Tuesday, 23 December 2014

Junky's Christmas by William S. Burroughs

Junky's Christmas by William S. Burroughs

Well I don't have my radio show anymore so I thought I would share this on here.  A Transgressive Christmas Message for you all, from Old Nic himself, William S. Burroughs.
Fantastic narration by Burroughs about Danny, a poor unfortunate junkie who reveals his last remains of selflessness and humanity despite his urgent physical predicament.

The Junky's Christmas is a story by William S. Burroughs. It appears in the 1989 collection Interzone and on the 1993 album Spare Ass Annie and Other Tales. It was also made into a 1993 short claymation film directed by Nick Donkin and Melodie McDaniel. The film was produced by Francis Ford Coppola and was released by Koch Vision on DVD in North America on Nov. 21, 2006. Burroughs narrates the film and appears in live-action footage at the beginning and end of the film.

IT was Christmas Day and Danny the Car Wiper hit the street junksick and broke after seventy-two hours in the precinct jail. It was a clear bright day, but there was warmth in the sun. Danny shivered with an inner cold. He turned up the collar of his worn, greasy black overcoat. This beat benny wouldn't pawn for a deuce, he thought.
He was in the West Nineties. A long block of brownstone rooming houses. Here and there a holy wreath in a clean black window. Danny's senses registered everything sharp and clear, with the painful intensity of junk sickness. The light hurt his dilated eyes.
He walked past a car, darting his pale blue eyes sideways in quick appraisal. There was a package on the seat and one of the ventilator windows was unlocked. Danny walked on ten feet. No one in sight. He snapped his fingers and went through a pantomime of remembering something, and wheeled around. No one.
A bad setup, he decided. The street being empty like this, I stand out conspicuous. Gotta make it fast.
He reached for the ventilator window. A door opened behind him. Danny whipped out a rag and began polishing the car windows. He could feel the man standing behind him.
"What're yuh doin"?
He was in the West Nineties. A long block of brownstone rooming houses. Here and there a holy wreath in a clean black window. Danny's senses registered everything sharp and clear, with the painful intensity of junk sickness. The light hurt his dilated eyes.
He walked past a car, darting his pale blue eyes sideways in quick appraisal. There was a package on the seat and one of the ventilator windows was unlocked. Danny walked on ten feet. No one in sight. He snapped his fingers and went through a pantomime of remembering something, and wheeled around. No one.
A bad setup, he decided. The street being empty like this, I stand out conspicuous. Gotta make it fast.
He reached for the ventilator window. A door opened behind him. Danny whipped out a rag and began polishing the car windows. He could feel the man standing behind him.
"What're yuh doin"?
Danny turned as if surprised. "Just thought your car windows needed polishing, mister."
The man had a frog face and a Deep South accent. He was wearing a camel's-hair overcoat.
"My caah don't need polishin' or nothing stole out of it neither."
Danny slid sideways as the man grabbed for him. "I wasn't lookin' to steal nothing, mister. I'm from the South too. Florida "
"Goddammed sneakin' thief!"
Danny walked away fast and turned a corner.
"Better get out of the neighborhood. That hick is likely to call the law."
He walked fifteen blocks. Sweat ran down his body. There was an ache in his lungs. His lips drew back off his yellow teeth in a snarl of desperation.
"I gotta score somehow. If I had some decent clothes"
Danny saw a suitcase standing in a doorway. Good leather. He stopped and pretended to look for a cigarette.
"Funny," he thought. "No one around. Inside maybe, phoning for a cab."
The corner was only a few houses. Danny took a deep breath and picked up the suitcase. He made the corner. Another block, another corner. The case was heavy.
"I got a score here all night," he thought. "Maybe enough for a sixteenth and a room." Danny shivered and twitched, feeling a warm room and heroin emptying into his vein." Let's have a quick look."
He opened the suitcase. Two long packages in brown wrapping paper. He took one out. It felt like meat. He tore the package open at one end, revealing a woman's naked foot. The toenails were painted with purple-red polish. He dropped the leg with a sneer of disgust.
"Holy Jesus!" he exclaimed. "The routines people put down these days. Legs! Well I got a case anyway." He dumped the other leg out. No bloodstains. He snapped the case shut and walked away.
"Legs!" he muttered.
HE FOUND the Buyer sitting at a table in Jarrow's Cafeteria.
"Thought you might be taking the day off." Danny said, putting the case down.
The Buyer shook his head sadly. "I got nobody. So what's Christmas to me ?" His eyes traveled over the case, poking, testing, looking for flaws. "What was in it?"
"What's the matter ? I don't pay enough?"
" I tell you there wasn't nothing in it."
" Okay. So somebody travels with an empty suitcase. Okay." He held up three fingers.
" For Christ's sake, Gimpy, give me a nickel."
" You got somebody else. Why don't he give you a nickel ?"
" It's like I say, the case was empty."
Gimpy kicked at the case disparingly. "It's all nicked up and kinda dirty-looking. " He sniffed suspiciously. "How come it stink like that? Mexican leather ?"
"So am I in the leather business?"
Gimpy shrugged- "Could be." He pulled out a roll of bills and peeled off three ones, dropping them on the table behind the napkin dispenser. "You want?"
"Okay." Danny picked up the money. "You see George the Greek?" he aked.
"Where you been ? He got busted two days ago."
" Oh …That's bad."
Danny walked out. ">Now where can I score ?"he thought. George the Greek had lasted so long, Danny thought of him as permanent. "It was good H too, and no short counts."
Danny went up to 103rd and Broadway. Nobody in Jarrow's. Nobody in the Automat.
