Get all 17 brad hamers releases available on Bandcamp and save 10%.
Includes unlimited streaming via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality downloads of 8 poems from The Humming Prole, La Pánica, Through Flames, Through Flames - GoCopless (maxi-single), Artax, Stone, Cat Child - c-t ch-ld, Child of No Nation, and 9 more.
1. |
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mechanical …and stuck in a downpour
large world small world i got my head stuck in a bottle : the letter without an address
when she died the tv was on in the next room all this for just a small fee of $19.99
thirty second sitcom skits the connections that always end up fuzzy we both wear the same smile
until it gets too uncomfortable in public photocopied emotions pasted to blank expressions the
bulletin board of chores never accomplished i wear myself out and get compliments on my frown
from strangers who might play the guitar in their snare time help the crippled guy cross the
street help me cross the typos off my facial reactions wrong punctuation the question mark
growing cancerous i connect the dot dot dots at the end of each thought and picture nice pictures
to glue to my refriger ator ice box brain frozen in place a film reel on a treadmill
out-of-service jute box love-letters hate-mail the city from a zoom lens glitched out mind
sketchy art gallery the scrap book that’s scared to die
moments glued together my ball of string brain my fading sweater my zipper-down soul
poured out like puddles gone bad rich pockets full of yard grass wasting away in a tank
dieing cigarettes smoking houses firemen rescue glasses pole-dancing jesus tips and dip i
want a better view of the canyon snapshot family life a photo album dancing for the relatives
the puppet show without strings or percussion off-beat anatomical heart learning to write raps
more bass i want the empty houses on summer days i pass to seizure in synchrony
an after-school death practice class
people all cry the same just got different reasons to water their plants
static electricity and people in a nuclear world atom bomb eve blow up doll with a fake
personality the old ash tray with war stories from 1939 these new jacks don’t know how to die
right humming air conditioner whistling kettle singing cd player old thoughts feeding tube
i quit living cold turkey my visions jump from the blurry windows two floors from the top
dreamless television built-in vcr memory playback
the out of focus pictures misdated moments old songs the world forgot how to dance to the
hard to breath gray woman with a colored television large box small box i got my head
stuck in the tv self addressed letter never sent out the dieing light in my dusty corner
she left with yesterday in her hair
packed the bags under her eyes
the on road moving funeral show
an old painting in black and white
a bunch of same brand clocks all staring at one dead watch
wondering if his house will still smell the same in thirty to forty years
right before their batteries go dead
loud flowers and laminated dreams
the paper dares me to key its car
cigarettes are clouds raining upwards
he cries every night just wash the dirt from the cracks
no one likes an expected sidewalk fancy me with food in my teeth
he thinks about her when the scent of dinner is still stuck in the room 2 days later
the gray fuzz my tv keeps leaving all over the house
she likes to count rain on the window
watching the sunset from a hand mirror in a train heading west
the woman with a stapled face trying hold herself together and hide her holes
you’ll meet dreams in the darkest parts of your bedroom at 1am
with the lamp screaming dully from the other room she’ll keep the world in glass jar on
some shelf her memory built 8 years ago after a pair of flowers promised her forever would come
easy just forget your head and let intuition take control the petals move and kill
themselves off one by one on their own she knows your heart in a blue sweater not she loves
in four/four time signature the easiest rhythm to catch a head nod off of let your feet
move and keep your eye-lids away from the top of the window ledge but remember to develop
picture perfect pictures of her while the lights are out because she won’t be there when the alarm
goes off to help you grab things out your burning house or to kiss you good-bye from a
crack in the bedroom door
die out like a television hit the button and fade to static stomach drop
the park ride people wait on line for for hours
my light bulb buzzes for the cordless phone on the counter that rings once a day
out of nail biting rituals and greeting kisses are cards that always seem to say more with their
mouths shut the ideas count but nothing adds up to be much outside black suits
and wood boxes we’ve all got somewhere to go the cemetery waiting list club membership
your life insurance won’t save you there’s not enough room to write on small paper = the problem
with jail cells he’s three meals a day a movie for tv special not one frame in this place has a
single picture the blank pages in the back of a text book his laughter grew up to be the kind
of closing bell we all wore shoes and handshakes for because he always made his weeping wear the
color of laughter that never matched the tone of anyone’s conversation
even if rain was in tomorrow’s forecast
no one likes a magnifying glass in popular shoes and custom made family reunion shirts
he always referred to her as the book he lost somewhere just before he finished reading it
and stores don’t carry the pages with personalized noted and highlights
-likes 3 spoons of sugar in tea
-hates the static on radio
