#LiteraryPunk

[thepunklounge-blog]

Soap The Stamps, Jump The Tube.

By Gail Thibert Book review by Wayne Reid   Gail’s autobiography is a sometimes comedic look back at the life of a misspent youth, adventure and the desire to live her own life, away from home. Her story is open, honest and sometimes distressing. Most famous for her time as singer, then keyboard player in the bands Adventures In Colour, Lost Cherrees, she describes the events and the characters she has shared her life with as clearly as though it were all yesterday, bringing back to life the smells and sounds of any one of London’s dismal squats, exactly as they were in the 1980’s. For me, the book is very close to home, as I knew some of the people mentioned, and even attended some of the same events, clubs and pubs myself, not to mention having my own childhood hometown of Hornchurch mentioned in the mix. Gail’s story doesn’t grip you from the start, but it does lure you in, and by the time you reach the point her narrative snares you, the story has you hooked and you have already fallen for her witty style and self-deprecation as she fumbles her way through the dark, hostile streets of Post-Punk London, searching for a home to call her own, and someone worth sharing it with. There are many pitfalls, many upsets and let downs, throughout all of which, Gail stays true to herself, living by her own rules and morals, finding freedom on two wheels, then three, and finally the comfort and pleasures of all four.   ‘Soap the stamps, jump the tube’ is published by  www.unbound.com ISBN 978-1-91261-818-7   Cover price £10.99      Read the full article

#BookReview #gailthibert #LiteraryPunk #soapthestamps

[20dollarfalloutboy]

yooo i voted 4 u idk do w/e you want as far as blog rates or advice haha this is a really new bandom blog so i'm not like ~established~ or whatever but u have a very nice blog so

aw aw aw thankyou!!! 

i really like your blog !! just make sure all your links workm but besides that there' nothing wrong with it :)

hey guys i was nominated for best fob blog ! so if you would PLEASE vote for me here i will do any of the following :)

rate your blog

reblog a selfie

give you blog advice

post a selfie

answer any question

leave a question in your ask

follow u!

LITERALLY ANYTHING ELSE YOU CAN THINK OF

#literarypunk #ask Taylah

[thepunklounge-blog]

