Writing

Arklight: a musical overview — by Mark McCawley

Posted on by urbangraffito Posted in Audio, Ephemera, Essay, Interview, Music, Video | 1 Comment

Arklight:

a musical overview

 

by Mark McCawley

 
 
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Danny Kolm, Gregory Kolm and Max Kostaras are three twentysomethings who’ve lived their whole lives in Queens, NYC. Danny and Greg are brothers who started playing music together in 2003 under the name Arklight, releasing dozens of cassettes and Cdrs on small independent labels. Their early sound was a harsh mix of no wave noise, free jazz energy and punk psychedelia. Various friends filled in the lineup, with Danny playing guitar and Greg manning the drums, until 2013 when Max, a childhood friend and sometimes collaborator, became a permanent member on lead guitar. It was then that their sound shifted to reflect a burgeoning interest in songwriting, structure and improved musicianship. For inspiration, Arklight looked to the music they grew up on and loved, including Neil Young, Nirvana, Sonic Youth, Velvet Underground, Nick Cave and Beat Happening. They hope to continue their development and follow the muse wherever it may lead them.
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Astor Place Station by Ron Kolm

Posted on by urbangraffito Posted in Daily, Poetry, Ron Kolm, Writing | 5 Comments

Astor Place Station

 

by Ron Kolm

 
 

"Astor Station, NYC", Copyright © 2014 Arthur Kaye

‘End of the Line’, Copyright © 2014 Arthur Kaye

 
 
Astor Place Station

 

I’d just dropped off

Some consignment stuff

At St. Mark’s Bookshop

And had fifteen minutes to make it

To Grand Central Terminal

Or I’d be late for work.

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Arrested Sex by Jacob Futhey

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Arrested Sex

by Jacob Futhey

 
 

"CJSR Session: IV", Copyright © 2014 Devin McCawley

“CJSR Session: IV”, Copyright © 2014 Devin McCawley

 
 

I threw on jeans, buttoned up a shirt, and crept towards the door. The T.V. was blaring from the living room. My mom saw me from the couch, a cloud of smoke hung over her, “What the hell are you doing?”
 
“Liz from high school invited me out, it’s her birthday.”
 
She came shuffling towards the door; her robe half-open, exposing a constellation of moles and blotches, “You don’t need to be worrying about girls.”
 
“Mom please. She’s a lesbian. I’m just going to say hi. Maybe have a few laughs.” Liz always had sexually promiscuous friends around and I needed to prove my dick still worked.
 
Her hands perched on her hips showing more stars, “You don’t need to go out with anyone, even if they are lesbians.” I had been home almost a month after dropping out of college after a year and a half. Read more

Kate Crash — in conversation with John Wisniewski

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Kate Crash

(Kate Crash & The UFO Club)

in conversation with

John Wisniewski

 
 
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“Musician, glam punk alien cross-dressing renegade
robot from the future, multi-media performance artist,
novelist, poet, director — Kate Crash is a punk
feminist with a DIY ethic. Whether it’s her music, her poetry,
her spoken word performance pieces, her fiction
or her documentary filmmaking — Crash’s glitter-speckled allegorical art
holds a unique mirror up to the present day decay and decadence of Los Angeles
in her search for her own personal authentic amid L.A’s streets of broken dreams
and almost realized celluloid fantasies.”

~Editor

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Hungry Woman by Keith Ebsary

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Hungry Woman

by Keith Ebsary

 

<p class="”copyright”">Photo by Joel (<a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/joel_nilsson/sets/">J. Nilsson Photography</a>) Copyright © 2014. Model: Angela Renner.</p>

Photo by Joel (J. Nilsson Photography) Copyright © 2014. Model: Angela Renner.

 
 

Steak.

A mountain of steak, a bombardment of bovine, meaty, majestic, marbled and magnificent. And it’s all for my wife, the wafer-thin gorger in thong and bra picking at the slabs of flesh with slow and lazy fingers as she coyly telegraphs the imminent feast. Meat smells fill our bedroom­­—salt, char and blood—and the lights play over the sharp strake of her shoulders and wild lines of her ribs. She looks into my eyes, and the look is hungry, as my fingers drop one by one in a silent countdown.

One.

Two.

Three.

Then the camera is on and the feast begins.

The first steak disappears in wolfy bites, jaws chomping in frenzy on tissue and gristle. I watch her throat bobble and gulp as her lips and tongue click in robotic harmony to the animal sounds mumbling through the juices inside her mouth.

The second steak is gentle, a quiet dinner in a riverside café, a bottle of wine with candlelight and fire. She fondles the meat with a lover’s touch, nuzzling the seared muscle with playful nips of her teeth. Meat juice precomes down her chin and she licks it away, eyes drilling through the camera to the unseen faces beyond.

The third steak is wild, ripped and shredded like the carcass of a woodland beast. She growls and barks as her fingers plunge into the wet muscle and tear off chunks that are swallowed whole. Her lips curl in predatory rage and her body hunches over the kill, a prize for her alone.

The other steaks become a smacking blur. She eats and eats and I watch in fascination as her gut bulges from the banquet packed within. The camera catches it all, every throat-swelling swallow, every satiated grunt. I try to fade from the scope of her hunger, become the shadow behind a plant. Finally the eating ends and she collapses onto the pillows behind her. I turn the camera off and join her on the bed where she lies with eyes half-open and stomach distended, glutted on cow like a sullen lioness digesting her kill. She crooks her finger, Come and I do what she says because she reminds me of everything beautiful.

Her kisses taste like meat and she is the sun inside me.
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