i wonder if the sun poses on its way out knowing people behind cameras perform heart
transplants to its closing credits the lowercase folks with their sharp words
cutting conversation down to hand gestures and lip syncing in perfect synchrony
the swimming routine that always wins the smile of a girl with the sun in her eyes
the same song - we all just prefer to sing it differently
and audience always matters
even if you write for yourself
keep your small world small
i wonder if art existed long before the word
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2. |
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i play dead
i played dead and she bought two tickets to see the performance
a stomach full of black and white butterflies
a bankrupt kissing booth boarded up and spray painted with: i love so and so
dated - dinner two nights ago - we made out on a couch and i made out with three dollars in
quarters when the sky has an oil spill i rush to save the plants in my head
that need sunlight to live
built my own sun under a lampshade my own identity under a name
and each day i convince myself that i can drown in a glass of water
strapped with a plastic machine gun and a pocket full of quarters
throwing change at a waitress she plays a tray with two plates and does rounds with a
tip hat table one needs more conversation table two needs more honesty
and i chase the bus boy down to the next stop for some more water
i played dead and she saved the playbill for her refrigerator
the jam session in my chest lost the drummer and all its sense of harmony
spoons and knives singing together in a chorus line
tables throwing up their legs and dancing out from underneath us
the world goes by outside like rush hour traffic with headphones on
watching an argument from a window
the moon pulling the sun’s hair out and its dark
lit rooms fire wearing vanilla perfume climbing the knotted wick in gym class for credit with the
date i picked up at noon
i wore a life vest and a clip on tie to the first lunch date
my drink was poured overboard my eyes lost patience and wouldn’t sit still my mouth opened its doors
at entrees the band went on but never played a tune last call at the bar was made collect for a
taxi and silence tastes like twelve dollar plates with a fork that sweeps up after everyone leaves
i played dead and she wrote a critical review on my part
man inside a trumpet woman in a kettle drum
i beat the thoughts out of her and she blows me off
loud heaters and air conditioners with a nasal drip
off beat floorboards and unconventional ovens wanting to skip dinner
to play the radio in a closet with speakers that have a slurring problem
i match my heartbeat to the snares and let my thoughts blend together
like overlapping summer with love and sun tanning in a wool jacket
brought a guitar that doesn’t work out to dinner and watched her get smashed
on wine and vodka sauce mute television battery remote died broke speaker
popped ear drum never hit expectation thrown off a ledge like falling from a high note
singing into an unplugged microphone we sat in silence
i played dead and she never clapped for my performance
same conversation different plate of food
we held a funeral for dead air and rung our eyes out like sponges over the clothes lines
like dirty laundry for sale love took off its hat and asked for a donation
hugging memories to death and burying them in the basement
i keep a cup to the table and hope to hear vibrations but her voice box is still taped up and
i’ve been throwing coal in her train of thought since we bought the two tickets to sit and talk but
response never arrived i waited at the station it’s grub for thinking and hunger for conversation
sinking in the hourglass quicksand out of my mind but left the alarm on
knowledge is the spare key i keep in under a rug next to a jack and this engine breaks down quite
often two advil and a scenery change every three thousand thoughts warrantee package never
delivered i live in my car and we drive to dinner in my bedroom sit across from each other
and listen the other people’s stories about nothing
i played dead and she left me rotting in her bedroom with no funeral
i was the dead man’s float for her parade rain marched across the pavement
and the band forgot to bring their instruments a concert without music
our dinner without talk
i eat across from her every night and hope that i’ll drown in the next refill of water
i was the dead man’s float for her parade rain marched across the pavement
and the band forgot to bring their instruments a concert without music
our dinner without talk
i eat across from her every night and
i play dead
return rewound
we’ve been meeting in the library twice a week
sitting next to each other - reading
at the same time
but still have yet to speak
i’ll remember this book forever
even if it ends up
bad
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3. |
black & white
02:15
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black & white
she thought the world was black and white before color photographs
my mother got her first pigment at the age of 26
the painter with his imagination tied to a street post
the circles make better squares in pictures with a dated frame
the business suit eating classical bach and repeat talk for dinner
the free spirits become price tags
with sale stickers keeping their smile in place
i push pinned my lips to hers
and we returned ourselves for a new entertainment center
a brain with a beach view
the waves run re-runs every day at six
check your local listings for tomorrow’s sunrise
the young and ambitious become assigned seats at a dining room party for four