Miracle Mile - A Short Story

It was the poorest I had ever been, or ever would be thereafter. I was still young, which was good. The imperviousness of youth protected me to some extent, from the cold, from hunger, from aggravation, from austerity. I found a job in the paper for a telemarketer position at the 5455 building on Wilshire Boulevard. I called the number listed and they hired me right over the phone, which should have been a red flag, but what can I say, I was desperate for any job. I had nothing. I was living above the stage of Al’s bar at the American Hotel. It was a small, single room, not much bigger than a jail cell. The bathrooms were down the hall, no closet space, no kitchen, no food for that matter. I slept on some folded up comforters on the floor, I had a desk, a telephone, a little ten inch TV-VCR combo that had a tape stuck in it, an electric typewriter, and a small refrigerator, which, aside from the block of ice building around the walls of the little freezer, was totally empty most of the time. I had to be at work at 8 am. I got up at 5:30, took a hot shower, got dressed and headed downstairs into the icy morning air with my allotted six dollars, for bus fare, there and back, and lunch. I’d catch the Dash bus down at the corner in front of Blooms General Store. It was a little bus that only cost a quarter, and took you to the hub of the city’s transit centers, connecting to just about any bus, train or express line heading out of downtown. I’d ride it to Wilshire and Grand, where Wilshire Boulevard begins. Then I’d wait on the corner for a Metro bus to take me west. It was winter and the air was frigid. I had an old tweed coat with a faux-fur collar that I bought in some second-hand shop, but the wind would blow right through it and down my neck. My fingers would be numb and I’d shove them down in my pockets to warm them. If the bus was too full, the drivers wouldn’t even stop and you’d have to wait for the next one, which was often the case. Hence, my reason for leaving my place at least two hours before my shift began. You never knew what kind of eventualities would arise. Some of the drivers didn’t care though. No matter how filled to capacity the bus might be, the driver would stop, open the doors and yell out, “Come on people, keeping a schedule here, climb on, there’s plenty of room!” But that was mad. They were mad, with their fingerless gloves, gripping at the giant steering wheel, their eyes red and crazy, waving passengers aboard and cramming them in like sardines. And as desperate, rushed, and out of options as we all were, we’d climb on, cramming and mashing against each other so tightly, your feet were almost lifted off the floor. You were nearly suspended in the mass of bodies, all coffee breath; body odor, farts, bloodshot eyes, scowling faces, faces of disappointment, of hopelessness. Some mornings I was lucky enough to get a seat, and I’d sit with my face buried in a book, trying to wish away all the ugliness of my surroundings. The Wilshire line was one of the angriest, most hostel lines in the city. People would fight for seats, or standing room or a rail to hold on to. Knives would come out of pockets, or broken bottles. Bums would kick the back door and scream at the top of their lungs, “LET ME THE FUCK OFF THIS MOTHER FUCKER OR I”LL FUCKING KILL YOU ALL!!!” Sometimes, instead of reading, I’d lay my weary head against the window and look out at the city passing by. We’d cross over the Harbor freeway out of downtown, into MacArthur Park. The homeless in the park would be bundled under blankets and stuffed into sleeping bags beside the lake, steam from their snoring mouths rising into the ghostly sunlight. Some of them were junkies. The lucky ones would be splayed out on the grass, soaking in the rising sun, with a nice fat shot of dope warming their bones, smiling and nodding off in morphine soaked dreams. Wilshire always seemed haunted to me. Not just one old building or storefront, but the whole thoroughfare. It has an ominous aura, the shadows are deeper, the trees are old, their trunks scarred with graffiti and smeared with grease. The buildings are granite and gray, art deco, built by masonic orders at the turn of the century. There were old department stores, synagogues, museums, cathedrals, and flophouses. We passed through Korea Town then, with its noodle houses, hostess bars, and massage parlors, then past The Ambassador Hotel, where Robert Kennedy was assassinated in the hotel kitchen. I’d get off on Wilshire and La Brea and rush into the elevator and ride it up to the top floor, and make it into the office, usually, just in the nick of time for my shift to begin. The building was a solid black fortress. I’d go right to the vending machine and buy a Snickers bar for breakfast, then over to the coffee maker and pour a cup. The coffee was always thick as mud and amphetamine strong. My co-workers were all black. I was the only white boy in the phone room. The room had no windows and was very small. There were about fifteen of us crammed in there in small cubicles. The boss was a black man. His name was Mr. Spencer. He was tall, about 6’5 and must have weighed about four hundred pounds. When he came running into the phone room the whole floor shook. He wore a suit and tie and had a loud, booming voice. “Who here is motivated to make some money today?” he’d exclaim, and would scotch tape a single dollar bill to the wall. Not a fiver, not a ten… a single. “Whoever gets the first lead today, gets that dollar!” he’d proclaim, storming out of the room and slamming the door behind him. We would roll our eyes at the supposed reward. The job didn’t pay very much, to begin with, a measly one hundred and twenty-six dollars a week, plus commission if we could manage a lead that went through to a sale. The job was a grim and difficult one. We were cold-calling homeowners to see if they were interested in refinancing their homes and taking the money, and reinvesting it into remodeling their kitchens, or bathrooms, or adding on an extra room, or installing a swimming pool. They would give us copies of numbers out of the white pages to call. This was before cell phones or even auto dialing. You had to read the tiny, blurry numbers and dial away. There was a script that we were told to adhere to, word for word, without variation. You had to say it so many times a day that you developed blisters in certain parts of your mouth from repeating it so often. It went like this… “Hi, this is Chris, I’m calling from Sunrise Realty and Finance. We’re offering a special rate on refinancing and we see here that you filled out an entry form to win cash prizes and rewards (which was total bullshit) We’re calling to follow up on your inquiry. How are you doing today?” But more often than not, you never got that far. It usually went a little more like this… “Hi, this is Chris from Sunrise Realty and…” then the voice on the other end would interrupt… “Who? Who