"Yeah, " he snarled. "All the pushers off on the nod someplace. What they care about anybody else? So long as they get in the vein. What they care about a sick junky?"
He wiped his nose with one finger, looking around furtively.
"No use hitting those jigs in Harlem. Like as not get beat for my money or they slip me rat poison. Might find Pantapon Rose at Eighth and 23rd."
There was no one he knew in the 23rd Street Thompson's.
"Jesus," he thought. "Where is Everybody?"
He clutched his coat collar together with one hand, looking up and down the street. "There's Joey from Brooklyn. I'd know that hat anywhere."
"Joey was walking away, with his back to Danny. He turned around. His face was sunken, skull-like. The gray eyes glittered under a greasy felt hat. Joey was sniffing at regular intervals and his eyes were watering."
"No use asking him," Danny thought. They looked at each other with the hatred of disappointment.
" Guess you heard about George the Greek, " Danny said.
" Yeah. I heard. You been up to 103rd?"
" Yeah. Just came from there. Nobody around."
"Nobody around anyplace, " Joey said. "I can't even score for goofballs."
"Well, Merry Christmas, Joey. See you."
"Yeah. See you."
DANNY WAS walking fast. He had remembered a croaker on 18th Street. Of course the croaker had told him not to come back. Still, it was worth trying.
A brownstone house with a card in the window: "P. H. Zunniga, M.D." Danny rang the bell. He heard slow steps. The door opened, and the doctor looked at Danny with bloodshot brown eyes. He was weaving slightly and supported his plumb body against the doorjamb. His face was smooth, Latin, the little red mouth slack. He said nothing. He just leaned there, looking at Danny.
"Goddammed alcoholic," Danny thought. He smiled.
" Merry Christmas, Doctor."
The doctor did not reply.
" You remember me, Doctor. " Danny tried to edge past the doctor, into the house. "I'm sorry to trouble you on Christmas Day, but I've suffered another attack."
" Attack? "
" Yes. Facial neuralgia." Danny twisted one side of his face into a horrible grimace. The doctor recoiled slightly, and Danny pushed into the dark hallway.
"Better shut the door or you'll be catching cold, " he said jovially, shoving the door shut.
The doctor looked at him, his eyes focusing visibly. "I can't give you a prescription, " he said.
" But Doctor, this is a legitimate condition. An emergency, you understand."
" No prescription. Impossible. It's against the law."
" You took an oath, Doctor. I'm in agony. " Danny's voice shot up to a hysterical grating whine.
The doctor winced and passed a hand over his forehead.
"Let me think. I can give you one quarter-grain tablet. That's all I have in the house."
" But, Doctor – a quarter G …."
The doctor stopped him. "If your condition is legitimate, you will not need more. If it isn't, I don't want anything to do with you. Wait right here."
The doctor weaved down the hall, leaving a wake of alcoholic breath. He came back and dropped a tablet into Danny's hand. Danny wrapped the tablet in a piece of paper and tucked it away.
"There is no charge. " The doctor put his hand on the doorknob. "And now, my dear …"
"But, Doctor – can't you object the medication?"
"No. You will obtain longer relief in using orally. Please not to return. " The doctor opened the door.
"Well, this will take the edge off, and I still have money to put down on a room," Danny thought.
He knew a drugstore that sold needles without question. He bought a 26-gauge insulin needle and eyedropper, which he selected carefully, rejecting models with a curved dropper or a thick end. Finally he bought a baby pacifier, to use instead of the bulb. He stopped in the Automat and stole a teaspoon.
Danny put down two dollars on a six-dollar-a-week room in the West Forties, where he knew the landlord. He bolted the door and put his spoon, needle and dropper on a table by the bed. He dropped the tablet in the spoon and covered it with a dropperful of water. He held a match under the spoon until the tablet dissolved. He tore a strip of paper, wet it and wrapped it around the end of the dropper, fitting the needle over the wet paper to make an airtight connection. He dropped a piece of lint from his pocket into the spoon and sucked the liquid into the dropper through the needle, holding the needle in the lint to take up the last drop.
Danny's hands trembled with excitement and his breath was quick. With a shot in front of him, his defences gave way, and junk sickness flooded his body. His legs began to twitch and ache. A cramp stirred in his stomach. Tears ran down his face from his smarting, burning eyes. He wrapped a handkerchief around his right arm, holding the end in his teeth. He tucked the handkerchief in, and began rubbing his arm to bring out a vein.
"Guess I can hit that one," he thought, running one finger along a vein. He picked up the dropper in his left hand.
Danny heard a groan from the next room. He frowned with annoyance. Another groan. He could not help listening. He walked across the room, the dropper in his hand, and inclined his ear to the wall. The groans were coming at regular intervals, a horrible inhuman sound pushed out from the stomach.
Danny listened for a full minute. He returned to the bed and sat down. "Why don't someone call a doctor?"he thought indignantly. "It's a bringdown." He straightened his arm and poised the needle. He tilted his head, listening again.
"Oh, for Christ's sake!" He tore off the handkerchief and placed the dropper in a water glass, which he hid behind the wastebasket. He stepped into the hall and knocked on the door of the next room. There was no answer. The groans continued. Danny tried the door. It was open.
The shade was up and the room was full of light. He had expected an old person somehow, but the man on the bed was very young, eighteen or twenty, fully clothed and doubled up, with his hands clasped across his stomach.
"What's wrong, kid?" Danny asked.
The boy looked at him, his eyes blank with pain. Finally he got one word: "Kidneys."

