, Jason cussed. “Got any coffee?”
“No, dude”, he moped. “Sorry”.
Big Jason lumbered up the dock towards the exit spilling out into the city street, looking around at the cars parked nearby.
“No, fuck it, just got out for that”, he thought. “Can’t jump back into it. Besides, someone might be waiting for me to do it again”. Still, he couldn’t resist ogling at the flashier cars parked around the corner.
He squinted his eyes shut and walked uphill towards the main street to get a cheap breakfast. He felt like a recovering addict, only instead of swearing off drugs he was swearing off theft.
Jason walked like an exiled minotaur, legs stomping spread far apart in a gesture of assertion, funny in contrast to how close his arms were kept to his chest, in the way a boxer keeps his arms and fists close to his face to provide protection in the ring. It might even be said that Big Jason either boxed at some time or trained for boxing during some chapter in his life. This gait was topped off with him leaning forward as he walked, his head and shoulders behaving like antennae, behaving like curb feelers on the lookout for trouble.
Did you ever eat breakfast without even enjoying a single bite? Jason hammered away his meal without really concentrating on what he was tasting, just going through the motions. It wasn’t what you’d call being in a trance. He simply had his mind on everything else but what was in front of him. Sitting in stir will do that to you.
He caught his reflection in the mirror across the room and saw a large, wide piece of half-sculpted concrete. His chin was large, his lips turned down, his short spiky hair crowning his head. The only thing dispelling all this facial cruelty was a set of calm, almost tired eyes. There was peace there while the rest of his body looked hard. He cut an ominous figure but there was something downbeat in his demeanor.
All this soul transference felt harmful because he was too young for such divisions in his mind. While he acted dumb and simple on the outside it was a crowded theater on the inside, thousands of ideas and thoughts racing through his mind like an electrical storm.
He paid his bill and walked out of the café in a trance, slowly trotting down the hill back to the narrow street at the bottom of the hill. An endless line of parked cars showed themselves off to him as he walked by. His eyes flashed at the flashier cars and he felt the tingle, the irresistible urge building inside of him. It wasn’t fair; he was just released for stealing them and here they were heartlessly teasing him.
It was a veritable feast of automotive beauty, steel and chrome pulchritude igniting flames of vehicular lust, daring him to commit another theft. Jason slowed down his pace and turned around, then looked across the street, then craned his head to see if anyone was leering overhead somewhere.
It was a rare moment when there was just him and his urges left alone on the concrete midway. He began appraising his prospective choices: there was the tan Cadillac, “too fogie, no punk would be caught in this thing”; the red Firebird, “perfect looking sled, but red just screams out everybody look at me, I’d get picked up in less than five minutes”; the black Mercedes Benz, “yeah okay, graduation present from Dad, I won’t arouse suspicion pulling this one”.
He looked around one last time, leaned his hips against the driver’s side, reaching for his keys and then broke out chuckling. The window was rolled down.
“Fuckin’ rich people have the dumbest confidence”, he chortled. No need to jimmy the door.
He swung right in, plopped on the red leather upholstery, and quickly reached under the dashboard. He pulled down a few wires, cut off the casing and twisted the bare wires, connecting them, starting the engine quickly.
He popped in the cigarette lighter and grabbed a smoke from the pack on the dashboard, lighting it up. The radio blared out a Grateful Dead song loudly and he turned it off. He pulled out into the empty street and shifted it into a higher gear.
The Benz gave a slight jerk and Jason frowned. “This one’s got shitty transmission. You never can tell if these classy rides are in good shape or not. This one’s a turkey. Well, I’ll dump this in a little bit, but-Hello, who’s this?”
Jason saw a pretty Asian punk girl with spiky blonde hair in a black tee, leather miniskirt and fishnets hitching at the end of the corner. He rolled right up and leaned across the seat.
“Hey, hop in”, he bellowed. “I’m going your way”.
She stared at him for a second and asked, “Do you know where I’m going?”
“Doesn’t matter, babe, I’ll take you there”.
She stared at the inside of the car, appraising it. “Red bucket seats. Okay, but no funny stuff!”
He cranked the door open and she got in. He watched her beautiful legs slide into the front seat.
