Number (N)ine — by Daniel Area Wakahisa (Courtesy of GREY Magazine)

        Then there's this label who won't be showing this season nor the next, it's beat

it's dust scattered across an old record, a coat hanging on the cross—breathless,

        an empty skin unzipped, a shadow on the wall reminiscing the silent poet,

        a divine number

Then there's this feeling, a closed feeling, no longer weeping the mystical back alleys in Harajuku

        where broad stripes and bright stars conquered the tempered heart,

forged in jewel steel engraved with the words: 村正

the demon blade

Then there's this hotel room in Alaska, no witnesses, no nothing,

        where isolation desolation exclamation

invoked the spirits of those folks whose strings resonate deep within

        the land of the free and the home of the brave,

the eternal scream, the nuclear weapon, rhythm and rhymes:

        rock and roll

Then there's this collection whose price was never tagged for it was higher than our digits,

        our exchange rates—our cool, a precious moment, so loud it shattered bones and skulls,

speechless masks walking on their burying ground—the last moment,

        January twenty second two thousand and (n)ine, the vanishing light

        reverence and fear

Then there's this feeling, a sad feeling, that keeps asking was it suicide or was it murder?

        (Ask my brain. I don't know)

the record stopped playing, FATHER the hipsters ran out of coins OR was it the jukebox

        who ran out of tunes, who couldn't count past (n)ine,

        who devoured Americana

until it's needle wore out, scratching the snow white facade of the nation

        floating on overtime, overclocked, overpriced

Then there's this vehemence to conserve, to dry clean only and vacuum pack all the remnants,

        dry freeze every stitch with cryogenic devotion, a cellar a wardrobe

where all numbers combine yet none equates to the absolute value of Takahiro Miyashita, 宮下貴裕

        Taka the oyster, the silent poet,

         ask my brain

Then there's this thirst, a wind blowing from the desert, dry and dusty eyes shut glooming

        wide-open uneasy progressive philosophy resonating in the minds and memories of all,

        what the future will hold,

The Redisun, Time Migration, Standards, The Modern Age, Nowhere Man, Touch Me I'm Sick—A New Morning, Dream Baby Dream, Give Peace a Chance, Night Crawler, The High Streets, Axel Rose, Noir, About A Boy, Love God Murder, Birds, My Own Private Portland, The Lonesome Heroes,

A Closed Feeling

        The ninth sense disbanded

Then there's this letter, a sad letter, Dear friends and supporters,

where dear friends and supporters are given the announcement—the adjournment

        or is it punishment (You shall not make for yourself an idol)

the eighteenth show a closed interval thank you to all but keep looking, keep shopping,

        keep up with appearances

It's past (n)ine and I don't know what to wear

It's past (n)ine and the beat is dead, circumscribed to collectors—we are all collectors now, collecting

        an infinite number of fragments in time, of time, running out of time,

playing the old Beatles song that keeps spinning past the last groove,


Number nine, number nine, number nine, number nine

Number nine, number nine, number nine, number nine

Number nine, number nine, number nine, number nine

Number nine, number nine, number...


Proposed by Dandyakuza on Thursday 07 October 2010 at 11:26 AM

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