" Kidney stones?" Danny smiled. " I don't mean it's funny, kid. It's just … I've faked it so many times. Never saw the real thing before. I'll call an ambulance."
The boy bit his lip. " Won't come. Doctor's won't come. " The boy hid his face in the pillow.
Danny nodded. "They figure it's just another junky throwing a wingding for a shot. But your case is legit. Maybe if I went to the
hospital and explained things… No, I guess that wouldn't be so good. "
Don't live here, " the boy said, his voice muffled. " They say I'm not entitled."
" Yeah, I know how they are, the bureaucrat bastards. I had a friend once, died of snakebite right in the waiting room. They wouldn't even listen when he tried to explain a snake bit him. He never had enough moxie. That was fifteen years ago, down in Jacksonville …"
Danny trailed off. Suddenly he put out his thin, dirty hand and touched the boy's shoulder.
" I – I'm sorry, kid. You wait. I'll fix you up."
He went back to his room and got the dropper, and returned to the boy's room.
" Roll up your sleeve, kid. " The boy fumbled his coat sleeve with a weak hand.
"That's okay. I'll get it." Danny undid the shirt button at the wrist and pushed the shirt and coat up, baring a thin brown forearm. Danny hesitated, looking at the dropper. Sweat ran down his nose. The boy was looking up at him. Danny shoved the needle in the boy's forearm and watched the liquid drain into the flesh. He straightened up.
The boy lay down, stretching. "I feel real sleepy. Didn't sleep all last night." His eyes were closing. Danny walked across the room and pulled the shade down. He went back to his room and closed the door without locking it. He sat on the bed, looking at the empty dropper. It was getting dark outside. Danny's body ached for junk, but it was a dull ache now, dull and hopeless. Numbly, he took the needle of the dropper and wrapped it in a piece of paper. Then he wrapped the needle and dropper together. He sat there with the package in his hand. "Gotta stash this someplace", he thought.
Suddenly a warm flood pulsed through his veins and broke in his head like a thousand golden speedballs.
"For Christ's sake," Danny thought. "I must have scored for the immaculate fix!
The vegetable serenity of junk settled in his tissues. His face went slack and peaceful, and his head fell forward.