eat your parents milk
its good for your stick figure
the puzzle always fits itself into a smaller pair of pants
i can’t wait to fall off a building
my first feature film
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4. |
half world
06:43
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half world
half world unscripted playwright ink blot the burn marks on my fingertips feature cigarette the sold out 9pm showing of yesterday in an old pink ribbon dance for the vintage camcorder ugly smile hiding itself in the corners of her face winter pocket hands and waiting for the bus
metal leaves drift by the tree losing its hair
the world’s receding hairline gets worse in fireplace moments and flannel smiles
he needs warming up in the winter no good under a frozen streetlight the sun in an ice cube tray the blue curtains in the window next door never swallow sunshine the empty glass on the corner table the straw with its face blushing
the drum break for our conversation about everything and nothing dinner to death tired of dreaming fishing blindfolded for fireflies that burnt out 30 years ago the uncooked dinner party we missed for an old sitcom rerun the laugh track my mind can’t get out of its mind
enter key backspace to yesterdays in today clothes i’ve never seen tomorrow in its gown but she talks about it all the time outside on the restaurant tables for two and dinner food outside corner cafes smoking cigarettes and blowing out words the drifting sailor in his boat to nowhere words that float away never come back for its shit its shit it left lying around my one bedroom mind frame
tarnished old pictures new faces rotting wall guitars solo
prime of your life highschool dreams friends in a negative slide reel
the fake smile implant she’s getting could never fuck my natural frown
the moon’s underarm cliff diving into the pit in my stomach her wink keeps me
strobe dancing in circles the earth on a bottle of hard liquor bad year broken memories in some fucked up repair shop refurbished view points the kids play outside like kids playing outside the wind on a leash tied to a tree chasing a butterfly in circles the sun with its palm out and a collection plate the sky on a harness hanging over my parking lot
file save
the white out spots on blue construction paper the man carry grocery bags
the woman eating lunch alone in a one bedroom window frame : the over-priced art piece
the out of place abstract painting abstract because it’s the only one not really abstract in a gallery full of abstract paintings the man made of wire hangers sitting legs crossed on a bench making love to a slab of concrete : the strange grass that gets planted more often then lawns outside middle class rooms 4 well educated walls and a floor with more support beams than a double D ceiling in projects the man thinking about hanging himself from his work belt from an old light fixture from home depot that’s been dusted maybe once
maybe the man who straightens his tie before he shoots himself in the head
the big blind date with death i hope she’s heavenly
the kid who doesn’t play outside like kids play outside the fog bolted to the ground the sun without its make up and blush the clouds tied to a chain link fence the cars coming in and out the people coming in and out the memories coming in the highway in the back of my mind
the entrance ramps and exit numbers out of sequence song the off beat and path bad berries stomach cramp long walk to oz sleeping is exercise for my brain : the treadmill set up in front of a smaller tv than the one in my living room the man in his living room cutting open his head just to watch the blood hit the coffee table the song on repeat that no one understands but sings along to its easier than dancing around the point pretending your tongue knows the cabbage patch
will she remember me fifty years later from an outdated radio wire or gray tv screen the day we watched the headlights jump off a mountain and the moon lower itself onto a building roof : the dying man barbequing midnight snacks on top of his tenement by himself wondering why he always ends up here the other woman we caught staring at him from her window too : just another one of the seats in the movie theatre for some feature film that will probably fade away unremembered like most actors unscripted half world the person that sits at their dinning room table reading at night with tea and an ash tray the woman’s bike from upstairs tied to a light post the people leaving for work the man who’d rather sit on a bench then work the breeze throwing itself through my screen door window the papers from an old unread notebook blowing off the table
file
save
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5. |
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sinking summer boat (although ship works better)
dieing : the expensive trip i haven’t taken
the one not for the kids - just a cell phone with worldwide service
and a passport
she left waving her red scarf from a sinking ship - two summers ago
when the sunsets never dyed its hair pink
always lets its roots natural color show through
it used to rain everyday back then
the problem the plumber couldn’t fix
you’ve got to get used to that sound - learn to like the water leak:
steady steady cymbal tap - dreaming at 88 BeatsPerMinute
-sleep sound - dream loud - the brilliant albums that always seem to get slept upon
my sink bleeds to death in the kitchen
electric bill shot up - appliances running -
the drive by we wish would happen to doors down
i miss russian roulette with a cap gun - the scent of crumb cake in the oven on Sundays
