Poems are secretssecrets for the tongue and teethrecipes for fantasyhappily incomprehensibleto the accountant mind
poems are magic spellstransforming nightmaresinto mysterious lovers
poems are a secret passageinto a secret room lost long agoa forgotten dream
a secret room opensinto a secret housea secret foresta secret world
a secret that waitsshivering stillin plain sightlike a razor


Poems are secrets
secrets for the tongue and teeth
recipes for fantasy
happily incomprehensible
to the accountant mind

poems are magic spells
transforming nightmares
into mysterious lovers

poems are a secret passage
into a secret room
lost long ago
a forgotten dream

a secret room opens
into a secret house
a secret forest
a secret world

a secret that waits
shivering still
in plain sight
like a razor

Words are too frail (or fuck me until I don’t feel sad anymore)


Words are too frail for my dirty work.
Language may be a virus
but there are other contagions
In my arsenal—
a plague of hot breath
spreading over your hips,
the pandemic of fingers
bruising breasts and thigh,
and an acid tongue
persistent as the rain
flooding your basement,
eroding the remnants
of those that passed before me.

© gibson grand

Album Art


Terrible moments in music listening history #37

The day after Mick Jagger’s girlfriend killed herself I was driving to work, listening to the radio and I heard the song, Miss You, by The Rolling Stones. Frankly I thought it was in poor taste, but then I debated whether anyone even works at radio stations anymore or if its all just robots and then I worried that all Rolling Stones songs might be tainted from here on out. And then I immediately chastised myself for being so selfish. Then I thought about robot radio stations killing themsleves with music, but that’s a story for another time.

That night I dreamed Mick Jagger was an actual gun and he was singing to all of us. He was whispering prayer pleading to fuck the entirety of humanity’s brains out with his mouth gun tongue. I awoke spiritually disheveled.

Of course being an avid listener of pop rock radio classic hits, I hear a Rolling Stones song at least once a week, if not twice. So now I hear songs that formerly only spoke to me of the joys of fucking and perhaps drugging and chicken dancing and now I gotta think about suicide. Cue Al Camus winking offstage.

And then today, that shit putrid jeans model song, “Moves Like Jagger”  came on the radio and I paused for one second. In that precious second I thought maybe if I listened to this song something would change in the month long Stones/suicide dynamic.

So like a clueless child I forced myself to listen to it. And…. its like something shattered inside of me. A delicate sense of enjoying the simple nuances of being an immortal eye of a deathless singular god was taken from me and I now live as a frightened animal in a terrifyingly indifferent universe.

I can no longer even listen to the crickets hush or a John Fahey tune with screaming in baffled terror.

I do feel better about the Rolling Stones when I hear them though.