Danny the Car Wiper was on the nod.

Sunday, 21 December 2014

The Raven recited by Pryde Foltz

Seldom have I heard a female poet recite Poe with such cadence, such control, and such the emotion of Poe himself as I have tonight.
But here is Pryde Foltz....

The Raven
 Edgar Allen Poe

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.'

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore -
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
`'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is, and nothing more,'

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
`Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!'
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!'
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis the wind and nothing more!'

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven.
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore -
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -
Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as `Nevermore.'

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'
Then the bird said, `Nevermore.'

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
`Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of "Never-nevermore."'

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking `Nevermore.'

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
`Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -
Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore?'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting -
`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!

Pryde was born in Winnipeg where she learned to walk on hard pack snow and deal with the inevitable fall through. Don’t panic! You aren’t going to die. Take your foot out of the boot; then dig out the boot; and they won’t find your melting corpse in the spring.
After a short stay in Surrey, B.C.—only the most glamorous cities for her—she attended high school in Calgary, Alberta. The Cow-garians didn’t let her go until she could yee-haw like a pro. While at UBC, the yee-haw morphed into a tongue-curl call of a warrior princess.

Pryde obtained a B.A. in theatre and later a B.Ed. She has taught both in Vancouver and Japan and traveled extensively. Currently, she is a stay-at-home mom and a frequent denizen of Vancouver Starbucks.

Saturday, 20 December 2014


Final movement in the grand poetic narrative of James WF Roberts' Du Profundis, Sisyphus goes further in addressing the darkness and the addictions and obsessions of man. Relationship breakdown, suicidal actions. Drug Addictions. Sex, romance, misery whilst searching for a meaning to all of life...if there is indeed a meaning...

Buy your copy today:

New release from Red Wolf Press Australia Sisyphus. Du Profundis part 3:

Sisyphus. Du Profundis part 3:

New release from Red Wolf Press Australia Sisyphus. Du Profundis part 3.

Well 2014 is almost at an end, and some changes have come to Red Wolf Press Australia. For starters we are no longer affiliated or have anything more  to do www.phoenixfm.org.au;
so people interested in submitting have to submit directly to the website not via the station anymore. 

About this book:
Following on in the tradition of Whitman’s Song of my self (leaves of Grass) Oscar Wilde’s Du Profundis and Charles Baudelaire’s  Les Fleurs du mal (The Flowers of Evil); this final work, final movement in the poetic grand narrative, Roberts began with The Preludes, continued with Many Truths of an Absurd Nature, part three Sisyphus, takes us into the mind of an artist running out of steam.  This is an existential crisis in a transgressive, post-modernist age.   This collection is made up of a series of individual poems, fragments, observations and laments all connected by an over arching themes of loss, misery, addiction, abuse, suicide, murder, revenge, evolution, hopeless of the spirit, the hope of the human spirit, death, new life, eroticism, poetry and metaphysics—all connected under the theme of Fin de si├Ęcle (the end of an era—and the hope that new beginnings create better things). Told from the point of view of a man on the edge of all things—is this a long confessional poem arguing for and against suicide? Or is it a reprieve?  Is Satan on the shoulder of our poet testing him, teasing him or pushing him towards his final resolve?
Sisyphus is a King in Greek Mythology, whose arrogance and hubris so maligns Zeus and the Children of Olympus that he is forced to push a boulder up a mountain for eternity never reaching the apex.
The Myth of Sisyphus, is a watershed and a personally inspiring book by philosopher Albert Camus, Sisyphean Philosopher—a person who sees the follies of their life fully acknowledges the fact that they continually do the same things in their life and expect a different result.

