Limp wrist - I love hardcore boys / I love boys hardcore live @ le poisson rouge 6/16/13
The older I get the more I realise there are no grown ups and nobody knows what the fuck they’re doing.
‘Please don’t worry,’ I say. ‘I can explain.’ I soothe the air with a casual hand.
Both my arms are pinioned from behind by the Director of Comp., who wrestles me roughly down, on me with all his weight. I taste floor.
I say ‘Nothing is wrong.’
‘It’s all right! I’m here!’ the Director is calling into my ear.
‘Get help!’ cries a Dean.
My forehead is pressed into parquet I never knew could be so cold. I am arrested. I try to be perceived as limp and pliable. My face is mashed flat; Comp.’s weight makes it hard to breathe.
‘Try to listen,’ I say very slowly, muffled by the floor.
‘What in God’s name are those…,’ one Dean cries shrilly, ‘…those sounds?’
There are clicks of a phone console’s buttons, shoes’ heels moving, pivoting, a sheaf of flimsy pages falling.
The door’s base opens at the left periphery: a wedge of halogen hall-light, white sneakers and a scuffed Nunn Bush. ‘Let him up!’ That’s deLint.
‘There is nothing wrong,’ I say slowly to the floor. ‘I’m in here.’
I’m raised by the crutches of my underarms, shaken toward what he must see as calm by a purple-faced Director: ‘Get a grip, son!’
DeLint at the big man’s arm: ‘Stop it!’
‘I am not what you see and hear.’
Distant sirens. A crude half nelson. Forms at the door. A young Hispanic woman holds her palm against her mouth, looking.
‘I’m not,’ I say.
YOU WOULD, LANNISTER.
i wish i wrote words like paul baribeau
if i could do that, i think you would know
how beautiful that i think you are
something about the planets and stars
i wish i could play like matty pop chart
make music to match the tune in my heart
some melody we both could sing
some wonderful harmony
the faithful say it’s beautiful
“it’s god’s will, let the flood swell”