Saturday, August 04, 2007
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Monday, April 23, 2007
recent writing
Ditherer
17 lines
Now you've slipped
the bonds of earth,
given in to discontent,
framed in ageless girth.
We wallow underneath
sucking sap from bulbous
belly folds. Fickle wraiths
lick the dew with careless
tongues.
Fingers fused together
to tug the hair and hover
over the ground while
the beasts imbue the skyline.
Drumming through cities
with the beat of each step
like wrecking balls leaving
a trail of ruins in our wake.
17 lines
Now you've slipped
the bonds of earth,
given in to discontent,
framed in ageless girth.
We wallow underneath
sucking sap from bulbous
belly folds. Fickle wraiths
lick the dew with careless
tongues.
Fingers fused together
to tug the hair and hover
over the ground while
the beasts imbue the skyline.
Drumming through cities
with the beat of each step
like wrecking balls leaving
a trail of ruins in our wake.
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
something kinda different
Squat
34 lines
Together we heave
open the primordial doors
bordering a grand and fetid
monstrosity of a house.
The smell of corroding
wood and roaches wafting
out and up our nostrils
as we descended into the belly.
The faint flicker of the pilot
light guiding us down the steps
and into the small allowance
that has been keeping
the carnivorous frost
away from my appendages.
I light a candle on the pilot
and a smoke on the candle.
She tries to run her finger
through her hair, but gives
up when the hair spray
begins to fight back.
The ceiling rasps and throbs
as feet trudge across the floor
above. A flush followed
by coursing water that greets
us through the holes in the pipes.
It slops a hello in her direction
and I watch as she sidesteps
into her other foot and falls
back, sinking the cot
with her cannon ball cheeks.
The vibrations shake the dust
off the walls and it stings my
eyes, letting an unfamiliar drop
tumble down and crater the floor.
34 lines
Together we heave
open the primordial doors
bordering a grand and fetid
monstrosity of a house.
The smell of corroding
wood and roaches wafting
out and up our nostrils
as we descended into the belly.
The faint flicker of the pilot
light guiding us down the steps
and into the small allowance
that has been keeping
the carnivorous frost
away from my appendages.
I light a candle on the pilot
and a smoke on the candle.
She tries to run her finger
through her hair, but gives
up when the hair spray
begins to fight back.
The ceiling rasps and throbs
as feet trudge across the floor
above. A flush followed
by coursing water that greets
us through the holes in the pipes.
It slops a hello in her direction
and I watch as she sidesteps
into her other foot and falls
back, sinking the cot
with her cannon ball cheeks.
The vibrations shake the dust
off the walls and it stings my
eyes, letting an unfamiliar drop
tumble down and crater the floor.
Friday, March 30, 2007
Monday, March 26, 2007
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
more poetry
Assiduously Routine
Every morning the beams
reach through the cracks
and beat my eyes open
like two godly fists
punishing a sinner.
Squinted and swollen
they carry me toward
a glistening reminder
of the night before.
The golden hue of whiskey
like a lighthouse signaling
my arrival and the beginning
of another torrid day in the valley.
With rigid fingers I strangle
the neck, sucking down life
in one incandescent gulp,
taking away my senescence.
I can smell the tang
of expired ham writhing
and cringing in the pan and hear
her tapping the tick-tock beat
of a Fembots song I played
for her the first night we fucked.
I meander through the crooked
door conceived by the belches
of the earth and wilt into
a chair, my hair spilling
onto the table like blood,
seeping into the grain.
The clang of ceramic hitting
wood bounces from wall
to wall, making its way through
the tangled pool of blood,
and up to the chasm, unearthing
my face from my wings.
She peers over her shoulder
with benign eyes.
I grimace.
Every morning the beams
reach through the cracks
and beat my eyes open
like two godly fists
punishing a sinner.
Squinted and swollen
they carry me toward
a glistening reminder
of the night before.
The golden hue of whiskey
like a lighthouse signaling
my arrival and the beginning
of another torrid day in the valley.