- and the fake plastic sidewalks on baltic avenue
has your ship hit port yet - i want a postcard when you get there:
a picture of the sunset in heaven
with the disposable camera that i sent you in your care package
the windows in this house never keep their eyes open long enough
to see the seasons changing clothes
mother nature naked in the dressing room - breast feeding her plastic baby
the peeping tom that falls asleep behind his binoculars
you’ll never get home from work after the night shift on morning coffee
and the three cups of pointless conversation you drank throughout the day
it’s better to be late - than stood up by yourself
on the blind date you had with your dirty ash tray and a stack of bad magazines
the bed tastes better with appetizers on the couch before the meal is served –
but a king size stomach is always hard to fill without the 2nd place setting
your paid vacation time is up - they’re short staff on the sales floor
work’s been calling your answering machine with messages and missed calls
did you steal magnets from the souvenir shop
spend your saturdays stuck at the brochure stands
and see the moon skinny dipping in the sea at night
i haven’t seen the sun in two summers and
my sink’s still bleeding to death in the kitchen
but i’m only dreaming at 44 BeatPerMinute
slowing down to a steady steady cymbal
CRASH
water drops and record pops
my rain dance is out of style
her think tank is losing water
i turned the moon channel on
and we smoked midnight cigarettes between our fingers
like small houses on fire
burning stories
broken elevators
a book with its chapters jumping from window ledges
light hits her face like yellow wind
my eye lids blow like curtains
window open
summer breath - heavy
filling the room like gas leaks
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6. |
cliff notes
04:48
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cliff notes
the last time i fell off a cliff
i was photographing the sunset
an aluminum gardener rusted into position picking flowers for his wife
i’ve been burnt by the grill that taught me how to kiss
and the flowers in my hand never died only grew less distinct
see , your pumping water hose is too heavy to hold and the tank you store yourself in is getting
hazy like the dinning room you call a brain breaking capacity feeding itself till it bursts
and i’ve been to peep shows where snares get fucked by drum sticks behind plexie glass
my memory runs a slide show at the local fire house each evening come get your free horror movie
pretentious acting lessons puke for the cameras popcorn for the frequents
see broken engines only make for bad rides but i bought the ticket fare and have got nothing else
to drive so you scribbled your name on my paper heart and forgot to pick it up when the rain check
called to confirm the date
well it’s pick me up at eight we’ll drive off a cliff and hope to die before we miss
the way spring smells in your room at dawn and i carry butterfly nets like swords and
wander round your thoughts swiping at anything with wings
roses at the wrong doorstep wishes with bad postage
and i only left my dreams at your house
just so we’d have to see each other again
i’m too bent out of shape to fit in blown out toll up bridge down gapped tooth
and us two
we’re broken ice sculptures that can’t seem to stay out of the paradise sun
with matching paper umbrellas that keep ripping in rain storms
you’re the thunder to my lightning
the hair drier to my full tub
electrons both negative always trying to make love
we’ve got whores, alcoholics, drug addicts, insecure look alikes, origami pigeons
pull my tail clip my wings it’s a smile mission make my lips get up and dance
mouth get up and run off balance brain doing the tight rope greeting hug
pull the plug and watch the moon pull off its panties half naked and standing in the window
uneven haircut flashlight hard hat system glitch
and i’m the white coat altruistic not too rich donator that keeps putting all my funds
into a company that only robs me
i shoved my quarter into her slot until she started spitting gumballs
let’s chew the conversation till it’s easy enough to swallow
it’s all bullshit in fancy toilets trash that’s gotten picked up one too many times
fucking lip stick stains holes plugged with cork screws spilling bottles of cheap wine
these kind of stains never come out
and i’m tired of going in to save the ass hole who can’t swim
you’re a fucking fly caught in my knotted hair
that hangs over my face like fisted hands
and at times i catch the slight scent of burnt rolling papers
from the end of a cigarette
and i think of long summers with pages ripped out
i walked 4 and half blocks with your damp heart in a brown paper bag
and my walkman dies every time you hit that battered note
from here it looks as though your brake lights are out
and its got my sexual drive in neutral
fingers on the volume
she’s in a dump truck pulling the petals off a piece of seaweed
and how many blankets does it take to reproduce me
and my lighter go out under the yellow porch light and talk about
how fast we can burn the bridges over our flat lines
without the moat sinking to the bottom
so i gave my life to the first bullet that jumped in front me
dedicated love letters to mailboxes that kept relocating
a laundry basket that takes off its clothes for any drier
that can supply enough warmth and affection
a car that picks up any passenger
that will refill its tank with enough reason to keep driving
you with your flash light eyes your sos light show your dimming hope
so the cap’s been twisted off the coffee stained my finger tips