“So where are we going, gorgeous?”
“Telegraph Hill”.
“Okay, cool”. He let out the clutch and it gave a slight jerk. She chuckled, grabbed a cigarette from the pack on the dashboard and lit up.
“Hey man, this car is pretty bomb”, she puffed.
“For real, you Japs know a lot about bombs, huh?”
“I’m no Jap, asshole, I’m Chinese”.
“I know, I was just testing you”.
“The fuck you were!” she puffed away like an angry dragon.
“I’m Big Jason”, he smiled at her. “You know, I’ve seen you around somewhere”.
“Yeah, you look familiar”, the girl calmed down. “I’m Suzy, Suzy Wrong. I think…I think I saw you at The Mab once”.
“The Nuns show, I was the one the bouncers tried to kick out but I put up a fight. I wore them out, though, so they let me stay in. Assholes”.
“Assholes!” she cackled.
The car jerked sporadically and Big Jason mumbled, “Smooth ride, huh?”
“Is this really your car?”
“Sure it is! Graduation present from Dad”.
“Where did you graduate?” she asked skeptically.
“University of Alcatraz, baby doll”.
Suzy stared at him for a second, and then laughed. “Yeah, you were the big guy the bouncers couldn’t take down. My friends watched that go down. It was more exciting than the show”.
“Should’ve charged people to watch”. Jason tossed his butt out the window.
“Big tough guys. You’re all a dime a dozen”, Suzy stared at him while her slender hand wandered down to his crotch, rubbing his thick tool against the fabric of his coarse jeans.
He glanced at her from the side and caught her licking her lips.
“Hey, baby, ever been in a houseboat? With beer and pizza?”
“Sounds like a date”, she caressed his unit tenderly. “Let’s make it”.
He dumped the Benz a block away from the docks and they walked down to his houseboat.
One hour later Suzy was in his bedroom wearing nothing but his t-shirt and drinking out of a large bottle of wine from the fridge. She spit some all over his tense, prodigious tool and went to work on him. She tasted the wine and he tasted freedom, among other things.
October 30, 2020
A Boy And His Lute
Since my birthday falls this Saturday (the 31st) I decided to treat myself to a cool birthday present, namely a video of my recent poem The Scenester. Because I accoimpany myself on mandolin I used a lot of photos of myself playing the instrument at home and at play. I edited most of it on am ancient Corel movie software. I encourage all writers out there to record themselves and film themselves as often as possible. Anyway, enjoy at your own peril :)
October 23, 2020
Suburban Adam And Eve
SUBURBAN ADAM AND EVE
There were green lawns with sprinklers
shooting water towards the azure sky
Spanish tile towered with television antennae gables
tropical palm trees swaying in the soft wind
blowing away dark gray clouds coughing out of battered station wagons
Things were cool when I was sixteen years old
there was the girl, with her long, dark, wet brown hair
which often fell into her dark, wet brown eyes
she gave me a dark brown smile and said,
“wait a minute”
She climbed over the backyard fence
and I waited
I heard her voice over the fence,
“well come on”
I climbed over the fence too
She stood next to her neighbor’s peach tree
she pulled off a peach and handed it to me
“bite” she said
I bit into the soft flesh of the fuzzy fruit
the juice ran all over my hands
she took my hands holding the bleeding fruit
She bit deep into the fuzzy peach
her eyes boring into me
her warm, hungry, brown eyes not moving away from me
the stare of a tiger
the stare of a wolf
This is the way it began
and this is the way it goes on
Eden in suburban Culver City
C 2020, Suburban Adam And Eve - Andy Seven (Scuzzbuster Music, BMI). All rights reserved.
