I'm in a band/i'm a writer

my band is called ULTRA DUDES here are our pix:




Look! Someone wrote this!:

Maybe all my poems are just for Sad Pieces of shit or maybe all my poems are for the gentle giants but there’s this glory to being fucked up and not in any kind of exploited way. I’m talking about something real, realer than you can touch with your TV lens eyes, realer than your realest magazine, realer than a vice squeezing your nerves until they’re pulp. This shit is to be swam in and glory is to be found and that’s the real deal, boys and girls, so to the point that your love can never be commodified, that your worship is not bought and sold by faceless monsters in a dark cathedral telling you that worship is important on the dry erase board right next to the words “PARTY HARD” in the middle of the mall where I go to hang out with all of my friends and see all of my movies and read all of my zines.

Pointless Depression II:
See some smoke in the distance. Maybe it means this is all over. Maybe it means I’m dead already. These feelings are already so useless to me. Loss, ache, heart problems, fuckin’ whatever. They don’t mean shit and they are no excuse to get so disgustingly lame about fucking everything. Still, I see this smoke coming up from behind the last hill and I have to wonder if the end is near. Will my last words be a question?