and i burnt myself with the first cigarette i ever tried to light
my lover’s a sock drawer
and i’m a scuff mark
but not the only one on her shoe
so it’s been a long movie you’ve now got your spotlight in the credits
keep fishing in dirty ponds playing your love songs on broken guitars
peel the sun like an apple flush the core and get that flash light out of my face
and if you fall slow enough
you can hit the ground
just as the sun goes down
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7. |
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lookbehindu …and the pregnant way to carry an art text book
the wrong way street her memory in a back room playing dusty records next to a window
without a view every painting on the wall is a landscape she’s never seen
the post card collection in a box with baggage claim tickets and family photos of passed down smiles
and eye colors she’s never met her false memories enjoy wire splicing and taping journal
entries to furniture the day waits to die sitting in its barstool waiting for the red head
to fall asleep before it lets go the 18 story drop the book series written in window fog
the glass building with its face in a magazine
sometimes she jumps off the roof just to reread the 13th chapter
to every man stuck in a see through office filing papers and rewriting writing coffee stains
the world gets drunk on weekends for you the newspaper stand with it wonderful beach view
complaining about its leg pain the escape plans of a dreamer
written on dinner napkins and part-time pay stubs
irony swinging from the pick me tree the full moon only looks that full from your small window
typical in a new outfit just gets dates without pick up lines and free alcohol
i’ve been painting chasing the running colors in my epic piece for the last 3 full-time years
dada in an art book school pictures the one day you chose look different
i’ll remember you by the accident on your face the day your smile took the turn a little too fast
watch the bend in the street and don’t forget to pick up the pieces of yourself on the side of the
highway the grown woman pulled over crying on the shoulder of the road
a man bending to see up the dress of the double parked car standing in the street blinking
record life the playlist of the vacant radio station that no one’s ever tuned into
the old metal speakers left screaming in some soundproofed room
the fat lady’s been singing for ever and the show still hasn’t ended
it just no longer has a conscious audience
another aspiring artist whose never touched a brush the development meeting in the halls of your
brain the planning party let’s toast to the ideas apple picking in the off season
the direct route to tomorrow without stopping over in poorly lit rooms empty with dripping
reverse is a direction also times times two only puts us here with a pinch of yesterday
seasoning for the bland chicken pieces we overcook each night
who cares if it makes sense its someone’s brain with its tits hanging out
and not asking for a necklace enjoy the shapes the geometry the circle doesn’t always
have to fit into the circle my memory plays golf with hers every two weeks
we bet on how many holes we each can find in our similar pastimes
the mispronunciation of fore the video tapes have a better memory than you
sit on the photo albums lap and ask for a bedtime story the wrong way street
she’s back at the window again writing love stories backwards in the window fog
an artists who’s never shown her work who watches the award shows
and cries during acceptance speeches
singing herself to sleep
drawing the curtains and
singing herself to sleep
psychedelic scarecrows
words music nervous drums cracking knuckles
thoughts run out of breath full of noise spilling speaker
i gave my heart a haircut
and i only write to spend more time with myself
more than just weekends and holidays
i’m a pot hole filling up with rain that sometimes need to spill
the words are synonymous to their $6 beers and
i get myself drunk
so drunk she threw up her turning signal
changed lanes left the village to head downtown
and i’m machete chopping bushels of wheat for a handful of berries
safari strapped with a shotgun poking holes in sunshine
two scarecrows hungry for a hug
fingers made of straw -bent toothpicks
she lit my hand on fire and we had a quality candle lit conversation for a good 3 hours
before i completely burnt down to nothing
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8. |
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footstep (a smile in script)
i die easy and i’ve always been made fun of for that
kill time
shoot the breeze
drove home with a dead cloud tied to my roof rack
computer buzz
nothing reminds me of summer more
these are my muscle spasm pieces
every ceiling’s just another floor
and the world’ just another conversation
going in circles
the argument she just won’t let die
my tv’s just another picture book - i just don’t have to flip the page or
interpret the theme
it does all that for me
the sun always falling for his 5 o clock shadow that we’re not trying too hard look
emotional land mime acting out the proper way to get stuck in a box and not let your tongue
push your words around the continuity piece in my pieces is
obvious very like a broken heart attempting to sign up for the 100 meter dash
this is how real people smile
all teeth and no feeling
watch the stuttering kid attempt to read his paper on grace and perfection
honking all the way home
i’ve been practicing my casket pose
lie still and it will all be over soon
(all other voices are reading don dellio's 'white noise')
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9. |