With rigid fingers I strangle
the neck, sucking down life
in one incandescent gulp,
taking away my senescence.
I can smell the tang
of expired ham writhing
and cringing in the pan and hear
her tapping the tick-tock beat
of a Fembots song I played
for her the first night we fucked.
I meander through the crooked
door conceived by the belches
of the earth and wilt into
a chair, my hair spilling
onto the table like blood,
seeping into the grain.
The clang of ceramic hitting
wood bounces from wall
to wall, making its way through
the tangled pool of blood,
and up to the chasm, unearthing
my face from my wings.
She peers over her shoulder
with benign eyes.
I grimace.
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
new new new
anarchists don't go to meetings
28 lines
I can hear the knocking
a few doors down
the hall.
I look at my door
and then walk over to it
and flip the lock.
I stand still during
thud thud thud.
the girl on the other
side gives up after
a few minutes
and I flip the lights
back on and resume
my daily crank cleaning.
finished and worn
I think of a girl
I saw at the deli today.
I think of her raspberry
lips and her tight
black jeans hugging
legs that wink back
at me while I gawk.
I think of her and wish
I'd have thought
about her ten minutes
earlier.
little things make my days
worth bearing.
28 lines
I can hear the knocking
a few doors down
the hall.
I look at my door
and then walk over to it
and flip the lock.
I stand still during
thud thud thud.
the girl on the other
side gives up after
a few minutes
and I flip the lights
back on and resume
my daily crank cleaning.
finished and worn
I think of a girl
I saw at the deli today.
I think of her raspberry
lips and her tight
black jeans hugging
legs that wink back
at me while I gawk.
I think of her and wish
I'd have thought
about her ten minutes
earlier.
little things make my days
worth bearing.
Sunday, March 04, 2007
I'm uber jazzed...
for Tales from Earthsea (new Goro Miyazaki film)
note that Goro is Hayao Miyazaki's son.
note that Goro is Hayao Miyazaki's son.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Saturday, February 24, 2007
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Saturday, February 17, 2007
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
something old
I've been a fan of 16 Horsepower for a few years now, and recently I've been listening to the song "Flutter" from the album Folklore. Here's a video of them playing it live.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
poem
Flutter
Chris Mattix
35 lines
I met this girl at the bar
the other night, Marcie.
The kind of girl
who smells like men
and says things like
"Hey there cowboy."
Her dress, red of course,
was riding up in all the wrong
places, but I was coming
from a dry spell
so I took it in stride.
We talked for a while
and I smoked the rest
of my pack and downed
five scotch and waters.
We stumbled back into
my dirty apartment
tripping over clothes,
bottles, and a hamper
filled with old pizza boxes
and ash.
She stood in the corner
and undressed
while I fixed the sheets
and prepared the bed
for a thrashing.
We fucked, but I held
back. I didn't want to wake
up sore in places that weren't
easily blamed on booze.
The next day she wanted
to take a shower with me
so I tossed her out.
I didn't want her getting
too comfortable.
Chris Mattix
35 lines
I met this girl at the bar
the other night, Marcie.
The kind of girl
who smells like men
and says things like
"Hey there cowboy."
Her dress, red of course,
was riding up in all the wrong
places, but I was coming
from a dry spell
so I took it in stride.
We talked for a while
and I smoked the rest
of my pack and downed
five scotch and waters.
We stumbled back into
my dirty apartment
tripping over clothes,
bottles, and a hamper
filled with old pizza boxes
and ash.
She stood in the corner
and undressed
while I fixed the sheets
and prepared the bed
for a thrashing.
We fucked, but I held
back. I didn't want to wake
up sore in places that weren't
easily blamed on booze.
The next day she wanted
to take a shower with me
so I tossed her out.
I didn't want her getting
too comfortable.
