Friday, February 17, 2006

Emily Haines



My pants around my ankles in a public toilet lit by searchlights from above, I know that New York loves me. The family man, standing in urine on a subway platform, spits right on the back of a rat on the tracks. The city gives him that, he's living on such luck. At regular intervals, disparate intersections merge and everyone feels everyone. I'm the rat, you're the family man, he's the public toilet. They're contractions. Everyone feels everyone until our genitals get nauseous, our cunts are queasy on the train until it's over. Our physical ruin is basic, you can't hide it here. Look down at the black galaxies of bubble gum stars. They're infinite.

I live in a loft on an industrial stretch in Brooklyn between the Poles and the Puerto Ricans, so I've always got a pierogi in one nostril and a deep fried pig's foot in the other. It's seven of us living here above the landlord's transfer company. Everyone working below's got a big diesel truck and a dirty tongue. They get started early in the morning, revving their engines and swearing at each other over the intercom. They're men. We're children. No one is disputing that.

Whenever I use the word 'loft' I think of a painter who hasn't painted anything yet but understands naming. It is winter. Broke and new to the city, the painter lays down all his money for a raw hole with huge windows. A visiting friend, dismayed by the remote locale and the lack of amenities, asks: "what do you call this?" All the painter wants is no breakfast nook, no den, no doilies. Living work. So he gives himself something to live up to. He pushes his thumbs through the holes in his pockets and calls the place what it will be, not what it is. With confidence, he calls his first-floor factory dwelling a loft. And it is one.


We've been looking at real estate, a horrible pastime. One agent had a dark orange tan and fine brown hairs covering her entire face. Her laugh was like a cough. Driving to one property, a toothless kid with a mouth full of white bread put his [squeegee] to her windshield at a red light and called her a bitch when she turned on the wipers. It got her on the topic of "eastern european squeegee women babies [hanging of] them" and her desire to have them deported. I choked in the back of her all terrain vehicle. The property was a modern loft that felt like an office with mandatory venetian blinds. The developer wanted to prevent people from draping colorful shawls in the windows, she said.

Emily Haines is a songwriter and the singer of the band Metric

Wednesday, February 08, 2006

Patricia Ferrel


Wounded at my window,
How do I save you? A human touch could
Burst your heart. Tell me what you eat you're so
Special to me because you survived two months on nothing
But insects.

I'm like an animal with no skills
In a well-lit room. What happens when aptitude
Deteriorates? What sound does waste make none,
Over music. The tragedy that would make me a sweetheart
Failed to come.

The new heart didn't take.
Don't show me the face! Don't let me
See the face don't make it personal. The beasts who are
My sole comfort, I will have to eat. No one told me the war was over.
Maybe, probably,

Yes. I remember
Waking up to the saturated with atmosphere.
I remember a fatigue in the trees. Something black flew close
Over our heads carrying a man's entire ribcage when you're not
Occupied with comforting,

You're killing. The thin silver cat
Runs after a pulse of bird. The snow is blind
And will forget the stain. We are trapped in this
Occluded landscape, our pulses tied to a flickering sun.
I need to go

Somewhere I can stare
Into a fire something about a war,
About a train. What do the dead do for an encore?
At what point should I use this body I was trying to save
As a human shield?


Drawing by Juan Moralejo.



It will take an accident to bring
All that I love. Some freak
Design must have a hand
In it

One night you and I will crash
Into each other, all trumpet
Concussions and cartoon

Our bodies locked injurious, in blood
Complicit as newborn twins unable
To distinguish whose fault
Or foot it is

Still gunning the squalling engine,
Announcing our arrival, passing out
Cigars to a world made
Of ears.


Some Resurrection

The wine tastes like Christ and provides
The necessary transformation.

The land of Love and Be Loved in Return
Engorges like a sponge.

Couples run through sunlit fields, giant bees
Hump mammoth flowers.

As long as the wine flows, I'm in love.
As long as I'm loved,

I'll swallow. But is living eternal summer
Really that much fun?

I'll never stop asking, running my mouth,
Listing wants I wouldn't

Want any more if I ever got one.
But Christ! I didn't die

On the cross only to come back to life
And be treated like this.

Read the translation by Noura Wedell

  • Silo
  • Charles Pennequin
  • Kilobytes' Patron
  • Les cahiers de benjy
  • Marelle, Pierre Ménard
  • Tapin
  • Sitaudis
  • Toog