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pickpocketed memory clip
lost me under water with a three piece life suit brain sun burn
have you ever watched a pistol talk about its problems there’s fight to be fought
and paintings to stared at for hours on end and end
worldview through a dusty telescope rusted in the head there’s emotions to run from
and plumbing to be fixed have you ever watched a cloud of smoke dance around your 1 bedroom house
fly on airplane spacecraft fighter jet american dodge ball
out of service humans she won’t swallow my paper ideas origami dream land
the sold out movies feed me dinner puke me mornings make something of yourself
and the figures in the mushroom clouds the city in the sky the toll for the bridge is
too damn ex-pensive ex-dream girl re-written screenplay turned nightmare
horror series my television won’t turn off my muse won’t on digital world
a seesaw in a busy parking lot where full colored televisions dressed like children dine with frozen
dinners in wicker baskets and rolls of plastic wrap stuck in a maze too amazed with artistry
to find the finish line our race ended itself with an old rope swing and a bar stool
drowning in the river we sail each night to forget the land i was planted in
whatever floats my heavy thoughts won’t let me dock in its water the moon on an anchor
the sun backstage waiting for its entrance the play i keep playing the record revolving
the gun in the corner with its head spinning fuzzy picture pixel out of sync movie
short lasting vacations where the props fall over and the set needs rebuilding
your life’s plastic and recyclable mine’s already melted on the sidewalk
people jog in place because the tv don’t got legs fuck the backdrop outside
we’ve got pretty curtains and a nice wallpaper design i’m cliché my smile keeps getting
repeated copywritten feelings we rip off each other’s smirks and sew then on the fabrics that
match my eye color’s never the same shade as my views
i’m tacky and sticking out in crowds my stomach turns itself inside out and washes with
similar colors a saxophone without soul the flashy people with nothing to say
loud static radio show the cloud watching handbook for beginners wish upon a rocket
we eat dinner waiting for the band to play at our table waiting for the bus
waiting for the phone call waiting for the rain to stop waiting for my friends to come
waiting for the funny part waiting for the paycheck waiting for the opportunity
waiting for the day to end waiting for the song i like waiting for the wrong table
getting a bullshit tip and spending it on a bad lunch
wishing on lucky fish just makes the meal taste worse
the catch is the catch isn’t what makes you satisfied
it’s the gun the orange vest the camouflage outfit
and the first deer you see but miss
hunting bad thoughts in a barrel my mind’s open but no one’s coming in
bankrupt
chapter 11’s the epilogue i can’t find inspiration to write
escape
resist
cancer get it while you can
“police are nothing but clergymen with guns”* *alan watts quote
will think for food
look at me grin shit in my gums
spin the bottle of poison and go canadian kiss the ass hole who looks like you
clothing ad minus the good song being fucked in the ass dance around my fire place heart
and we can tell work-time stories to the kids
hiking kit
floating in a puddle
the sixty watt sun doing charcoal sketches of trees
on the ground
i nailed a posted sign to her back
we stared at a puddle that was making fun of the sky
wrapped in fig leaves and dried out memories picking yesterdays from family trees chopping
through her thick head to the campsite where we drink water canteens and she tells me she’s
dieing
to get lost
with me
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10. |
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arms made for hugs like wrench metal
a cracked glass gave me a wink and i bought it a refill
she’s trying on her smiles so we can go out to dance
we are paper flowers and i’d mashie her a better life if i could only buy my brain back
two pennies and we share a piggy bank trading minds every saturday
but this place is a sardine pack we live in a tin house without heart
and shop for feelings at flea markets where i first latched onto her fur
road kill playing in the avenue hop-scotching shadows of sunlight to impress the stars
when i was drawn they made me with x’s for eyes- an algebra problem is the best description for
my childhood i’ve got a glass mind and there’s a stone throwing every weekend
so i invest in memories and bet on the horse without a saddle living on fragments slices of happiness
used and recycled notions i’m finding it incredibly complicated to be original i was remixed at birth
and never mastered always broken - skipping repeating myself every morning
when the alarm starts to laugh at my schedule
and i need to visit you more often
i’d bring a video and a bad conversation we can play ring around the rosy for two hours and
pretend tomorrow wasn’t cutting corners with the scissors mother nature’s been running with since
they figured out how to use the word forever
and i feel empty
a house without furniture
it’s like a bad can opener just puncturing the surface
and i’m almost completely around the top of your mind digging for clothes pins to hang myself from
so leave me damp and i’ll keep wrinkling your time you call life but i call it back star 69
to find out where the fuck it’s all coming from
all these so over weight standards and that house where christmas is opened in a box
drooling bad eggnog so wake from your drunken daydreams and drive me home
you’re a steering wheel in my drive to accomplish something