Jens Lekman (cover)
I've been listening to this Jens Lekman cover of the Scout Niblett song Your Beat Kicks Back Like Death...so here's a link:
http://downloads.pitchforkmedia.com/Jens%20Lekman%20-%20Your%20Beat%20Kicks%20Back%20Like%20Death.mp3
http://downloads.pitchforkmedia.com/Jens%20Lekman%20-%20Your%20Beat%20Kicks%20Back%20Like%20Death.mp3
Monday, February 12, 2007
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
crazy shit happens sometimes...
so Dalisha called me from the back of a cop car because Greg got drunk and thought it was a good idea to provoke her until she punched him in the face.
Greg is a douche-- plain and simple.
Greg is a douche-- plain and simple.
Monday, January 29, 2007
new band
Dalisha and I have decided to combine our powers and give back to the people in the form of Precursors and Blasts (our new band). Expect great things.
www.myspace.com/precursorsandblasts
www.myspace.com/precursorsandblasts
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
poem...
I'm About to Throw My Teeth Into Your Face
Chris Mattix
27 Lines
The villain in me wishes
nothing more than torment
and callousness to fill
your hearts. With a wave
of my clenched fist you will
all crumble into piles
of dust and blow away with
the eastern wind.
The hero in me would unhinge
my jowls and take that fist,
leaving a stump that bleeds
for the people; a symbol
of humanities need for protection.
Everyday the heros and villains
that dwell inside me battle
for reign over the masses.
Some nights I fall asleep
to the sound of panic and dream
of my tyrannous world.
Other nights I fall asleep
to the sound of nothing
and take that to mean,
peace.
I think of these things for hours
each day and remind myself
that I'm normal. I'm just one
of many sheep with delusions
of unreachable grandeur.
Chris Mattix
27 Lines
The villain in me wishes
nothing more than torment
and callousness to fill
your hearts. With a wave
of my clenched fist you will
all crumble into piles
of dust and blow away with
the eastern wind.
The hero in me would unhinge
my jowls and take that fist,
leaving a stump that bleeds
for the people; a symbol
of humanities need for protection.
Everyday the heros and villains
that dwell inside me battle
for reign over the masses.
Some nights I fall asleep
to the sound of panic and dream
of my tyrannous world.
Other nights I fall asleep
to the sound of nothing
and take that to mean,
peace.
I think of these things for hours
each day and remind myself
that I'm normal. I'm just one
of many sheep with delusions
of unreachable grandeur.
Saturday, January 06, 2007
music writing
here's something that I wrote for Stylus Magazine's stypod mp3 blog.
Fusing Your Worth
by
Chris Mattix
It's interesting to watch a band try to recover from a break up. Regrouping and refocusing can't be easy, especially for members of bands riding the coattails of past success. The pressure to prove yourself again as a musician increases tenfold after a break-up, and comparisons with the group that attained earlier chart success or critical recognition are hard to escape, But sometimes when one band dies another band gets its wings.
Kylesa was formed out of necessity. When Damad broke up in 2000 guitarist Philip Cope and three other Damad members formed Kylesa so they wouldn't have to stop writing songs. At first I assumed that Cope and company were going to pick up where Damad left off, in some grisly pit in the swamps of Georgia. Cope, however, turned out to be a much better musician than I gave him credit for, and Damad's demise has turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to the guy.
I didn't notice it at the time, but now when I listen to Damad, specifically Cope's guitar work, I can pick out the subtle nuances that have become fully realized within Kylesa. I can hear Cope's influences because they wander, as if Cope is a child who can’t focus all of his attention on one thing. Consequently, he sneaks things in where he can -- a riff here, a riff there, but always in moderation, so people won't catch on. The track "Second Hand" from Damad's album Rise and Fall is one of the more obvious examples of this. If you listen closely you can hear riffs that sound eerily familiar to early Emperor and Neurosis. This track makes me wonder what it was like for Cope to have to restrict his creativity for so long; constantly repressing the urge to fuse together a variety of styles.
