Thursday, 26 February 2009
Wednesday, 25 February 2009
Back in the day Axl was obsessed with
the image of Christ on the Cross. No, wait
obsessed is the wrong word for it. He was jealous.
That’s it. Jealous of the attention.
He couldn’t see why, after touring his
ass off and seventeen gazillion albums sold
more people still knew who Jesus was.
He genuinely saw Christ as a competitor!
I was, like, dude, Motley Crue, sure.
Nirvana and Pearl Jam, yeah,
but some guy who died two thousand
years ago? Don’t sweat it, brother.
And, anyways, Jesus isn’t all that.
Yeah, he has a strong brand image
a fine line in merch and a loyal cross-territorial
fanbase, but he doesn’t have the chops we do.
What did he say to that? I don’t recall.
I don’t think he said anything.
But the next day on tour he had his PA
make arrangements to have a crucifix built.
Polished mahogany, red velvet foot-rest,
tour gold-leaf six inch nails - the works.
That’s pretty extreme dude, I said.
What are you going to use it for?
What do you think I’m gonna use it for?
I’m going to have myself crucified on stage.
I mean, if Jesus survived it, so can I. Now
shut up and go play your guitar somewhere.
And for a while I think he seriously thought about
having his feet and hands hammered to that cross.
Axl being Axl though, he soon moved on to the next
thing: Kaballah, Scientology, anal bleaching and so forth.
He forgot about his crucifix, left it in
or somewhere, but he didn’t forget about Christ.
In fact, Christ really bothered him, being so adored and all
and today I believe he still continues to walk in Christ’s shadow.
What do I mean by that? Well, it’s obvious. The guy so
desperately wants to be holy that it has crippled him creatively.
He’s martyr himself for a cause he’s lone since forgotten.
The only miracle he’ll perform will be getting that damn album done.
And we all know that the second coming of that gnarly
dude in the robes is far more likely, wouldn’t you say?
Tuesday, 24 February 2009
burn, the sound of the
ocean, my breathing
deep and measured,
bare footed on the
rug, eyes closed, hands
splayed on the arm rest.
The present day slipping
away like layers of skin
or photos from a leather
bound family album;
a human onion unpeeled
by the hands of a loving soul
my mentor my spiritual beacon.
Months and months of daily
exercises bring us to this
stage of understanding,
acceptance and what she calls
“emotional maturity” as she
draws me deeper down into
these murky waters of the self.
A total calmness pervades -
a calmness like I’ve never felt
and I am totally at ease, completely
trusting of this beautiful person
whose only goal is to save my soul
and unlock the box I’ve buried
deep life a coffin of bitter memories.
Back we go, far back, through
the early LA years, the late
years, reversing the coming of age
of adolescence, of childhood, of
everything, back beyond the beginning
breaking through walls I’ve never
been able to get around – or over
accelerating now, the sound of the ocean,
the feel of the rug still there but now
my mind is flying, stripped of ego.
I am free; skin, bones, hair and teeth
disengage as I become fluid and I am
the rain, I am a thousand drops of rain
seeking a black tarn on a remote mountain.
I am a homesteader squinting from his
porch across the barren planes of
I am a Elizabethan courtier in a dual
with a rival in love, I am a Captain
of a ship without a map chasing horizons
I am a Sultan of the
lavishly clothes in silk route fineries.
I am a catholic priest in the Avingon Papacy
I am a lowly horse-tender for the heroes
of the Byzantine Crusades, I am the first
I am Thorfin Ragnasson and I am coming
for your wives, your lives, your children
I am destructor of Chang’an, capital of the
Tang Dynasty, the man that you fear.
I am bearded author of a book they call
Beowulf, I am Islam’s most feared enforcer
I am smallpox carrier, I am Barbarian warrior
I am flood victim at the
my soul swept away on the tides of the
and I am especially Roman leader with curled
hair, strong nose, fierce reputation – Emperor Rose.
Monday, 23 February 2009
“You know if they dropped
the fucking bomb on the planet
and just levelled the place
and you were, like, the only survivor
and you’d be walking along
and at first you’d just see basic destruction,
like collapsed houses and sparking electrical cables
and shit, but as you keep on walking
you’d see, like bodies, scattered here and there,
and maybe they don’t look superficially damaged
but they’re dead alright, and you keep walking
and you see smoking shoes lying in the street,
and bodies, all bald and burnt and shit,
like charred down one side or something,
and everything would be
quiet except for the low whistle of a warm
nuclear wind blowing in from the east,
and then you start seeing more bodies,
piles of them, flesh ripped from their bones,
their eyeballs incinerated in their sockets,
their hands twisted and distorted, skulls
grimacing, rictus, the strangely sweet smell
of burning flesh everywhere, the sky dashed
with red hues, everything dead and useless,
gone and hollow, and you just stand there,
grabbing at our face, screaming, screaming
screaming into a void of nothingness.
