The hunger for dead icons is morbidly funny. Was Bonnie Tyler right when she “sang,” “I need a hero. Iâ€™m holding out for a hero til the end of the night.â€ Imagine taking credit for that “lyric”? Back to my point. I really donâ€™t get the allure of zombies, but whatever floats your boat. Is this your thing?
Make love to you, your eyes are closed,
Your body is rotting, itâ€™s decomposed.
Your hair straggled in a spiderâ€™s web,
Screw the corpse.
Satanâ€™s cross points to hell
The earth I must uncover
A passion grows to feast upon
The frozen blood inside her.
(Jeff Hanneman/Kerry King)
Disgusting? I wouldn’t know. You tell me. But, I need heroes too. Live ones! And sometimes theyâ€™re closer than you think. You read or hear something and you giggle like a baby. Naturally. There are mortals who may never even get their 15 seconds. Nor do they care. There are heroes whose names are just too normal, too common for the mob to cherish.
Arthur Herman Bremer is the man being arrested here. He tried to kill a violent racist. Is that heroic? Will he ever get a medal of valor? He did try. Arthur Herman Bremer, villain? Yes? Then why the fuck does fuckface Oliver North have a medal, hmm? My Nicaraguan bros and hermanas cringe at that fact.
Is it because they remind us that life is NOW!? Not AFTER you finish high school or college or get married or have a kid or get a “good” job? Is that â€œcrazyâ€? Maybe. Often angry and righteous and TRUE, some make me see butterflies, everywhere. They are always welcome and beautiful.
Now that I think about it, why arenâ€™t there sightings of Louis Armstrong or Carlos Almaraz or Richard Wright? Why canâ€™t I have a sighting of Margarita Carmen Cansino or Veronica Lake or Josephine Baker?
Forgot, hunger for zombies is not my thing. Let the dead rest. Me like life and me like poetry. This morning I heard some actual poetry. Not that stuff that gets passed off as poetry: â€œIâ€™ve suffered, look at me, Iâ€™m in painâ€¦ blah blah. Did I mention Iâ€™m in UCLA MEChA ?â€ Oh the humanity.
Above is another who knows when to run for cover when the two most dangerous words in the English language are heard (No, not â€œHe farted!â€), â€œPoetry Reading.â€ Yikes!
How many times will I attend so-called poetry events and listen to so-called poets wax moronic about mariachis and gringos and carne asada blah blah blah with such insecure emphasis on the r’s in a pathetic attempt to make their bullshit more legit? Purrrrrrrrro mierrrrrrrrrda!
So the words I heard this morning took me back to the illuminating messages of actual poets. Lucha Corpi, Rodney Dangerfield, Smokey Robinson. Poets, all of em. Listen to this and tell me you don’t remember the True Sounds of Liberty.
I present, live and uncut from Big Sky Country aka the state of Montana, Sir Erik Anthony Slye and his (letâ€™s call it) Toccata Oblongata, more commonly known as, “Leave Me the Fuck Alone – In FU Minor.” After the short intro, you will understand.
Donâ€™t look for that in your shitty Norton Anthology or in the latest Critical Shick-ano Poetry Collection or in some lame-ass university reader. Novia, please
Iâ€™d rather kick it with Brother Slye. Man, give it to me real.
â€¦ no oj no straw
when you give it to me
give it to me raw
Iâ€™ve learned that when you drink absolut straight
enough to give my chest hairs a perm
Kool Moe Dee and Rakim and early Clifford Smith now have company.
H.L. Mencken and Mark Twain wrote great letters. We now have one more.
Leave Me The Fuck Alone – In FU Minor Transcription:
“Apparently you morons didn’t understand me the first time. I CANNOT take time off from work. I’m not putting my family’s well being at stake to participate in this crap. I don’t believe in our â€œjusticeâ€ system and I don’t want to have a goddam thing to do with it. Jury duty is a complete waste of time. I would rather count the wrinkles on my dogâ€™s balls than sit on a jury. Get it through your thick skulls. Leave me the fuck alone!”
(Sir Erik Anthony Slye, Premier)
Not since Chief Joseph declared, â€œI Will Fight No More Foreverâ€¦â€ ok ok. Using the colorful metaphor of a dogâ€™s wrinkled balls for serving on a jury is genius, super genius. What a mind. He could never sit on a jury of his peers for he has none. We need more men and women with this type of testicular fortitude.Â Remember not all men are pigs. Just most of em.
Mr., I mean, Doctor Slye ainâ€™t got the time for masquerades and charades. With itâ€™s intrusive jury duty notice, the system said, â€œHere! You are doing this. What?! You donâ€™t want to? Bring it on!â€ Our hero wrote, as only a true Poet can, â€œItâ€™s already been broughtn!â€
So the very next time the Man tries to put his boot up your ass, donâ€™t just bend over like you usually do.
Do like some of our favorites, and try and grow a pair.
Go head, enjoy yourself. Have a ball. Or two.
What will you do the next time Big Brother demands more of your time? Pucker up? Me? My turn will come. But for now, I tip my hat to Maestro Slye, one of my new friends. His dog also gets my respect. And his wrinkled balls.
This is 94.7 KMET and my name is Jim Ladd. This is â€œThe Mighty Metal Shop.â€ I donâ€™t like metal, especially the heavy kind, but the 1960â€™s are over and I have to stay hip to the kids. (awkward giggle) We have a dedication here. Let me read it:
â€œHi. My name is CT and I post up at a blog called laeastside.com (btw you better read the blog name or Ima go over there and cut off your Ringo Starr bangs my own fuckâ€™n self. Capiche?) Anyways, I want to dedicate Masterâ€™s â€œMasterâ€ to Sir Erik Anthony Slye. He is my new friend. Yes, it was recorded in 1985 but I think it is, whadda you callit, like foreverâ€¦uhm, I mean immoral. Yeah immoral. Oh and the lyrics are so cool, they make me think of my new friend. Metal Rules!! (I am holding the pencil with one hand and with the other I am throwing the metal horns, ok? Iâ€™m more metal than you, dude.)
CT (See picture below. Yes, that’s me)
P.S. I rock like a hurricane
â€œMasterâ€ by Master
On your knees for the Master
In the will of your own mind
And become a better kind
Stand back all you preachers
Stop looking to the skies
We are your Masters
We need no disguise
Your presidential savior,
Some bloody pope’s land
Theyâ€™re still all stinking vultures
Theyâ€™re scandalous when they can
Strike your idols down
And wear the Masterâ€™s crown
Weâ€™ll curse this evil world
Weâ€™ll wear this Masterâ€™s crown
We are your Masters
So set your soul free
Forget your stupid idols
And your blinded eyes will see