the fuck is this? FUCK YOU, YOU FUCKIN FUCK!” slamming down the phone. Most of my co-workers had a hard time with the script. Many of them were strung out on crack or heroin. Some were very old, or not very articulate, not too good at reading off the page with ease and grace. Their words sounded scripted and clumsy, they would fumble the words and stammer, and struggle with them. One guy was from the Congo and his accent was so thick, it was nearly unintelligible. The people we were calling were in cities like El Segundo, Compton, Lynwood, and Carson. Working class neighborhoods, people barely getting by, if that. Most were struggling, even unemployed in most cases. Living in homes their parents bought and were paid off years ago when housing was more affordable. I, however, was able to figure something out the rest of my co-workers were too tired, too strung out, or too apathetic to notice. It was a numbers game. The more people you were able to reach out to, in the shortest amount of time, was what the game was all about. Yes, 99% of the time, you got screamed at and hung up on. But every once in a while you got some interest. The quickest way to do get to those interested was to get right to the point. Not fumbling through some long winded and obviously scripted pitch; people were so burned out on those, especially when poorly delivered. No, the best thing to do was hit them with why you were calling in the first three seconds of them picking up. I would simply say, “Home remodeling?” If they had no interest, they would simply hang up or tell you to go fuck yourself. Fine, but sometimes they would respond by saying, “Home remodeling? Well, what do you guys do?” That’s when you knew you had a chance. There was something worth going on about…there was hope. By doing this, I was able to get more leads per day. Making me the leading telemarketer in the office. When the others caught on about how I was doing this, they tried it themselves. But for some reason, they couldn’t make it work, no matter the pitch, or lack thereof, they couldn’t catch a break. The bosses, who couldn’t have been happier with however the hell I was getting them their leads, told the others, “Y’all stick to the script. Chris does what he does and that works for him. It don’t work for Y'all. Read the words in front of you and that’s it!” This created a bit of envy from my co-workers and often ugly, resentful glances were thrown my way. I wasn’t trying to outdo anyone. I was just trying to survive like everyone else. Using was left of my wits to make that happen. We had our lunch break at half past noon. We had thirty minutes to rush downstairs and grab something, then get back on the phones. Many of my co-workers wouldn’t even bother with food. Most of them went down to the alley behind the building to smoke a joint, or take a pull on the pipe, or to fix in the bathrooms to take the edge off. I would rush up the street to the Burger King, order a 99-cent Whopper, no cheese, who could afford cheese, after all, no fries, and a cup for water. I’d slam it down my throat and run back to the office with the damn thing stuck halfway down my neck. I’d grab a second cup of black coffee and start dialing. Most of my co-workers would meander back, ten or fifteen minutes late, high as a kite, wreaking of booze or weed, taking shit from the boss for being late, nodding, grinning, and bumbling through their lives. One afternoon, the boss came into the phone room and asked me into his office. He told me that I had more leads that led to sales than almost anyone if the history of the company. Which wasn’t saying a whole lot. It was a fly by night that had just been set up a couple of years prior to my arrival on the scene. He gave me my own little office with a desk facing out a huge window, looking out onto the Hollywood Hills. The pay was the same, however, and there were no other perks aside from the privacy and the lovely view. I’d stare out the window, high above the city, the whole of it filling my eyes, looking down on the streets, and the hills above them, the opulent homes along Mulholland, the clubs and restaurants along Sunset, the traffic, the jets soaring through the skies, the ghetto birds patrolling the freeways for car chases. The teeming masses, struggling, losing, aching, worrying, rushing, grasping for some small victories, a dollar taped to a wall, a fix, a bottle, some sex, a place to sit on the bus, some cheese on your Whopper…anything. At 6 o’clock the boss cut us loose. We’d drag our tired bones onto the elevator down to the lobby. A Mexican kid named Julio, who worked at a café on the corner, would be getting off at the same time as me, and we’d walk to the bus stop together. He was a nice kid, plump face, always smiling, always greeting me with a nice pipe full of weed to smoke on the way to the bus. The bus heading back downtown on Wilshire dropped you off back on Grand, and the Dash bus stopped running back into my neighborhood from there at that time of night, so I had to take a bus north on La Brea, up to Sunset, and transfer to the 1,2,3 or number 4 bus, down to Hill and 1st street. We’d stand huddled together under the bus stop overhang, shivering in the freezing cold wind, stoned, hungry and exhausted. We’d ride up to Sunset and La Brea, Id get off, Julio would continue up to Hollywood Boulevard. I’d thank him for the smoke and get off, and wait in the cold for my transfer. I’d get on the first bus that came along. Usually, the buses heading into downtown were much less crowded than the ones leaving it. I guess leaving downtown was much more desirable than going there. Sometimes it would only be me and two or three others on board. The bus driver was a white woman with a southern accent. She was morbidly obese and kept ranting, “Jesus is my lord, the Lord Jesus is with me! Jesus is my lord, the Lord Jesus is with me!” Over and over and over, the whole ride downtown. She wouldn’t stop for five seconds. It was maddening. I got off on Hill and 1st and walked east through Little Tokyo. The smells coming out of the ramen houses and sushi bars was intoxicating. I watched people from the cold street, through the windows, eating steaming bowls of teriyaki chicken and rice, and spicy tuna rolls, and drinking hot Sake. My stomach growled and my head would spin with hunger. I’d cross Alameda and down across an empty parking lot to the hotel. I’d unlock my door, light the pilot of the little radiator in the corner and warm up. I'd crack a can of tuna, mix it was some mayo, spread it on some wheat bread and scarf it down. I’d take a hot shower down the hall, come back to my room, lie on the floor, cover up, and fall fast asleep. Tomorrow was another day, another bus ride, another cold call, another strong cup of coffee…another chance at a miracle. ~Christiaan Pasquale To read more of my work, click on this link, thank you....http://psychoslander.wixsite.com/christiaan-pasquale Read the full article