James WF Roberts, former radio announcer, performance poet and writer. Self-published books include: Ten Poems (Red Wolf Press 2013) The Preludes (Red Wolf Press 2014) Many Truths of an Absurd Nature (2014)...other books include, Blue Electric Dusk (Numen books 2013), Awards: Short Listed 2012-2014 Fermoy International Poetry prize (Ireland). Runner Up Page Seventeen poetry prize 2012. Highly Commended John Shaw Nielson prize 2009/10   Fellowship of Australian Writers.
To purchase the book go here:


Metal at its Finest the Story of the Band: Prosody by Lady Spitfire

Metal at its Finest
the Story of the Band: Prosody
by Lady Spitfire

Formed in 2011 from the ashes of the 90's Pennsylvania USA death metal act, Ossuary, Prosody joined  forces with former members of Pave the Way, Demeter and 10 Second Drop to unleash a mix of thrash metal, hardcore and death metal. With the release of their debut, The Dawn of Brutality, on June 2, 2013 – featuring cover art by former Ossuary alumni and artist, Eric Armusik – Prosody is ready to enter today's metal market and show the masses that this five piece of veteran musicians has the experience to be a driving force in the world of extreme metal. Just to give you some history on the band; In 1993, Christopher Stroud (lead guitar) joined Ossuary, a death metal band from Pennsylvania. Ossuary had 3 main vocalists, one being Ken Ebersole. After four years with the band, Chris exited in late 1996. One year later, Chris joined Christopher Rosenko (guitar) and Robert Smith (drums) to form Migrane. This band had a strong two year run until its end.  

Christopher Rosenko and Robert Smith would again collaborate together in 10 Second Drop and Demeter until 2005. Meanwhile, Christopher Stroud formed Bodyfall, which ended in 2002. Stroud's replacement in Ossuary was Ed Witkowski, who played with Jay Comitz, drummer of Ossuary. in the band Lowlyfe.

Christopher Stroud was invited to join Lowlyfe in 2005, and remained with them until 2007. At this time, Christopher Rosenko enjoyed success in his next venture; Pave the Way, (which later morphed into Our Ashes Remain). It wasn’t until 2011 when Christopher Rosenko left the band and contacted Stroud in hopes of building a new and fresh metal act. Calling up Robert Smith, who at the time played in various rock/radio cover bands, Prosody was born. A search went for a vocalist in the vein of Jamey Jasta (Hatebreed), Freddy Cricien (Madball), and Phil Enselmo (Pantera), which led to ex-Ossuary and then-current Praise the Sinner vocalist, Ken Ebersole.

When news broke that Ken was leaving his band, Christopher Stroud jumped at the chance to audition the singer. After a brutal and intense try out, Ken had the job. Two intense months of searching for a bassist led to ex Demeter guitarist, Dave Morris to round out the band.
Says Ken, “The first album; Dawn of Brutality was really us finding what our sound was as a band and hitting it hard. As we were writing the songs one at a time, we figured out that we were just interested in being the loudest heaviest form of metal you could find in this area. With each song, the drums got faster, and the guitars and bass got louder and heavier.

“The sounds of the vocals were getting a lot more extreme, as well as the topics that the songs were about. In a nutshell, the album topically is about the extreme conditions of the world today and how it's all kind of spiraling out of control. I mean, every day you turn on the news, and the next story is more gruesome than the last. How long can this go on until it all erupts in our face? That's what The Dawn of Brutality is, the erupting of everything coming to a head. The Dawn of Brutality was recorded and mixed in two days at Sound Investments in Old Forge. The song was done in one take thanks to the perfection of the talent within the band. It is available on Amazon, iTunes and many other online sites.