something more than this feeling……….so fuck what i say as long as it’s said appealingly
and dye me the color of sky at dusk so i can fade without a crescendo
the sunshine seems to only rain on this side of town when the weekends come back around
we’re hang over hang men who forgot how to spell happiness
you’re making my stomach clap its hands and all these so-called friendship collisions at the local
i’ll take the regular order me a new evening and i’ll tip you with my cigarette ashes
talking bar stool drown it all in a flask then resurrect it for the excuse to drown again
shit is getting stale
so the summer is gone and i’m an empty room
please write me back with a kiss and i’ll carry it around in the pocket without a hole
did you ever notice how snares sound like something falling from a distance
and confused would probably be the most accurate image if it was one
and i don’t know what we’ve been doing for these past few years but sometimes it feels chapped
and i bite my lip when i’m chewing on this trying to save the world
with a broken flashlight and a pack of chewing gum
sticking my pen in places some call harassment so i’m charged like a battery with
no place to shed energy so i keep you distant but close enough pet
then it’s back and forth i’ll rain on you until you start to cry then we can reverse the order
automated smiles to frowns sun to moon spring to both of us falling
so counterproductive would probably be the most accurate image if it was one
and winking at the stars only makes the morning look funny
trying on too many smiles only holds up the line
and i think paper flowers rip in the wind
so i don’t know i’m not sure i’m up in arms
and this is about a girl that i met in a bar
only i wasn’t there
but she bought me a memory
and i still drink it till this day
never seeming to get drunk enough
but always stumbling around slurring all my good thoughts away
and this is about a girl that i met in a bar
only i wasn’t there
but she bought me a memory
and i still drink it till this day
never seeming to get drunk enough
but always stumbling around slurring all my good thoughts away
|
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11. |
hic-cup
02:48
|
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hic-cup
my disjointed brain does gymnastic tricks for weight in the bucket
lift rent sets three times daily water the dishes give proper sunlight to the oven
my garden hose home got kinked and lost its heart in a complex apartment
meant to be comfortable my foot in the door fell asleep
my pin and needle cushion needs more stuffing my cotton ball filling is falling out like words
i love you to a drum beat
scrap boxing in a circle rhyme to my heart murmurs good music sells itself to big name party
caps and favors trade green for concrete the imprint my smile left on her cheek
hollywood street teams i post up advertisement spots where her brain stops to pick up inspiration
each day these coffee shops never close and these roads never end
only reincarnate with a different name and a different hair-style
from the pointy sky scrapers to the long wavy grass
i can drive around your writers block for hours before i get old and thrown out
bad idea being character sketched in an empty park these swing sets get no wind
now-a-days and my electric run wishes won’t turn out to be beyond batteries
or dated pictures in someone’s top fifty albums collection
that was the time we vacationed in the wrong city
next to the only photo i own of myself is nailed to the bathroom wall fogging up in the morning
humans can’t fly but i broke the wings off a one way angel
loaded my head with three hundred passengers and crashed into a stack of papers
the black box composition journal entry detour lost my marbles in a marble notebook
saved my pennies in an old mayonnaise jar
i don’t buy your thoughts i rip them off
and sell my own patched up interpretations
full of holes and water leaks
a house
a shack
a box
of scrap paper
broken half painted under brushed less groomed more knotty dreading death under dirt
more boxed closed in open mind going bad unrefrigerated thought lost sleep with mind
i lock it all away
electric woman
short-circuited man
fuse box head
she blew my mind
do you ever wonder where all this missing ends
at a severed sidewalk
or black painted wall
overlooking empty space
no need for a camera
or all those years you spent practicing you first dates
how to memorize that empty feeling in your chest beginner’s workshop
|
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12. |
||||
loose brain thread
scribble hearts paper life crumpled face the wrinkle in my stopwatch
counting cigarette drags and cars on the freeway streetlights pissing on the streets
the radio’s some soft spoken hitch-hiker just talking to himself in the backseat
our silence dresses loud and gets strange looks in the toll light
driving myself nowhere the half written road map i keep finding direction in
lost lost lost all the ink in my brain can’t finish the book i bought to read on vacation
thoughtless and wearing the same clothes lonely in a rush hour buzz
leave me and my breathing machine out of this half made robots
the hair on my head is growing more metal gray days fucking crayons on a box spring
writing in circles dull pencil shaving itself in the bad bathroom light
the rest of the day is what i paint it
blue a kiss red a novel fell in love with a stranger and spent our time figuring out how
to get out before we starved to death my wishes got clogged in the well
plumbing pipe dreams cracked out and burnt around the edges bad décor letter hallmark
