Don Teel Curtis – Eat Your Babies – Live from Sonic City 2016
God bless Savages for having old man Don.
Output Phantom Featured on AdHoc
Don Teel Curtis to Play Le Guess Who? and Sonic City
DON TEEL CURTIS to play Le Guess Who? in Utrecht in Holland, and Sonic City in Kortrijk in the province of West Flanders. Thanks Savages! Tickets on sale here (Le Guess Who?) and here (Sonic City). Abroad he goes like this:
Sunrises America Featured on Decoder
NEW RELEASE Sunrises America
Jordan Romero’s Sunrises America is out, buy it HERE!
The Little Southern Great White Tour is Finished!
The Shy Violet and Amarillo By Morning played these:
November 19th 2014 – Display – Gainesville, FL [439 South Main St /// 32601]
November 20th 2014 – Hang Fire – Savannah, GA [37 Whitaker St /// 31401]
November 21st 2014 – Mammal Gallery – Atlanta, GA [91 Broad St SW /// 30303]
November 22nd 2014 – Go Bar – Athens, GA [195 Prince Ave /// 30601]
November 23nd 2014 – The Crown – Baltimore, MD [1910 N Charles St /// 21218]
Thank you to all those old faithfuls and all those newfound friends.
Also, thanks, Hector…
The Grain Falls Manifesto – Part 1
…and the cleaved land these bridges stitched together for legful animals like me, S. EASTER TAVERN, was the same on both sides, only partitioned by the stubborn rubbing of weather.
First, I will say what I recall about the days when the journey first began and all manner of gumshoed bloodshot feasters came from the wells and swore at their mothers, and the links to vast servers died. I do have trouble remembering the Keepsakes. The Keepsakes were a cultural denomination that met everyday in the Uldrige Beach event room in White Waiter Rapids, which was not near a beach, but in a smokey tundra by the outpost, near the prairie of perished mamelukes. The Keepsakes consisted mainly of neighborly men brought together by their grandfathers, and they sat in the Uldrige Beach event room and planned fairs, fairs that never materialized and only existed in the mechanics of excited language. The fairs were said to have been perfect ideas. I had once met the leader of the Keepsakes, Letch Tether, and he was a conversationalist intent on the ruin of all the remaining ruins. He vowed to demolish the vestigial pillars of the Parthenon, of the Coliseum, of the… guts of history. Any edifice of historical value, half-standing. The Keepsakes developed instruments of deconstruction shaped like goats, and they lost their many orphan charges in rambling voyages across milk colored deserts and found them later picked over by the small desert beasts and large desert birds. These children would first die of waterthirst or burning of the sun, and then lastly blame the slickwicked cowards who had brought them to that particular end. The Keepsakes were cowards, the ones that I had known. I still believe their advances are only recordable by the most sensitive of seismographs, sensing tremors of a simpleton’s thought disturbing the earth, as beginning in the mind of one that sleeps with his head on a flat pillow, and the P-wave travels down through the leg of the bed, and through the hardwood floors that had been made from all the guillotines and pirate-docks in Europe. Only the loudest most inviolable thoughts punctuate the paper, only the most insistent dreams.
And I went with them through the desert, and came to a place where the dipped nozzle buzzards blew away from a corpse like ash from a campfire, and it was the corpse of a man inside a golf cart. And then we came upon the Leaflet Garage Damper, the house in the middle of the desert, the desert where the sand was red in the evening and white in the morning. I would wake and have my black water behind the house and watch the vipers and sidewinders move. The sides of the house were made of bottles. There was no chimney, no fire place, because in the winter, when it was cold, the sand was still hot. The man who had built the house was not related to me. He was somebody I had met in Cairo, and then again in Slutfire, Texas–the desert was in the far east, under the heavy black habit of a night sky.
There were camps of Trotts every three or four kilometers into the desert in any direction. They would trade out their wares, their numerous pickled species of desert dwelling rodentia, their cavernous womenfolk with cunts that smelled of sour milk, their darkened hundredwood sandsleighs, and their moist almond cake that I did not eat for the land’s want of an almond tree within several hundred miles. These peoples had been indigenous for as long as it takes be indigenous, they were molecularly coherent with the landscape, skin as white as death…and then ruptured outdoor mantel! in the clocktower song that came down in shivering gallops from lungs like nuns in bitter disappointment about pointless scabies contracted from uniformed soup-kitchenists. Umbrage in the dealt hand, wayward staring to clasped shade. The Trotts were very kind on Mondays at midday, I remember fondly. They had a peculiar custom. They all slept outside their tents in the nude, on the sand, waiting for rape from marauders. “This is one day that the evil of rape does not exist in our lands,” they said, “because everyone is willing.”
In the cardiac violence displayed by the other tribes, I could see a peaceful coordination of efforts to minimize the casualties, and maximize the injured. They were to break only femurs as lawfully inscribed in the Yam treaty of 20. These masters of war had developed a cultural weaponry that consisted mainly of small mallets and pinchers.
Dark rumors, cooped birthers and deadliners, they trumped the upper thin, and they made their rounds back to the colonies, in which humid youthful temperatures lasted long in the underbrush and the milk-thistle. Dumb bombs in dusty canyon walls would explode if you tripped their wires, if you came upon their wives in Easter. And thoughtless placement of fences sometimes trapped people, stranding them within civilization, and seeing them perish within fences within fences, where gates had been forgotten —– Fust—These happen-hoffers, underwashed and calibrated to make certain inopportune suggestions, gifted in nasal breath, and scorched sorrow quacking Maybelle–oh, I hated Maybelle–took breaths only inside the orange cupboard for reasons she would never say. She stood beside it and carried on conversations in a restrained and weak voice, ducking away at intervals into the cupboard and gasping. It was tedious work to discuss anything serious with this woman, but Vasquez (I will discuss Vasquez in a later pages, when his daughter goes sick, and he becomes important) must have had some undying affection for her, christened, probably, on easier days and less complicated grounds. I did not like Maybelle.
I have been far from Davenport of several years now, and the last word that I remember hearing within her (we will know her soon) walls was: Davenport. I will never lose it among the other words, it is highest in my vocabulary and shall be given its due, in intonation, it never will be spoken with a thick tongue. Davenport. It was upheld in the sable rocks, flatted out by scraping wind-sheaths, out the last grasp of gold from the inchland, and depositing it in array on the south side of the Yonx. I have never yet heard of still-born water, outted from belly currents in deep bathysphere, but I knew that it is what Davenport was made of, dead on arrival water, that smelled of krill and burlap from the nosedive curl of Sante Fe, to the victory of Washburn, where I had calved the last soldiers in May of last century and they had treated the war well since then.
The Gregorian chants were always playing down by the muddy watering hole, where we could find the antelope and the bishop lions, bowing over hot, apoplectic air, to drink past into the silken monsoon water. I will never forget the way the lions kept their eyes on the buffalo in the middrift of the catch-em plains. This bright nose winged ring woman would accost me, and she would make love to me in the treelimbs like we had arrived millions of years ago together and were too afraid to advance our species, so we lazed about snacking in mid-air, inoculated with low-grade berry poisons.