ROBODYKE
Bamalama bamalama Ooh poo padou
i have a rhythm machine
i call her Robodyke
there's a woman in there
big thick arms
flat top head
chews tobacco when she plays
she hits to kill
When i'm wearing guyliner
she says
"hey, slugger
why you're just a cute lil' bitch, arent'ya?"
shut up and play, Robodyke
Robodyke never lets me down
never gets tired damn her
when i turn her off
she lights up a lucky
cackles like a hen on fire
"hey, slugger
i'll bet your cock tastes like teen pussy"
shut up, Robodyke
You just want to be
a French sailor
comme Jean Genet
Painting by Evelyn De Morgan
October 9, 2020
Chatty Charlie
CHATTY CHARLIE
Chatty Charlie was two feet high
he was vinyl from head down to his little rubber shoes
except for his smartly tailored suit and snappy bowtie
bow tie daddy
with a string in the back he was dapper as fuck
but he had enough he had enough
Got up from the sofa and
put his adorable vinyl fingers to his mechanical mouth
ripped out a whistle
Talking Mike kicked his way out of his carrying case
Talking Mike had a sky-high matchstick of thatchy red hair
they both slowly trotted
like ventriloquist dummies always do to the kitchen
Chatty Charlie got on Talking Mike’s shoulders
raised up to the cutlery board
grabbed two sharp long knives
hopped back down and they
tramped on down to Barney’s bedroom
Barney snored
like a rusty saw across a Plymouth Barracuda car hood
Chatty Charlie slowly rotated his head over to Talking Mike
Talking Mike wanted to wink
but nobody was pulling his string
Chatty Charlie climbed to the left of the bed
Talking Mike climbed the right
plunging their knives into Barney
again and again and again
Barney screaming and bleeding
too late to fight
Blood soaking until it
looked like a scarlet waterbed
Chatty Charlie finally said, “Fuck you. That’s what you get for asking me about school, you bastard”.
Talking Mike said, “I did all the singing. All he did was drink water”.
never piss off a dummy with a knife
Ace Farren Ford & Andy Seven - Coaxial, Downtown Los Angeles (January 2020)
Submitted for your review is the last performance I gave before the COVID-19 specter hit the scene, playing tenor saxophone to Ace Farren Ford's alto saxophone at performance space Coaxial in downtown Los Angeles. It was a decent show, loud, wild and just long enough to stay in your memory. Enjoy. (Thanks to Daniel Kirby)
October 2, 2020
Stainless Steel Trees
STAINLESS STEEL TREES
I am cool, polished marble
i lie under stainless steel trees
around a lush green velvet lawn
Chameleons change to survive
changing to survive
too many destroying flesh
killing flesh
burning skin
and flesh
and bone
and hair
Change to survive
no more skin
no more flesh
no mare bone
So muuch killing
means nothing will ever
be the same
Change to survive
want to stay alive
like a chameleon
like a Rodin like a Henry Moore like a Michelangelo
I am cool, polished marble
smooth to the touch
frozen to the ends of time
with my stainless steel trees
Painting - The Big Game by Bernard Buffet.
Andy Seven Ltd. · PKWPKW
When leaving your home, don't forget your PKW (Phone! Keys! Wallet!). The only song in recent memory to combine spunky folk mandolin, free jazz saxophone and Japanese talk radio. Enjoy.
Stainless Steel Trees, Copyright 2020, Andy Seven (Scuzzbuster Music - BMI). All rights reserved.
PKW, Copyright 2020, Andy Seven (Scuzzbuster Music - BMI). All rights reserved.
September 25, 2020
The Ratodrome (For El Lobo Blanco)
I’m going to tell you a storyI promise it won’t be boringMonsieur LacheurLacheur Monsieur
Twas known as The Rat Mana real gone cat, manbig long nose, lime green eyesrat hair coat much too big for his sizeRat fur? Fur what? Fur rats!Rat-a-tat-rat
Busted top hat lined with black rat haircapped stringy locks which never showed carenecklace round his neck of rodent bonesbracelets of rat skulls as hard as stonesMonsieur LacheurLacheur Monsieur
Walking down the cobblestones his hungry houndto the roundhouse grindhouse down ground roundsweaty old space filled with men of great wealthwell-kept ladies hungry for a taste of hell
(Isn’t it funny how wealth and hell rhyme? Back to my story)
Welcome to The Ratodrome!
Rat Man steps into the pit with his hungry houndmoney changes hands the bell is rungrelease the rats release the houndgrowling, squeaking, men all shouting cacophonic soundsMonsieur LacheurLacheur Monsieur
The street vermin race to the circular wallthe hound grabs their necks in his bloody fanged jawscracking their heads with his ravenous fangsbloody rat claws twitching as their intestines go bang!
