enter to win
original artwork by ian gamache
& the debut dirty beat cd
draw date: sept 20, 2024
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Quarters available at the following locations:
--- NEW ADDITIONS ---
Sound Heritage (Nanaimo, BC)
Prairie Flint (Swift Current, SK)
Amazing Stories (Saskatoon, SK)
X-Disc-C Music (Kitchener, ON)
Brian's Record Option (Kingston, ON)
Obsolete Records (Halifax, NS)
and
Vancouver, BC
Spartacus Books
Regional Assembly of Text
Prince George, BC
Books and Company
Whitehorse, YT
Road Dogs Music
Edmonton, AB
Listen Records
Winnipeg, MB
Into the Music
Strange Things Emporium
Prairie Sky Books
London, ON
Grooves Records
Toronto, ON
Sonic Boom Records
Art Metropole
Ottawa, ON
Vertigo Records
Montreal, QC
Cheap Thrills
Le Vacarme
Atom Heart
Librairie Bertrand
Fredericton, NB
The Cap
Moncton, NB
Spin-It Records
Halifax, NS
Taz Records
Anchor Archive
QUARTER #1: "A COWARD'S CONFESSION"
I am lazy
And afraid
I have squandered many treasures
I have a treasure meant to bring to the king
I have a hammer with which to mold the world
Lying beside me in rust and ruin and rot
My body is in decline
But I have yet to stand up & begin my journey
My dreams grow stale, and tired of waiting
Despite the many excuses
I wear as a crown of thorns, proudly
The truth is:
I am skinless
Spineless
Unremarkably adrift & dreadfully plain
I awaken to find myself in a great hourglass
Flipped at birth
The sand pours down around and upon me
Rising without pause or concern
In a panic, I try to catch it in my hands
To slow the tide, buy some time
But there is too much, too fast
It overflows my grasp
I tire from wasteful pacing
Running out of time
Running out of reasons
I awaken a mere mile past the station
Many years ago now, I missed the train I was meant to catch
I ran hard as I might to catch it
But it was too fast, and I was too slow
Too hesitant and diluted of purpose
Up until this day it was still within sight
Though growing ever smaller, ever closer to the horizon
Ever further ‘round the bend gathering it from sight
And there was always still hope
A foolish, panicked hope
But hope nonetheless
Hope I could still catch it
Convincing myself:
Everyone has their time
My time may be yet
There is still time
Just push a little harder, run a little faster
Yet as I plod past trees & towns that once were a blur
Cramps ripening into chronic conditions
All I see now is the rear light of the train
The clatter of wheels & the vibrating steel
No longer drive my feet so much
And I see now that my time has passed
I see too that many other trains have since come & gone
Trains I could have caught & made new time
All long gone now
And I am in the woods,
It is dark, I am cold
Hypothermic warmth beckons
How wonderful to sleep
How wonderful not to care
How wonderful not to matter
I pray for the dirt
I am ready for heaven
I did not tend my garden
And the weeds have long overgrown the fruit
My history lies in fragments
Bridges burned, cords severed
I am a ghost, a spirit already crossing
With no body to row the boat
What can be done?
The sun is setting, and I am in decline
Yet the journey still awaits, I have a mission to fulfill
I have goods to deliver
Though the goods have long begun to spoil
I have a story to tell
Though the world has long grown tired of such stories
And such stories, tired of their telling
What can be done?
I am a coward
And this is my confession.
A first peek above the trench
Neck stuck out but an inch.
I fear mockery, assault & rejection
But worse yet, silence & disregard.
There is no glamour in this flailing.
* * *
QUARTER #2: "THE SEETHING JUDGE"
I work up the nerve, groveling I come
To confess, in abject supplication
I confess, my sins my failings my fears my void
I have nothing, I am all poured out
Begging for love, for acceptance in your eyes
Please hold me, hold me together before I shatter
But in a sudden you erupt, in spittle and fury
Horrified at the words I speak and the who I am
Your banishment is instant and absolute
Not one shred of grace to spare
No, you will not accept me, nor seek to understand
You will not concede some common thread between us
Disgusted at the sight of me
You cannot bear my stench.
Revulsed at the stink of my repentance, you ready your whip
To ceaselessly flay me ‘til I cease to exist.
“I hate you! I cannot bear that you are here, on this earth
I cannot bear the sight of you, groveling before me
Have you no shame? Or is shame all that you have and all that you are?
“You are utterly distasteful, with your pulsing flesh and oozing pus
If I could vomit you from existence, I would."
Please no, please do not abandon me
Please don’t turn on me, don’t turn away from me
Please don’t leave me shivering alone
So small beneath your wrath
I am already so small
So small beneath the world, all its furies and fears
So small beneath the weight of my own condemnations
Can you not stay beside me?