Of course, this wasn’t stopping the band. They are now preparing another album. “‘Perfection through Dissection’ is the first single off of our second album entitled A Lifetime of Torment,” Ken tells us.

“Heaviness-wise, A Lifetime of Torment is everything The Dawn of Brutality isn't. The Dawn of Brutality was us as a band finding our sound, and A Lifetime of Torment is us perfecting it. It's in all ways heavier, faster, darker, and generally more brutal than its predecessor. We were like, well, we've found what we want to do, now let's show everyone what we can do. I am all about constantly raising the bar and bettering yourself, and that's exactly what the guys did musically. Vocally, I have tried to step it up also. I remember someone reviewing The Dawn of Brutality and thinking there were two vocalists.

 This time I  said to myself I want them to think there are three. Topically, it's darker in the aspect of picking up where The Dawn of Brutality left off. Basically, when everything erupts, it's the life we are left with after. And no matter what you try to do, the memory will always be there tormenting you. Kind of like this is what's left, your lifetime of torment. It goes into many directions explaining what that torment is, and the many faces of it. ‘Perfection through Dissection’ was recorded and mixed at JL Studios in Olyphant, as will be the rest of the cd.

So in a recent interview with Ken, the lead singer we proposed the following questions

What bands and life experiences have influenced your songs the most?
I am influenced vocally by bands like Six Feet Under and Suffocation. The guys are influenced by such a wide range from Chimera to Madball and everything in between. Topically, my lyrics are fictional, influenced by any horror film or book, and references like various serial killers and such. Nothing in my life influences anything I sing about. If so, I might be in prison!! HAHA

How do the lyrics and melody come to you?
Lyrics just come randomly. Actually, I have like thirty songs of lyrics already written that I choose from, and I just add to that list when inspiration strikes. I don't believe in trying to conquer writer’s block. When you do, everything sounds bad. As for melody, it's more like what range I'm screaming in, and that gets determined as I'm matching the lyrics to music.

Are your friends and family supportive of your music?

Both my friends and family are super supportive of it. I have always been blessed with supportive friends and family, and I am grateful every day for it.

What genre would you classify yourself as?
("Indie" isn't actually a genre on its own specifically, it's actually just to declare that this artist is independent; obviously. Indie-rock, Indie-electronic, etc. are all
appropriate.) That question is a little tricky. as we can be called so many things. We actually had a review asking this very question. There are literally so many influences that it's hard to pinpoint. Sometimes we are very much like death core or death metal. but there a lot of thrash in there as well. We have even drifted into doom metal at times. I like to say we are brutal metal.

Are you self-taught in your music, or have you taken lessons?
Well, I actually took lessons to play guitar when I was like 13, but could not grasp the concept of reading  music. I was then told I have a powerful voice and should maybe try vocals. I pretty much just winged it for a while, but later started studying bands like Pantera, Faith No More, and the Rollins Band, and how those guys not only did vocals but commanded the audience with overwhelming stage presence.

How long does it take you to write a song on average?
Usually. on average. about a day or two.

Are there any special traditions you and your band have when preparing for a show or writing a song?
Not really. We just practice hard whenever we get the chance so we are always ready. Writing is usually a group effort; the guys come up with a skeleton of the song, and I match up what lyrics fit best.

By Lady Spitfire of The Indie Authority 

For more information on the band check them on Reverbnation;
If you wish to book the band please contact the bands general manager Christopher Stroud @

Thursday, 4 December 2014

I can’t breathe -James Downs

I can’t breathe
-James Downs
"Equal justice under the law...
Equal justice under the law...
Equal justice under the law...
Equal justice under the law"
"No justice, no peace...
No justice, no peace...
No justice, no peace...
No justice, no peace"
"I can't breathe...
I can't breathe...
I can't breathe...
I can't breathe"
All that has come to mean "Peace"
In the past is just another sweeping it
Under a rug and forgetting about whole
Sections of our citizens.  No more sweeping
It away. Keep it in front of the country's collective
Consciousness.  Do something to affect change.
"Equal protection under the law?
No justice, no peace...I can't breathe."
James Downs
Poem about my reaction to not indicting the cop yesterday
in New York City who murdered unarmed citizen Eric Garner|

"Monotony (Perpetuity)" By Frank Lardo

"Monotony (Perpetuity)"
By Frank Lardo
I etch,
my ways,
my tribulations onto
slivers and panes of
Be that as it may,
does the stockade of
a raving journeyman's musing
unshackle itself?
Purity of an imaginarium,
a haven for convalescence
is but the only home
any shall know...