the writing on the wall because halls aren’t rooms and don’t have furniture
can’t catch a breeze standing behind a window people need separation and dieing flowers
and i can’t have problems unless they fit into a capsule stupid party hat
tape dub dialogue fuck weather and whether or not you feel like sunshine
standing on the corner selling itself -
12 hours for a thousand dollars you can do with it where you want
i just wanted pictures with it when it was leaving for its honeymoon
lemon dreams read the words scrolling across the screen
when i grow up i want to be a decomposing corpse the centerpiece at brunch
comment on the pretty wallpaper i couldn’t be me if i wrote a to-do list
and bought a pack full of bulletin boards
the nail stuck in my head is the song i’ll sing
until the sun says fuck it and jumps from the bridge
i’ve got a condo view of a postcard moment take photo here memory flipbook bad cartoon
infomercial 32inch mind set shopping for a cheaper way to make tomorrow fit
into my schedule without sucking in its gut the pride i swallowed gave me heartburn
and the rest of the town came out to watch me fall to pieces under hydrant showers
and cloudy skies nuclear fallout summer in the house drinking beer
and playing the air conditioner loud dancing to the sun beating on a parking lot
half naked cars my morning jog the dolly camera shot i record over each day
doing the same thing wearing a different mood driving an old ambition
eventually gas prices will be too high for me to make it anywhere
my car’s a pen
from a hole in my dining room
i’ve been watching this woman with a sewing needle
pick her threads apart
she’s been stuck on this knot in her arm
the coming undone was always advertised as easy
the beach billboard
your shitty hotel in paradise
the broken pool chairs and the
floating feeling in a deep end half full of polluted beach water
ocean in a one bedroom apartment
two drowning children
pulling the covers closer to your face in the winter
asleep tangled in loose string
|
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13. |
one bedroom apt.
05:14
|
|||
one bedroom apt.
broken head
the ash tray busting out of its favorite shirt
refrigerator humming itself to sleep
the concert rerun in a radio speaker with a hand over its mouth
empty stomach
the waitress upstairs cooking dinner in her work clothes
another tree stump that buys herself a new ring each year with christmas bonus
button down mouth popped open my gut hanging out
rewriting blurry train schedules on scrap paper the love stickers to a new day still in its plastic
and packaging tape inspiration feeding tube headquakes and pen drool
vacation in the islands every man’s a salesmen door to door
the sun in a business suit a summer sale on delightful window views
my living room windows take deep breathes and wear reading glasses to watch the sunset
the sun can’t color without tracing paper
the highway outside my window sometimes sounds like an ocean trying to mimick itself
alone - the new way to wear your hair
been practicing death with a script and a hand mirror
the brail on my skin when the breeze kicks in reads i wish floating felt more like flying like
forgetting how to read falling asleep with newspapers over my face
poorly ventilated mind the ten dollar house tour 3 rooms warped picture book with its
stomach in a bind the records stores sell songs no one will ever meet or hold on cold mornings
thinking about coffee sizes and the lines at the local gas station
satisfaction would rather a face lift and surgery than me always complimenting its beauty marks
:the reason i keep putting full packs cigarettes out all over my forearm
is the world around you silent just before your car hits the water
do play your favorite album at peak levels to fuck with the natural process
or do you close your eyes and pretend you’re in bed with a pistol under the pillow
waiting for someone to break into your alarm clock
stuck in dream traffic with an empty stomach and a skipping head
trying to keep your thoughts dancing
the noise of cars outside my window burn out around three in the morning
silence gives microphones to the floorboards upstairs
they sing their songs on stage while my dreams talk at the bar
open mic nights where the heating pipes even get up to do a number
shades at the window waiting for the sun to come and pick them up
off to work and work off the weight of bills and debt
the power goes out my time card reads 12 o’clock
lunch date expired my car massages back roads where the streets bend around
shoulder blades like mountains driving the sun up a wall
trailer hitching my shadow moving truck relocating my self image
towing the broken down thoughts back to the shop
open mind hours: 6am till sundown - moon up - in a tree
sitting on a branch drawing self-portraits from a puddle
kayaking in my stream of consciousness telling it to stop staring at me
i can’t keep the boat straight
the giant trash barge is distracting me
heart - beat - machine
the album with classic production
coming undone
she will love you in that new dress
and you’ll tell your mind to wrap its arms around
every smile to forget how emptiness feels:
the skin of an angel:
the drum without a beat
my body dances around a bad song that never cuts to commercial
wear yourself loudly
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brad hamers Portland, Oregon
writer, music-maker, collage-maker,, performance-maker, loud dreamer, mental gymnast
(member of:
Through Flames, Child Of No Nation, Cat Child, Dust On Snow, Two Ton Sloth, Phlegm and Al Límite Collective)
Artist at Shrine13
www.bradhamers.com
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