1994 SEATTLE LOVE SONG

seattle

minor chords amongst the dust
i’m the only one who comes to your show
the ground is littered
with empty bottles of cough syrup
i stand among the wreckage
and i watch you destroy yourself
i can’t look away
from the mirror you hold to me

i can’t escape the morphine sea storm in your eyes
envy’s eyes are as green as yours
envy’s eyes are as green as yours
you’ve got me wrapped up in your small pox blanket

you’re a newspaper fire burning in a rusty trash can
a shopping cart in hashbury at night
you’re not as glorious as i’ve made you out to be

i’m a gas fire and you’re the water
i’m a gas fire and you’re the water

i’ll burn like big giant factories
i will give you a sunset
the color of chemicals

minor chords amongst the dust

you left your phone in the car
along with our 1994 seattle love song
our song of retribution in a wasteland
we are just getting lost in different drugs

what happens when glass slippers slide
on black ice

we are the sound
of an i.v.
drip

i swear you smell
like kurt cobain

you taste like
sonic youth

someone popped
every single one
of the balloons
at our birthday party

someone left the car on in the garage

envy’s eyes are as green as yours
i can’t escape your morphine sea storm

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ “TOO FAR DEEP”

About these ads

MTV

what happened to you?
you used to be the one we could listen to
none of the crap
all of the things that really mattered

when did you trade in your grungy working class shirt
for this slutty dress?

when did you become defiant
to your own name?

are you unaware?
do you not see the direct effect
of your actions?

did you grow up
the younger, new and improved yuppie
do you not remember why
you stuck your flag in the moon
to begin with?

the funny thing is
now you’re just a snowy screen
hypnotic imagery
a magazine
that has been overrun
with too many ads

you are moving each day
further and further away from nirvana

your perception of reality
is enough to drive me insane
when did you replace your own graffiti
with face wash ads

when did you bleach your asshole?

when did you pawn your combat boots
for a slot in times square?

WHEN DID YOU STOP BEING MUSIC TELEVISION?

you are a lie
i can’t pretend anymore
welcome to the real world

i don’t want to date your mom
i don’t want to watch
as you twist the bottle open
for the eyes
on both sides of the glass screen

i don’t want anything to do with you
this is my total request

i’m not pleading for you to come back
you’re far too deeply and darkly addicted to yourself
and you think you look so great in rehab

i’m not pleading for you to come back
i just hate that you decided
to let us all watch you die

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

READ “REST”

COMING SOON

FEATURING THE POEMS “HOW TO SET YOURSELF ON FIRE” , “WHEN I WAS MAYBE TWELVE YEARS OLD” , “TO VEGETARIANS” , “SUBTERRANEA” , and “THE PSYCHOLOGICAL WARFARE OF VARINIA RODRIGUEZ”.

AVAILABLE THIS SEPTEMBER THROUGH FLASHLIGHT CITY PRESS.

Interesting in reviewing? Please email me at bricemaiurro@gmail

COMING SOON

Flashlight City Press

SOMETIMES I FEEL LIKE THERE’S A COWBOY ARGUING WITH A BUDDHIST MONK IN MY HEAD

and the cowboy always draws his pistol but the buddhist monk just walks through the walls of the saloon
and the buddhist monk tells the cowboy to relax try meditating and the cowboy says meditation is just an excuse to be lazy
and the cowboy swigs jack from the bottle and the monk sips tea from a cup
and the monk says inner peace and the cowboy says western expansion
and the cowboy says i’ve got a lady back home do you got a lady back home and the monk says that’s the only kind of love i’ve never known
and the monk sets his house on fire and the cowboy builds a shed
and the cowboy sings old diddies about america by the campfire while the monk hums to the sound of everywhere
the cowboy eats pork and beans, the monk eats nothing at all
and at high noon it’s midnight
and the cowboy spits his tobacco and the monk focuses on the truth
and sometimes they talk about their dreams and realize they both have brown eyes
but sometimes i just wish they would shut the hell up

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

READ “SUBTERRANEA”

THINK OUTSIDE OF THE HEART-SHAPED BOX

Last week, Lana Del Rey covered the song “Heart-Shaped Box” originally by Nirvana, spurring an interesting response by Courtney Love over Twitter.  Courtney Love composed a now infamous Tweet about how the song is about her vagina:

PHOTO COURTESY OF AUSTIN KLEON

Hey. Wait. I’ve got a new complaint:

What I’d like to say is Huffington Post got it right when they called Courtney Love “outspoken.” I don’t care if you talk about your vagina online. That doesn’t bother me in the least. What bothers me is how Courtney Love managed to demean this song for me and possibly plenty of people around me. I am a big Nirvana fan. I place Nevermind on the list of my favorite albums, up there with The Beatles’ White Album and Hail to the Thief by Radiohead.

“Heart-Shaped Box,” off of In Utero is not about your vagina, Courtney Love.

Who am I to say this? Courtney Love was married to Kurt Cobain, for crying out loud. She would know if the song was about her lady business.

Let’s go back: Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds. “Oh, that song is about LSD,” said every moron ever. These songs are not about drugs, they are not about Courtney Love’s vagina. Sure, Heart-Shaped Box has a very sexual connotation. Sure, Courtney Love might have written some of the lyrics. What I don’t appreciate is limiting the ideas of what a song is.

Heart-Shaped Box, to me, is about the claustrophobia of love. It’s about the addiction of being lost in someone. Once again, this quickly leads to a sexual connotation, but there’s an intention to that too. I think Courtney Love would acknowledge this as well, but God, is she so desperate for press that she makes these outlandish statements?

Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds, to me, is about childhood innocence. It’s about vibrant life, it’s about imagination, and yes, John Lennon being the cryptic genius he was, I guarantee it’s no accident that the name also spells out LSD.