OK? Well, that’s exactly how I want your
drum fill to sound, bro.”
Thursday, 19 February 2009
I’ve been working on a new look.
I figure people need to see a new me.
A new ‘Axl.’
I’ve been working on some sketches.
Some ideas. Research.
I figure black people are kinda cool these days.
I figure that’s what the kids are into.
You know, like, the whole urban vibe?
The whole natty freedom fighter black power Bob Marley thing?
Right. So I’ve based my look on that.
And since you’ve been doing my since like forever,
I figure you’re the person for the job.
So are you ready to be blown away?
Are you ready for a whole new Axl idiom?
Are you ready to meet the future?
And are you ready to be a part of it?
OK. Cool. Here we go:
I want motherfucking cornrows.
And you’re going to do them.
And they’re going to be awesome.
And you know in six months every suburban
white kid’s going to be rocking this shit.
let’s do it.
Wednesday, 18 February 2009
I’ll just form Guns N’ Roses without that douchebag,
the drummer or that Keith Richards guitar guy.
Yeah, Izzy. Whatever.
I don’t need those guys.
Duff will be in, I know he will.
He’s been bored out of his skull since his pancreas exploded.
Duff’s cool, always was. A good guy to be around. A punk, you know?
I just need to find another douchebag singer.
Maybe someone from a grunge band who ain’t dead yet.
Maybe that dick from Stone Temple Pilots.
Yeah, and we’ll have a name that’s hard and soft, just like the Gunners.
Concrete Mittens or
Switchblades & Cotton Candy
or maybe Velvet Revolver.
Some shit like that.
We’ll do a record.
Tour the world.
Make a million.
Get the party started again, yo.
Tuesday, 17 February 2009
Monday, 16 February 2009
Come on man.
I mean, just think about it.
The Chinese Democracy ain’t happening.
and the Gunners are a laughing stock
But it’s not too late to pull it back, Bill.
I think, the world’s waited long enough
Forget those guys and lets go back to the beginning:
the kick-ass days
the good old
bad old days.
Duff’s in. Izzy’s itching to play, I know he is.
And Adler’s in no fucking position to say no.
We’ll write the real sequel to Appetite.
We’ll eat those pussy-ass bands like
My Chemical Romance
and The Strokes
Smacked out or clean
as a whistle -
we’ll do it any which you
it’s no sweat off my balls
I just want to rock.
So what do you say, buddy?
Who did you say you were again?
Sunday, 15 February 2009
- Wake up, dude it’s me….I’m here to get the band back together.
- What. What’s happening?
- Sorry to wake you good buddy, It’s me, Slash.
- How…I mean, did Rico let you in? I’ll fire his ass back to whatever fucking island dictatorship he came from. Who are you anyway? I don’t have any money. I never handle it…
- It’s me man, Slash.
- Do I know you?
- Of course you do. We formed the Gunners, man. We ruled the world in ’89!
- Are you the guy with the hat?
- Yes, the guy with the hat.
- And the snakes?
- Yes, the snakes. Dude, quit fooling around. It’s me, your old bro.
- And the cigarette dangling from his mouth?
- Yes! Look, it’s still there, see? Marlboro Red. And the hat. And look, I’ve even bought a bottle of Jack for us to share, just like old times, like when we lived in that shit-pit on the Strip, remember?
- I’m afraid this space is drink and drugs free. I’m going to have to call my security.
- There’s no need to do that, dude. I just want to talk about putting the band back together.
- The band is still together, dude. Haven’t you heard? Chinese Democracy is in the bag, bro. And it’s the greatest fucking rock ‘n’ roll album ever made.
- What, better than Toys In the Attic? Or Exile? How about Zep IV?
- Yup. Way fucking better. This motherfucker shits on old those dinosaurs from a great height.
- Better than Hanoi Rocks?
- Don’t even insult me by mentioning those mincing Fins in the same sentence as my band.
- Don’t forget it was my band too…
- Whatever, indeed.
- That’s what I said.
- I love you, man.
- Well, I don’t love you.
- That’s because you’re incapable of love.
- I love myself.
- And therein lies the problem. Anyway, dude, what the fuck? Are you wearing a hairnet?