I know I am a hateful distasteful loathsome yuck
Of course you can be ashamed of me and so you ought
Just please don’t step away and point
Please don’t point me out to the others
The crowd gathers
Standing judging retching mocking
I shrink in size, but unfortunately not so small that I disappear
Still so stripped and indisposed
But you have yours too, don’t you?
Confessions you could make?
Are you not human, with even one drop of shit?
Or like me, a bucket, full to overflowing?
“No, I will neither sit nor side with you
No compassion, no companion
You filth.
I abhor your tender wound, I will not acknowledge the mirror of your flesh.
“You stand accused of abandoning yourself.
And so shall your punishment be further and total abandonment.
It matters not whether all others have stood by you or have forsaken you.
For it is you alone who has turned your face
Fear no hell, for you have already become it.
You Are Hell.
“You stand accused of diminishing yourself to nothing.
You have dug the ground from under your feet.
Who told you to do such a thing? And why did you listen?
You have betrayed yourself to the whims of the others
And in so doing become a black hole with nothing to offer
A vacuum of relentless need.
Peddling yourself at rock-bottom prices to nobody's looking
Begging while coins fester and clank in your pocket
Then wondering why you can’t face the mirror.
“For diminishing and abandoning yourself
You shall be set up before the throng
To be diminished and abandoned by all.
“We denounce you!
You do not belong to the human family.
You have no place in this world.
You have no spine, no skin.
No skin in the game.
You follow and break all the wrong rules
And with no internal compass you can’t be trusted.
“So your punishment is absolute Loneliness.
All you have left to comfort you is your fear, your hatred, and your shame.
You shall be hollowed out, dug out with a spoon all that remains of you.
And soon you will have no sense of self, no other half.
You will no longer have a self to hate.
And so you shall become the embodiment of Hate, and of Spite.
The Ultimate Unnatural.
An Abomination.
Bad Seed.
What say you?”
* * *
QUARTER #3: "THE BOIL"
I confessed, the judge berated and railed against me
It’s true, I am guilty of all those things
I have made a mockery of my life
I have chosen, always, the lesser path
The path that avoids whether the prison or the prize
But you see, I have this boil
Swelling, throbbing
Worsening by the day
And I am hoping your whip may be just the thing to pierce it
For though I bleat and brood and bray
I still bank on not lifting a finger
You see, there is this boil
Its seed germed long ago
When pellets pierced the natal skin
And burrowed down deep within
Where doctors cannot ply and nurses cannot tend
Shot through with holes
Carpet crawl
Hobble late
Run never
The wound clots
Scabs
And scars
The clock stops
Time flies
A new year, a new knife
Paper cuts
Heavy meddles
Anvils dropping from the sky
Ankle-snapping holes
Birdshot buckshot bloodshot I
Pus matures
Ferments to wine bitters
Bottled up, corked in private
Backdrain to the bloodstream
Disease begets disease, the boil ripens
Growing to fruition
It bulges, engorged and distended
Pressure mounting
Patience thinning
Skin taut
Infection spreading
I've kept this all inside
Done best to stem the tide
Played whack-a-mole thumb on hide
But years pass and cyst grows
I cannot keep regurging and chewing this old cud
Suckling my abominations with hate and adoration
While the world is flailing and requiring attention.
*
This boil
This festering, pestering boil
A culmination, congestion
A growing concern
Built up over time.
Meal upon meal crammed in the belly without digestion time
One too many head-spinning shots poured down the gullet
Musty, sentimental clothes hogging the closet
The constipated weight of it all.
Overwhelmed and overloaded
Make it stop make it stop.
Youth lost
Slow, dull, aching
Without wisdom gained and gains made to take its place.
The change
The constant, relentless change
The world is unhinged, cartwheeling through chaos
The guiding mountains have crumbled
The gauging markers moved
What was once supposed safe quarter is now a most treacherous place.
The entire world is smashed glass: sharp, senseless, unreliable.
Habits, engrained rivulets in stone.
Brain firing faults on autopilot
Defenses and excuses backlogged, expired and boring.
An elaborate bureaucracy of wilful cowardice and avoidance.
Indeed, it is the journey not the destination:
So long in the desert, avoiding the goal and its requisite trip.
Friendships flowered into ghosts and foes
Digs and slights drag slits in thin skin
Off the list for jumping ship
Stuffed on excuses and blame
Not enough arrows for all the targets aimed
Swamped with hate, isolation and shame
Serving only to serve more of the same
The bottomless weep
All so dramatic and silly
Child games played with hands all feeble and wilty.
All filled up.
Pressure cooker now.
Boil either erupts or goes septic.
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