Note that I put “to me”, because this is all subjective. The fight I’m trying to fight is people who limit their perspective on what music is about, or limit what anything is about to something as simple as “Courtney Love’s vagina,” or “drugs.” This idea strikes me hard as a writer, specifically as a poet, because when I write, and when most of the people around me make art of any kind, it’s never as shallow as writing about one controversial topic. They have something to say. That’s why it angers me when a complex and timeless song like Heart-Shaped Box gets put inside of another box, gets limited. I just want to challenge people here to not let that song become a one-note song. Don’t let it become an allusion to that one time Courtney Love opened her mouth on Twitter. The same way I challenge you not to define yourself as a hippie, or a hipster, or a rockabilly performance artist, or a mom, or a senator. These things are important to who you are, and may help you find yourself, but you cannot be describe in 140 characters or less, and neither can Heart-Shaped Box.

More on Courtney Love’s vagina:

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/07/31/courtney-love-lana-del-rey-heart-shaped-box_n_1723074.html?utm_hp_ref=entertainment

http://www.nme.com/news/courtney-love/65224

http://whfs.radio.com/2012/07/31/courtney-love-wants-lana-del-rey-to-think-about-her-vagina/

http://nounmagazine.wordpress.com/2012/07/29/stop-everything-things-are-happening-on-the-internet/

AS SOON AS I LEARNED THE WORD “NIRVANA”, I VIOLENTLY SHOOK ANY CHANCE OF IT OUT OF ME

i noticed all of a sudden that my speedometer went up to 160 mph
i realized i was twenty-three years old and god what a disappointment it would be to wake enlightenment prematurely
i stopped setting alarm clocks
i tore calendars down from off my walls
the sugar tooth i had pulled from my mouth grew back
i was a haphazard caution sign child playing in the garden
i ran stoplights and came back to steal them when no one else was around
i shook hands with night exchanging with him business cards for a bottle of moonshine
i crammed stolen stereos into the trunk of my hot car heart
i hit baby seals with plastic bats and shaved off one of my eyebrows
i took power tools and removed the hinges on my bedroom door
i removed the glass between the people-animals and the zoo-animals
i shattered fragile dreams letting in the monsters of nightmares
i have something else to say
there are mirrors everywhere
and i have kickstarted my disappearing act with a fundraiser for demons when i should have been more useful in a coma
the edge is sharp
and it is not always in vanity that mothers teach us not to run with scissors
there are mirrors everywhere
books fold symmetrical over themselves
(closed casket funerals for pens that bleed to death)
there are mirrors everywhere
framing reflections on scars of stupidity that run from our eyes to our mouth
there are mirrors everywhere
in fun houses we smile open wallet smiles at a maze, a labyrinth, a fleeting moment of no identity but we leave our poetic fingerprints at every crime scene
and in every bathroom
on foggy whiskey glasses
and speeding tickets
the handles of weapons
the rope of guillotines
(we piss our names in the snow)
there are mirrors everywhere
we hate seeing ourselves on camera
vampires, lost boys
and i have kickstarted my disappearing act
can’t see my bloody reflection
i toast bad habits to breaking bad habits
wait. wait.
i regret
nothing.
do i?
i’m paving the path to enlightenment with hot coals.
but i want to die with blistered feet.
i meditate on rock and roll
god
i am so god damn american
i am starbucks hot tea
i am approaching nirvana in the disoriented footsteps of kurt cobain
the planned suicide of hunter s. thompson and i’m asking these mirrors
what is the opposite of nirvana?

what is the opposite of nirvana?

there are mirrors everywhere.

what is the opposite of nirvana?
what is the opposite of nirvana?
what is the opposite of nirvana?

(reckless poem implodes on its own structure)

 

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

DRUNK AT LEELA’S

two girls in leopard print chairs
arguing arguments over pbrs
there’s three guys smoking out front
these couches are older than any of us
the loud anger bang music is soft
beneath the sound of
actual fucking conversation
a plate of bones
tilted ketchup bottle
i can feel denver’s heart pounding
these tables bring together lost souls
for reality meetings
fifteen naked lunches
at 10:30 pm on a tuesday night
michael sells buttons and books
glass pane windows
expose the television of flashlight city
the lights glare as the whiskey roars
and i am happy
at peace
desirous of nothing all at once
listening to nirvana
enter a man in a cloak
enter the song of flashlight city
the invisible doorman
shoos away the nazis
hitler crying in the gutters
his make up running
he just wants a friend
we all just want a friend
leela is mine
she yaps music i’ve never heard before in my ear
some band that’s first album was better
she hugs me warm when the lights of flashlight city are dim
she takes my coat for me
kisses me, a humble peck on my chapped lips
and we dance
we dance like homecoming soldiers make love
like painters paint
like graffiti artists run
and i am tweedle dee tweedle dum couldn’t be happier
running the blazing sun flowers into the arms of a
woman who listens to every word we say

i finish my drink

there is laughter echoing into heaven in this house
i feel justified in this horny asylum of color
where you can come and go as you please
i feel justified
as i lay my innocent head upon leela’s naked breasts
and i can hear her heart beat

a heart that says
“i’m alone in here
but i want to be free
i want to hug strangers
i want to inject life simultaneously into all of my
vains breaching the gates that lead to infinity
in the hyperbolic playground of existence”

that is what leela’s heart says
we match tempos
and set aflame together

i too am a heart
in the hand of denver
rocked to stasis by the world’s axis

leela,
baby,
i want to have your children
fill the photo frames of forever with me
please
at least
a cup of coffee?

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

 

I selected this post to be featured on my blog’s page at Poetry Blogs.