Tuesday, 2 December 2014

Meditation in the Shadow (mistress of the night) James WF Roberts (One from the vaults)

Meditation in the Shadow (mistress of the night)
James WF Roberts


I watch you in my mind,
in the moon light
I feel your breathing,
your heartbeat
I feel that longing
you try to hide
emptiness in your bed
your hands reaching out
nothing is found
the lingering scent of your kiss
on my lips, I taste
even now.

do you feel the wind
rustling in the trees outside
scratching at your window,
do you see my eyes,
in the shadows
your naked body,
beading in sweat
as you see my face again
on top

entering you, a final time
I kiss the nape of your neck,
your skin my only nourishment
your pleasure my only thought
a feast for starving eyes

a prayer for the condemned man
my lips move silently down your body
my tongue our salvation?
the promise of lust our only hope...
yet the mind is against reality
time, has ravaged the chances of glory
death overcame us, so quickly
how could I not see, the inevitable
writing on the wall?

Frozen lake thawed, melted
how can it be forced to freeze again,
so quickly?

I watch you in my mind,
I beg for you in my soul
lost all cognitive reasoning
cannot seem to find my way back
Drowning in the river
Of my own creations;
Rejection, hope, love,
Sex, death, nothing but a game…
that I can never afford to play.
physicality, emotional connection
trapped in the wilderness of the Aspergian Prism
clock chimes midnight
soon I must decide…

the hand of fate is reaching out…
the pen or the knife?
Do I face the morning?
Or float in perpetual night?
Why must I chose?
You have no choice…
Game set. Match.
Scores are irrelevant,
Your presence barely even required
Measured, balanced…
Judgment decided long ago…
Do you prolong your suffering?
Or do you make the world laugh?
You heard me…
Do you prolong your suffering?
Or do you make the world laugh?
I—I, I don’t…

You try my patience make your choice!
It’s over now…let it go. Let her go.
Let your dreams fall.
Allow the shadows to enter…

I—I, I don’t…

Pick up the knife, dance it across the vein
Let the juices flow…why linger in this pain.
Fall into my hands, my beloved soul.
Fall into my dreams. Allow my servants
To tend to your every need…
But make your choice…
I sit here in the darkness…

Pen in one hand
Knife in the other,
Your face in my head.
On my bed, your body
Contorted, naked, longing
We touch and you fade…
Maybe it’s time I fade…
Do it…
Do it…
Take the blade, to your wrist
Don’t delay now…

My child…
Sleep child,
Sleep, close your eyes you are weary
Leave this little place, where your life is dreary…
Feel my lips on your neck and feel my kissing you from side to side
Lie in my arms and dream and dream and….
Feel me in your blood, feel me in your lips as I taste your soul,
As you kiss the sky, as the creatures of the night, stir in the shadows
I am there, as constant as the morning sunlight on the plain
In the evening, in the darkness, in the daylight, in the day of night
Close swarming, like a million writhing worms,
A demon nation riots in mortals brains…
In the whisper of the night, in the children of the fright
I call out too you, as the seas hit the rocks on the coast

My feelings, are nothing but a strange, degradation….
Too you, I do not exist, I am nothing but the shadows of
The moonlight on cold stone
Oh to you a soft whisper that comes with the
twinkles of the stars that so silently disappear
Bringing darkest on high

How I know you long, you long to feel the
Gentle caresses of the silent

Ghost that has come to steal from you…what is it that
My soul now desires...
Falling. Falling…falling…
In my hand the pen and the knife
Blank page and my wrist…

How do I choose?