#ChristiaanPasquale #creativewriting #LiteraryPunk #punkswhowrite #shortstories

[thepunklounge-blog]

Punk’s Not Dead: a Documentary

Released in 2007 by Revelation Films, this is an absolute must for all those with an interest in or a love of all things Punk Rock. There is some great footage of live events, backstage and front of the house, as well as a lot of great music and commentary on the scene from those who helped create it. Punk’s Not Dead is a documentary about the second wave of Punk Rock, about those who were too young or not even born first time around. It’s a ‘Thank You’ to The Ramones, Sex Pistols, Clash, and features many other artists from the first wave of Punk-The Damned, 999, Buzzcocks, Stiff Little Fingers, Dead Kennedy’s. But it doesn’t stop so far back in history to be inaccessible for a younger generation, their voices are not overruled by the die-hards of yesteryear. Punk’s Not Dead extends into the modern age, into the skateparks and malls of the USA, as well as the Rebellion Festival crowd of the UK. Nick Cash (999) and Charlie Harper (UK Subs) sit easily alongside Tim Armstrong (Rancid) - who helped produce the film, Wattie (The Exploited) and Billy Joe Armstrong (Green Day), there is interesting input and observations from Dick Lucas (Subhumans) Monkey (The Adicts) as well as Jello Biafra (Dead Kennedy’s)  bands like My Chemical Romance, Good Charlotte, Sum 41, Nofx, Black Flag and a whole list of other bands who’ve sacrificed their all for getting on stage and making things happen. If you ever wondered what happened to Punk after 1979,  you will see through this film that it didn’t die, it went underground away from the mainstream, it went back to the kids who felt angry, cut off and unheard. In time, it came back with a whole new generation of fans, new sounds, new bands alongside the pioneers and the survivors, those who reformed and those that never went away. Punk’s Not Dead is a film about those who did it, who continue to play and the inspiration they have passed on to the next generation, those who continue today and those who will, in turn, pass it onto the next, and the next. It is music history, present and future made by those who care enough to do something about it.   www.revfilms.com A Susan Dynner film    Read the full article

#LiteraryPunk #moviereview #punksnotdead #thepunklounge

[thepunklounge-blog]

Punk Poet

The Infinite Stare The infinite stare of mortality Gazes into The indeterminate eyes of humanity Her cold grin Laughs in the bewildered face of existence Written in Shadows Life in the shadow of my love for you An ominous cry Our death foretold shines Written in shadows From another life Created in blood From a wounded man's knife Waltz A waltz through the silence Of a lovers plea Dancing in a dead end dream Though heaven and hell Lacerate my fate Tamed lips quiver Whispers in the wall anticipate Read the full article

#ChristiaanPasquale #LiteraryPunk #Poetry #PunkWomen

[thepunklounge-blog]

