Urban Jellyfish

The monetary prophet  is alive.
His steadfast stance challenges the face of adequate moral resistance.
His likeness casts a shadow over the light of unfettered perception.
Hiding the snakes approach.

Coiled in anticipation, graced with venom-laced fangs.
A scaly pinnacle of capitalist achievement.
All serpents have flaws.
But this breed uses its weaknesses to inject victims with the toxifying effects of financial freedom.

Green blades wielded by long dead presidents.
Brandished by rich white men afraid to draw their own black blood to save the human condition.
A fool is soon parted with his money, a saint divorced from its shrill and nagging behavior.
To attempt a life of the latter, deem it unsightly

Fear and uncertainty when considering the life of a simple carpenter.
A choice to keep the company of derelicts to that of kings.
The prospect of which grips tightly at the white collared throat.
Better that a baton crack against the pavement of a hardened head.

These descriptions cascade from the mouth.
Uttered by one already toiling under the weight of blood replaced with venom.
Resting comfortably while his descriptions relegate themselves to the realm of alliteration.
Meanwhile reality continues to slither the surly bonds of humanity, feasting on lost connectivity.

These are the words of madness,
Idle hands throwing snowflakes at the surface of the sun…

Rather die alone by these hands like a man
Than homogenized in a culture under bankruptcy we stand.
Coming closer to the end makes it harder to deny
That debt to misery is long past due in these corporatized times.

It’s ok.
That’s fine.
Opinions are like grapes waiting to be wine.
It’s alright.
What’s that you say?
But understanding why the roads are paved doesn’t help you find your way.

Give it up, cause truth’s a whore
Giving lip service to nature, replace enough with more, more, more
Information’s gushing from the pipeline flooding through
Invading hordes of willing iris’ with dollar store truths

She bore the burden
Traveled the tarmac
Battered the bruises
Injected her enchantment

She delivered the charge
Weighed all the options
Filtered the heinous
And bought the bourgeois 

A better balance was never delivered and granted in youth
Her kindness and grace knows no earthly limits 
Thankful is he to the gift of your truth

There is something in me as an artist that wants the challenge. I cannot sit by and allow my fears charge over what’s left of my life. In the interest of being nice I’ve created more pain for those around me while slowly destroying my clarity. When writing about a subject like suicide in which it’s suggested as a viable option you’re bound to hurt. It’s probably an inevitability and if nothing else it’s at least an emotional ride you’re choosing to engage in. But that’s the addiction, the appeal. To bring out that emotion. To touch someone in a negative way in the hopes of a positive outcome. We are hypocrites every last one. The behaviors we shun are often qualities we’ve been taught to fear, whether by word of mouth or experience. The fear is valid, it’s in place to ensure survival. However, the fear is itself the death of freedom. Is it possible to be truly be free of fear and still manage to survive? When all the fears are stripped away are we in any less danger than we were when we chose ignorance? I argue no. You don’t chose much in this life but the manner of your death is something many do get to choose. Whether you agree with it or not is irrelevant as the decision has nothing to do with you unless you are making it in regards to yourself. If you are against allowing any one human the right to end their life then you must also be against the right of the same individual to chose life. To say it’s a selfish decision is itself a proclamation of self-importance as it’s just not your call to make regardless of where you are in relation to the person making the decision. An abortion is a private matter between the carrier and whomever carries out the procedure. Why is suicide any different? I hear arguments but none can get over the simple truth that we are capable of deciding the when and where of our death on our own. Even the poorest of individuals can choose to allow gravity to slam them into non-existence or another dimension or into whatever may or may not exist outside of their current reality. There are many people for whom suicide is just a fantastic option. I’ve written a song to these people. I encourage the act and I simultaneously understand that this support will bring me and possibly the band into unfavorable territory. What’s worse? Artistic death from fear, that’s what’s worse…

Truman Capote wrote a line for Holly Golightly in the novella Breakfast At Tiffany’s that is forever etched on the sketch that is my mind. “I’ve got a case of the mean reds”, fear without understanding or knowing it’s source. The state of mind is one I’m currently locked in. I picked up the habit of expression as I bathed in my ex’s depression. The bouts were epic and left us with divorce so I guess Breakfast At Tiffany’s is truly the “…one thing, that we got.” The Deep Blue Something song does appear to be a great segue to the subject at hand. Did you know segue was spelled that way and not as segway? Anyway, I’ve got a case. Urban Jellyfish is this living breathing group of musicians and I’m at the helm. I want a rocket ship of success to encapsulate us so we can be famous overnight. But in thinking and writing the words I wonder what the hell is wrong with me. I can barely play the guitar and sing at the same time, my music is banal and though occasionally catchy its clear it comes from someone who doesn’t study his art. It’s all by feeling. That feeling is fear and trepidation and disgust for my own capabilities. Whiner wishes himself savant. The journey is fraught with the valleys of ,loss, insecurity, and depression. All par for an 18 hole course of douchebaggery. Where does all of this come from? How can I sculpt it into something an audience can touch, feel, and taste? I’m not alone in wanting to communicate this outward but my music is the only road to relation I seem to be able to access. I’m so cynical towards the idea of new people. Disdain for the average person on the street as something inside me feels they don’t have what it takes to understand just how difficult this all is. Their boring lives just continue as boring and their simplicity saves them the headache, or at least they are too ignorant to understand why it is they have a headache. Here I am at 38 holding on to the teenage concept that “no one understands me” while simultaneously wishing I could be savior to anyone else in my position. If only others understood their potential. Who can save them? Why yours truly, of course. I understand and know so much that they must need to hear what I have to offer. It seems so colossally arrogant yet somehow it’s fucking true! I see dead eyed people all day long with a job just like the one I have. Hunched over a screen talking about shit that does nothing for anyone. Such existential ennui is just commonplace. It’s literally the most widely accepted form of existence. We are so fearful of relation and rejection that we crave the solitude and boredom of machines in favor of connection. I have yet to separate myself from it. There are moments when it’s necessary. Eight hours a day is unwarranted. Guess it’s just a case of the mean reds…