Lionheart is total bullshit. You’re better off doing crossword puzzles every day.
A Five Alive grant should’ve helped me crawl back into Creative Practice. Wasted money. Wasted time. But just one more for the road. “Just one more workshop.” I’m like a talking spider monkey. Alright, more spider than a monkey with small dick energy and enough love in my heart to quit. I could be a journalist and a spider. It’s a tough decision, weaving a web, caught between insecurity and lies. Grace and dignity out the door. “Just one more blog.”
Do you still say it’s ‘lit’ if it’s news, no matter how irrelevant? Five minutes of doing basic journalism would discover that Lionheart’s ‘business’ is a complete and utter fabrication. Five Alive? And yeah, here it is, used as a source in the Technossance Magazine, on a contentious issue. Journalism is in the absolute pit in this issue. Looking in the mirror, I look kind of funny. My spidey senses are tingling. Never-mind eleven. I never cared about mathematical equations. After five shows from Lionheart’s deejays, Russia’s little entertainment company should’ve shut things down for good. One too many seasons, but you do the mathematics, dressed in a spider costume waiting for Halloween.
Five Alive doesn’t market the same. Employees will look back at my presidency as one of the best. I did get enough satisfaction, now it’s come to an end. I’m a spider in a cozy web. Nothing is the same. Where’s my book of poetry?
The Spider Is Not Far Away
I find myself in search of another spider;
nibbling the Brazilian pizza,
it’s too weird on earth
for the bizarre…
and there goes my inflated ego
in the 25th Century of economic warfare.
It’s where I’ll always breathe:
it’s in the freaky soul,
it’s not too far from
powder-blue dresses and musky-grey hats,
humans of definite and infinite love
means nothing to you
or the offbeat,
but a spider wears its legs and doesn’t
ask questions
about the atheist or the Jew,
Anglican or protestant.
The Catholic is singing about the Holy Sphere,
and beyond the atmosphere,
the angels shall be there;
they’re not so far.
Still hangry and wanting to bite more stars
waiting to see a sign,
or freaky black hole
that’s not that far,
really
sliding down the steps to the basement,
it’s nowhere to be seen.
Heaven is not found
and I’m so far gone,
but aren’t we all?
I’m dead with the nun, but she’s quit her religion.
We’ve been reincarnated as spiders.
When the music’s not over,
Gonzo.
I can’t drink like a fish, but I can act like a spider. But at some point, Canadians need to stop being treated like fools, and radio heads need to own up and either disassociate themselves from hateful, vile, intolerant rhetoric or tell the truth and explain that they actually have room for those rhetorics and that ignorance in pirate radio. Five Alive?
I made it outside. Crawling over to the train station, it was raining and dreary but I was refreshed from one of my best night’s sleep. The apartment had some of the world’s finest cobwebs. When I got to the station, I took a ride on the train. It was a long trip, but I crawled back into the Toronto office. Mike Rogers was sitting in my chair with a burger. The music was on and it was like he had been listening to Madonna for an insane amount of hours. Mike put down the burger. He saw me and stared at me with a disgusting look. He said nothing, just slowly walked over with his big black boots. Fuck, it looked like he wanted to step on me. “Vogue” blasted even louder. I tried to crawl away but I wasn’t fast enough. Another Madonna hit song. His boot came crashing down on me. Everything went black.
Technossance Magazine 