Make Duvet Money AND GET A MAC!!!

We're on iTunes, shouldn't you be?


I Like Muscular Writing...

I like muscular writing.  I’m sick of odes and bullshit covered in convention, words used for their sound and not their meaning.  We swim in bullshit everyday, so why the fuck would you want to commit more of it to a page.  Why not ape Bukowski instead of Thoreau?  One feels real, while the other, it masks reality and puts it out in the countryside to die on the side of a road like a carcass trophy.  Symbolism standing in for meaning and meaning is everything.  We’re not as clever as we’d like to think we are.  We are as transparent as the words we use are concrete.  Why fuck yourself out of clarity for veiled swipes at being understood in some esoteric way.  Clusters of words strung together in the hopes that your cleverness will be appreciated and not the feelings that initiated them.  Most writers tell lies disguised as truths because their fear is being found out that they are just hacks and literary grunts.  Belching daily over a page only to be left with a queasy feeling that you’ve said nothing.  You’ve made no impression and confused understanding with prose.  Word monkeys bangin your chest with a thesaurus and dictionary.  Saying nothing, words devoid of heart and worse, of interest.  We’re surrounded by it.  Pages and screens splattered like the walls of a grisly crime scene.  I like muscular writing, save the gentle shit for your therapists and children.


Operation: “Shopping”…Or, A Middle-Class Version Of Scorched Earth Politics

Storm the castle
Plant the flag in softened, well-trodden dirt
Shop at the ramparts super-store
Grease the tank wheels
Roll over everyone
Keep progressing, moving forward
With slow, mannered precision
Lock step, eyes fixed
Well-covered and camouflaged
Might hidden from sight
Out flanking, out ranking
Without questioning, orders followed
Mission accomplished with minimal collateral damage
Greater goods and services rendered
Civilian living in a boutique war zone
Gentrifying armies
Just enough clicks away to be considered soft targets
Entrenched in bunkered cubicles
Manning cockpit cash registers
With pilotless drones set loose in shopping malls
A focus group enemy of the state
Buying and selling each other’s secrets
Honorably discharged
Into a bloated wallet
Faces flushed and covered with consumer scars
This is living large in an age of large living
This is today being lived in yesteryear
No purchase will bring it back
Storm the castle


Thank You Scott Walker

 No one holds me too close to their skin
These days seem wasted
To point out obvious horizons and connections
In cloudless sorrow
In infinite borrowed
Reaction to unsolicited vision
From blinding white landscapes
Burns from the inside of eyelids
Out into a veiled birth
Seldom believed but always enacted
Never far but far from reach
Is nothing more than willful ignorance
Thoughts torn from the arms of their nursemaids
Lonely and malnourished to reach adulthood
Those closest to our skin
Farther and farther from our skin

Bob Duvet Investigates What Inspires A Man? Or, Music Is In The Ear Of The Beholder.

“What inspires a man?” Bob wondered, as he drove the nail through the plywood he had placed horizontally across his front door. “There, that oughta do it.” He thought, pleased with himself. Inspiration should always begin with, “keeping the wolves at bay” and he had done a piss poor job of that lately. Worse still the wolves he heard howling at his door were more like domesticated Dingos, hardly wolves at all anymore. Just some trace elements left in a DNA code that had been bred out by the constant encroachment of humanity. “AH! Humane society, indeed!” he spoke as one might having reached an epiphany, then realizing there was no one there to share it with. He moved away from the doorway to survey his work, admire the construction and ponder the placement of the next wooden slab. On the carpet below his feet sat an empty glass that still breathed the faint remnants of charcoal and peet. Raising a hammer and methodically orienting a nail he penetrated the wood emitting a ricochet clap. The faded and slightly rusted coffee tin holding the nails rattled in time with the blow. “I’m making music again” a smile creeping across its authors face. SLAP! This one a bit more piercing, with less reverb, but just as tuneful, again the nails lent their shimmer. The hall echoed with the clang of hardened steel softening against the wood tuned with paint. Some inspirations require a little blunt force, Bob thought as he once again raised the hammer next to his ear. The crack of the hammerhead greeting the galvanized surface of the nailhead shook through the corridor. As the soundwaves faded into silence, Bob took a step back. He viewed the asymmetrical wood planks crisscrossing the entryway into his apartment, turned and began walking down the hall into the kitchen. No longer inspired he, he sat down in his chair, laced his fingers together and stared blankly at his computer screen. That wonderful song still playing in his ears.


I’m A Terrible Writer

I’m a terrible writer
A truly gifted and inspired terrible
A terror in every sense of the word
I spit words out
Choke words back
Spend them meaninglessly
Without care
Without concern for meaning
A more terrible writer has never existed
My words populate this page like drifters
Two-bit hustlers
Searching for meaning in
I type in an effort to relate thoughts that are disingenuine
I’m a schill for a language I would prefer not to speak
I tell stories I have no interest in telling
I tell them badly
I write because I think I should, not because I’m compelled to
I write because it’s never easy and that makes it seem noble
Makes me a fraud
A charlatan
A blowhard
Blowing words out of my fingertips like an oversexed manqué
A plastic shell meant to resemble something
But hollow all the way through
A voidoid
Another tantrum with nothing behind it
Nothing important to say
I’m a terrible writer
I write everyday