I suppose it doesn't matter what it was like for Cope in the 90's, because he's a creative juggernaut today, and Kylesa are getting better with every album. Their latest release, Time Will Fuse its Worth, eclipses the band’s previous material because it’s more focused and the songs are more challenging. The physical make up of Kylesa is as unique as the music. In particular,using two drummers makes the band sound more full and adds tribal elements that take Cope's songs in interesting directions. The other band members deliver as well and guitarist/vocalist Laura Pleasants' bark is one of the highlights of the record. She and Cope trade off seamlessly on the track "What Becomes an End," which starts with a heavy dose of old school hardcore guitar work that reminds me of Artimus Pyle's song "Showdown," and then a saunters into a sludgy riff for a moment before picking up speed and taking off again, finally ending with a wah-wah infused guitar solo that would make Matt Pike proud.
Although Damad fit so nicely into the world of crust punk and His Hero is Gone-style hardcore, it makes sense that Kylesa are a band who are reluctant to tie themselves to any particular genre.A lot of bands strive unsuccessfully to make fans and critics wonder what they will do next. They never quite break the mold that formed them and, as a result, they become predictable. That’s not a problem for Kylesa. In fact, unpredictability is the whole point. We don't know what to expect from them next because they truly don’t know what road they are apt to take.That’s what makes them so much fun.
p.s. here's a link to the last article I wrote.
http://stylusmagazine.com/stypod/archives/579
Fusing Your Worth
by
Chris Mattix
It's interesting to watch a band try to recover from a break up. Regrouping and refocusing can't be easy, especially for members of bands riding the coattails of past success. The pressure to prove yourself again as a musician increases tenfold after a break-up, and comparisons with the group that attained earlier chart success or critical recognition are hard to escape, But sometimes when one band dies another band gets its wings.
Kylesa was formed out of necessity. When Damad broke up in 2000 guitarist Philip Cope and three other Damad members formed Kylesa so they wouldn't have to stop writing songs. At first I assumed that Cope and company were going to pick up where Damad left off, in some grisly pit in the swamps of Georgia. Cope, however, turned out to be a much better musician than I gave him credit for, and Damad's demise has turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to the guy.
I didn't notice it at the time, but now when I listen to Damad, specifically Cope's guitar work, I can pick out the subtle nuances that have become fully realized within Kylesa. I can hear Cope's influences because they wander, as if Cope is a child who can’t focus all of his attention on one thing. Consequently, he sneaks things in where he can -- a riff here, a riff there, but always in moderation, so people won't catch on. The track "Second Hand" from Damad's album Rise and Fall is one of the more obvious examples of this. If you listen closely you can hear riffs that sound eerily familiar to early Emperor and Neurosis. This track makes me wonder what it was like for Cope to have to restrict his creativity for so long; constantly repressing the urge to fuse together a variety of styles.
I suppose it doesn't matter what it was like for Cope in the 90's, because he's a creative juggernaut today, and Kylesa are getting better with every album. Their latest release, Time Will Fuse its Worth, eclipses the band’s previous material because it’s more focused and the songs are more challenging. The physical make up of Kylesa is as unique as the music. In particular,using two drummers makes the band sound more full and adds tribal elements that take Cope's songs in interesting directions. The other band members deliver as well and guitarist/vocalist Laura Pleasants' bark is one of the highlights of the record. She and Cope trade off seamlessly on the track "What Becomes an End," which starts with a heavy dose of old school hardcore guitar work that reminds me of Artimus Pyle's song "Showdown," and then a saunters into a sludgy riff for a moment before picking up speed and taking off again, finally ending with a wah-wah infused guitar solo that would make Matt Pike proud.
Although Damad fit so nicely into the world of crust punk and His Hero is Gone-style hardcore, it makes sense that Kylesa are a band who are reluctant to tie themselves to any particular genre.A lot of bands strive unsuccessfully to make fans and critics wonder what they will do next. They never quite break the mold that formed them and, as a result, they become predictable. That’s not a problem for Kylesa. In fact, unpredictability is the whole point. We don't know what to expect from them next because they truly don’t know what road they are apt to take.That’s what makes them so much fun.
p.s. here's a link to the last article I wrote.
http://stylusmagazine.com/stypod/archives/579
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