Friday, 13 February 2009
Axl is in the midst of a strange sexual fantasy. He is dreaming about a girl with huge thighs. She is naked except for a pair of hiking boots. She is a big, strong, healthy-looking girl. Her ass is big too; like a white medicine ball. She’s not the type of girl he’d normally go for yet he is completely turned on. He is in love. He wants to climb a mountain with this girl. He wants to bury his face in her big white ass. He wants to lick her until his tongue is swollen, distended and just hanging there like a dog’s. He wants to feel her thighs around his head He wants to be made deaf to the world by them. He wants to sit down eat a packed lunch with her. Maybe on a precipice overlooking a remote canyon. He is experiencing new feelings and new emotions. These waves of love and desire are alien to him. He awakes, sweating and erect. He guiltily jerks off. He has no idea what any of it means. Yet the girl with the big ass and thighs stay with him all day, as does the image of a nice quiet luncheon somewhere remote.
Axl is in the midst of a strange sexual fantasy.
He is dreaming about a girl with huge thighs.
She is naked except for a pair of hiking boots.
She is a big, strong, healthy-looking girl.
Her ass is big too; like a white medicine ball.
She’s not the type of girl he’d normally go for
yet he is completely turned on. He is in love.
He wants to climb a mountain with this girl.
He wants to bury his face in her big white ass.
He wants to lick her until his tongue is swollen,
distended and just hanging there like a dog’s.
He wants to feel her thighs around his head
He wants to be made deaf to the world by them.
He wants to sit down eat a packed lunch with her.
Maybe on a precipice overlooking a remote canyon.
He is experiencing new feelings and new emotions.
These waves of love and desire are alien to him.
He awakes, sweating and erect. He guiltily jerks off.
He has no idea what any of it means. Yet the girl with
the big ass and thighs stay with him all day, as does
the image of a nice quiet luncheon somewhere remote.
Wednesday, 11 February 2009
All the lights are out
save for a halogen lamp;
I sit in its cast circle
a halo searching for
an angel, cross-legged and
straight-backed I read Napoleon
Machiavelli, Sun Tzu
and a Bette Davies biog.
Devoid of drugs, love,
chaos or a schedule
I find solace in books
for the first time in my life.
Here for the first time is
a semblance of routine
a welcome discipline and
a wealth of knowledge
an insight into great minds to
remind I’m not alone
in my militant thinking, my
desire to lead from the front
written confirmation that my
strength is my weakness and my
weakness is my greatest asset
for it is that which makes us human.
Here, in the pages, I search for
answers but forget the questions
I keep a dictionary by my side
and learn a new word every day.
I trace the words with my finger
and I know my lips are moving
but there is no-one here
to see them, no-one to
break the silence that
for a few moments at least
seems finite, only for the
sun to then rise again
whereupon I will close my books
conclude my studies, my meditations
and step out from the circle
of light to stretch like a cat
then slowly pad my way to the boudoir
clicking the lamp off on the way.
Tuesday, 10 February 2009
The redhead right?
That asshole owes me money
Do I miss him?
Are you fucking crazy?
I miss him like a hole
in the cock.
But…I guess we did have
some good times together
And, yeah. I guess I do
kinda miss those high times
And I guess it would be
cool to charter our own
Monday, 9 February 2009
I’m thinking about entering this year’s Malibu Chili Cookoff
I’ve been working on my secret seasonings.
I’m thinking of entering it undercover.
I need to think of a false name.
Like maybe Steve or Andy.
Surfing is big here.
Bigger than in
Golf is the last refuge of the living;
that bridge between life and death.
Often when I’m sleeping I dream of the
I dream about how flat and smooth and silent it is.
I imagine its tarmac and asphalt top layer cracking open.
In my dream I pull over and get out of my car.
I step over to the crack and I peer into it.
It is deep, but not that deep.
Inside I see all my family and friends.
Everyone I’ve ever known is there.
They’re all smiling and having fun.
They wave and say “Come and join us, Bill. It’s great here in this crack in the highway!”
But I never do.
I always step back from the crack and turn towards my car.
Towards the open road.
Then I wake up feeling funny.
Out of sorts.
I don’t ‘do’ sun.
It turns my skin
like a snare drum.
I heard they were going to offer me the keys
to the city but I guess they changed their minds.
I can watch porn for up to ten
maybe twelve hours at a stretch
I have one of the biggest porno
And that’s not me showing off.
- that’s a fucking fact.
Like Steve or Andy,
I need to think of a false name.
I’m thinking of entering it undercover.
I’ve been working on my secret seasonings.
I’m thinking about entering this year’s Malibu Chili Cookoff.