The noble rich men clutch clammy pale breastswith their sweaty little handsmamzelles laugh brashly, acidic champagneseeping through their glands
The hound races round the circlegrabbing three at a clipbones crunching to his munchingtearing them apart in his canine championshipQuelle domage quelle fromage quelle damage
Counter jots down how many how quicklyas the mamzelles begin to feel quite sickly20 dead rats lie twitching in a heapthere’s no damn inheritance waiting for the meek
Monsieur Lacheur gets his fistful of francsbloody bloody money death has no thanksthat’s all folks c’est terminé for cheap thrillswould you believe the wrong rats were killed
September 18, 2020
The Scenester
The SCENESTER
A waterfall of ink black hair
spilling out of my painted skull
like a curtain about to open
over my face for the horror show
where do all the wild boys go
Big long restless hands like
bear paws falcon claws
punching writing washing playing
feminine lips trying to follow what I’m saying
Brown eyes turn to blue
like a crumbling lighthouse
with the light slowly dimming
eardrums smashed from too many nightclubs
like a deaf tom cat
closed captioned for the hearing impaired
Wide hips composed by my mother
shake it to industrial bands
endlessly running legs
endlessly tired legs
dance to the beat
let’s go back to the big long hands
So in addition to recording this poem I thought it was time to get some of my mandolin in on the action. My playing is a little rough and the editing is even rougher, but it's okay. After this lockdown is over, I'm going to head over to a decent recording studio and engage in some decent overdubs. Should be good.
The echo on my voice was largely inspired by vintage country records, where the narrator talks about how he's serving time in prison for killing a man who took his beloved, forcing him to do the unthinkable. I love those records, and as long as I was doing a weird self-pitying narration here was my golden opportunity.
PM junk
him: Hey!!
me: hi
him: So, what’s going on?
me: nothing, what’s up?
him: I’ve been checking you out. You’re all kinds of fine. So, what’s going on? May I ask you personal question?
me: um, well…
him: Are you trans?
me: what?
him: Are you trans? Coz, you no, you’re like a hot chick but you have dude’s name.
me: I’m not trans, I’m me.
him: Are you trap? I’m from Pakistan. It’s a long way from you. So, are you trap?
me: no, I’m a boy.
him: I could make you feel like a woman. I have beautiful gray beard. Did I offend you? Are you trans?
me: what?
him: You look like a pretty girl. Do you like violent sex?
me: oh….you’re from Pakistan. I’ll bet the heroin there is totally pure. send me a few bags…Hazan, is that your name? send me a couple of balloons, Hazan.
him: No, I want to have sex with you, pretty girl.
me: sex is nothing, heroin is everything. send me your desert drugs.
him: You’re just a dirty drug addict! You’re filth! You disgust me, Trans! I spit on you, you ugly witch whore!
me: ah…so how about those balloons Hazan?
NO REPLY
BLOCK
Andy Seven/The Scenester - Copyright 2020, Scuzzbuster Music (BMI). All rights reserved.
September 11, 2020
Albert Ayler
ALBERT AYLER
Albert Ayler is haunting your townAlbert Ayler makes a joyous soundtwo-tone head and a saxophone voicehe and his brother have come to make noise
A joyous noise check it out nowmilitary marches, spirituals and nursery rhymesstarting out like a little cartoon mouseand then roaring and screaming like an uncaged lion
Sweet and innocent like the newborn daycarnival tunes deconstructed into sonic ferocitylike the screaming of a people begging for salvation in prayer
“We rejoice in the beauty of God’s name with noise” – Andy Seven, Trash Can School Deep South tour 1992
Albert Ayler set list:HOLY ghostthe truth is marching INSPIRITS rejoicelight in DARKNESSomega is the ALPHASpiritual REBIRTHINFINITE spirit
But alas, being black where the only color white can see is whiteso much white until they’re blindAlbert Ayler felt despair and sadnessand drowned himself in New York’s East River
Listen to Albert Aylerhe played with innocence, turning into sadness, moving into outrage, protest music we can still feel nowprotest music we still need now
Albert Ayler came to townDon’t forget what Albert Ayler’s putting down
