Drek Campbell and Gerald Biggs are currently on tour with Pigeon Religion. Drek abuses a synth and various pads, while Gerald will sell merch / record / and dispose advice on dental hygiene and good oral sex.
Updates on house show recordings, self-released music, dead beat writing from Phoenix artists.
an elephant at its parents grave between two cities.
Nothing don’t no work no dope face pig slop tongue ever uttered a clear word. You could punch the teeth out of his smile like popcorn on theater floors man. nothing don’t no work no nadda game type individual with a shaved neck. Saved every eyelash since he started that blinking thing. He sniggers he say go black you don’t back he sniggers and his eyebrows furrow like putting cigars out on a dog’s nose. his girl smiles like the first time she hated her dad over mashed potatoes.
Pull myself open like a high school frog and stay out late. The down kids of the desert and their high fives bikes their bloody nosed girls with tight ass and godzilla gag reflex. Tell me about the fine wine she spilled off the diving board of her bottom lip down her chest. some kinda lap dance confessional with a faded face.
You and me got to stop drinking or we dead. You got a life like a tile floor and a janitor pissing on his shoes. Nothing don’t work no more like it would in a magazine. Some say I read letters like sentences. some they here to watch me do it dead.
I, as an elephant at its parents grave between two cities.
June 29th, 2010
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BP Symbol, What It’s Brand Appears To Be and the Truth
Simple visual connection between the BP logo and what it represents. Branding is around us all the time. We are always associating what we see against our memories, emotions and values. BP takes advantage of natural colors, an impression of the sun, and sunflowers. It attempts to look radiant and green. On some level, our natural desire to connect objects that seem like each other tries to tell us to associate BP with these good things.
I’d rather think about this bird going for a swim and looking for food, feathers get coated in oil.
Original photo by Michael Macor. This is intended for commentary.
June 3rd, 2010
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Arizona Dry Heat Delayed By Seismic Set
Local Tempe sonic hero, Glochids provides the proper alignment of bells, a huge drum, and a goblet of water to delay the onset of Arizona’s “but it’s a dry heat,” summer. Please adjust your stereo and listen. If enough of us tune in, we may just end up with a beach front property.
May 16th, 2010
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Men Who Steal From Men
Men Who Steal From Men. Ugly keeps a nose and a tongue. It gave my father his father’s face. It gave my father his father’s second-hand hate. Some only repeat writing on their cheek from their father’s ring. My father kept the words, and gave me silence.
It took the spine from my back and built a table. I cooked with men like me, we ground teeth into soup. We got taxed for sidewalks to stare at, for cops to count the steps. Ugly didn’t give us the needle, but ugly watched us pushed it in.
May 5th, 2010
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Your Life Is A Practical Joke On Me
Your Life Is A Practical Joke On Me was recording before during and after an anxiety attack.
My face looks like a scum fuck sewer even when I shave. I cough all the time, and I’m not the one who smokes here. I imagine myself at the office to sell my plasma, getting turned away while the other freaks stare at my back. Gauging me for loose change and cigarettes. Earthquakes in their spine making San Diego nervous.
It gets late. Friends are here, but there’s a movie in between us in case we start to talk. There’s an internet forum in case we start to think too hard. There’s conflict unresolved and it divides my tongue, and my house. Yet there’s always the movie in case we start to talk.
We go the the Yucca. I get paranoid. The band on stage doesn’t even move my bowels. In the parking lot watching people disassociate, like the way their hair breaks loose and falls into spit. I lose track, and pat backs of people who don’t recognize I’m there. I invite my friends on the doormat of my tongue. I become an accessory to this scene, a loaned book or an unreturned phone call. I’d look better as a coffee table. People speak to me to get from me. I get the bathroom door, the space as they walk by, their backs.
I get angry, I leave. I get angry I left. I walk by myself, followed by a man with his shirt unbuttoned. His eyes are two scars in asphalt. I didn’t bring my knife and I take a long route with footsteps behind me. Another man from the local bar shouts, “This man! He’s alright. Hey man, you’re alright!”
April 10th, 2010
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Pigeon Religion with Martin Cizmar at Chaindrive
The bar was a gracious death trap with barbie’s holding dildos in yellow light. Men in dark sitting on chain benches, bullet holes as glory holes.
#1 Fan Cizmar
March 25th, 2010
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