Erin Incoherent on the State of Punk and Addiction

  The age of frustration. The age of not knowing where to go but knowing I can't stay here. The age where my friends should know better Or at least know how to make themselves a balanced meal. The age of shitty politics and toxic scene culture. It frustrates me Because punk should care. But maybe its not punk to blame? That's mostly a joke This is a culture of the mentally ill enabling the highly addicted. We have no coping skills and still we stomp out the few resources that manage to grow their way through the sidewalk cracks.  We scoff at accessible narcane, citing that it is the local heroine dealer we should instead be focused on murdering. These people are our friends. To me, it would appear that we're all afraid.  Afraid of saying or doing the wrong thing.  Afraid to truly be ourselves because of where that might put us in our social queue Frustration. Settles. In. The large feeling of nothing taunts me and fills me. It might fill me with answers if its sheer mass didn't intimidate me to such a degree that I find it easier to just bite off as much as I can try to chew. But it's all fat; gristle. It's not easy to chew on, either. Nothing with substance seems to be. And I wonder if these frustrated thoughts could somehow be turned into a fuel.  A propellant of sorts that's geared toward helping people think critically and compassionately about their fellow human. The other side of my dichotomy pulls violently towards nihilism. 'Fuck people.' It whispers.  'They are terrible and existence is meaningless.'  I shrug.  Hey, it's not wrong.  But then, what to do with all this spare time existing?  Seems a shame to waste this conciousness. Perhaps I can find a home in poorly executed anarchist ideals. Or learn to be comfortable with all my glaring hipocracies.  This ever deepening nihilism seems to be ripening my psyche quite nicely.... Or maybe I'll see where these expressions of art, and outbursts of creation and anger lead me. My hands twitch in anticipation. My mind runs faster than even I can keep up with. I'm not sure I'm bored enough yet. This vessel will self destruct one day. I guess I'll see what can be done with all this spare time until then.

Into the Void - collage by Erin Incoherent You can find more of Erin's work by following her on Instagram and on Facebook   Read the full article

#EmergingArtists #LiteraryPunk

[thepunklounge-blog]

Stains

I just want the stains to bleach out of my clothes.  Stains that settled in dark hues  ever so slightly  tinting the garments  so that a  day        by             day  glance wouldn't raise suspicion.  Memory reminds me of stark white tshirts  freshly torn from packages new  but only years later  when I am visiting the mirror looking             for                  something                                      else to make sense.  A personalized sadness greets me there  I think maybe  changing                   my                         shirt will help  But I never do.  I wash my clothes instead, to be sure they still fit.  I should ask myself  if     I       even want them to.  Dark stains still visible they permeate every textile they touch.  Each fiber comes away from my breastbone crusted a darkened red  Residual heartbreak that  pools            on                  fabric  unforgiving of pigment or thread count.  It is a sadness that cannot be washed out. Read the full article

#erinincoherent #LiteraryPunk #originalpoetry #Phillypunks #Poetry

[nikkifinnie-blog]

Nothing Tastes Good - Kat Lively

Nothing appeals to my palette Not Cigarettes, caffeine, not sleep. Howl at the moon in a black jacket, find the smile underneath. Numb as pavement, yesterdays IV from a virus, today's discharge paperwork, saline stench. No more blood drawn in the night, Hospitals are today, yesterday, one day last. Dad is hallucinating and cut up from his heart transplant. Same dad who taught me to play catch. I sang to him, to keep him awake- So the nurse could shove meds down his throat. The one relative in Anaheim calls, Only one who would answer the phone at this hour- Says to me, "where have you been?" And I scream, "where have YOU been? My dad is withering." I miss you. You don't miss me. I only called to vent my heartbreak, now goodbye. Ex who fucked me over calls. I miss you. You don't miss me. Says "I was wrong." And I say, "you're too fucking late." You chewed me up and spit me out. You should have gotten to me sooner if you wanted to do damage. Why am I so strong? Why can't I be weak for once and just lay down and be average? Why am I not on the ground broken? Under this moonlight, on this bench alone in Palo Alto. How the fuck am I still hopeful after all of what I've been through? Remember to take my antibiotics. No more hospitals. No more. Same dad who taught me to play catch Same dad who is hallucinating, Taught me to never give in to pain. Taught me that anything I can set my mind to, will be done. There it is. $60 in my pocket, back to LA, new job awaits, Greyhound in 2 days. Music calls, Adeline calls, my only concrete. My only absolutes in this life. There it is. There's my reason why. by Kat Lively Kat Lively is the lead vocalist/songwriter and rhythm guitarist In the Los Angeles based punk rock band, Psychic Wine. She has been writing poetry since she was a child and is currently working on her debut book due out in October. She is also an artist and alternative model. Check her out on Instagram- https://www.instagram.com/onekatlively/ You can also have a listen to Christiaan Pasquale's latest podcast with Kat here.. https://soundcloud.com/user-256797062/tfmfr-ep-17-kat-lively-and-psychic-wine   Read the full article

#ChristiaanPasquale #KatLively #LiteraryPunk #Poetry #punk