the return of the left reverend pj curry
this blessed oddity
this singing saint
this holy-ghost prodigy
who make the church mommas faint
ain’t no thunder
without the Boy Wonder
the little laser beam
with the “Help me Jesus!” scream!
the singin’ minister with the most
on speakin’ terms wit’ da holy ghost
spittin’ lyrics put the devil on the whippin’ post
no thanks I’m on a diet I’ll just have grapefruit and toast!
but anyway flock!,
I’m talkin’ ‘bout He
of song-makin’ soul shakin’,
devil quakin’ tone!
he’ll burn you with his fire,
even if he fresh outta brimstone!
yes, the devil himself
gotta recognize and enjoy
our everlasting Quasar
Brother Marty Roy!
this blessed oddity
this singing saint
this holy-ghost prodigy
who make the church mommas faint
ain’t no thunder
without the Boy Wonder
the little laser beam
with the “Help me Jesus!” scream!
the singin’ minister with the most
on speakin’ terms wit’ da holy ghost
spittin’ lyrics put the devil on the whippin’ post
no thanks I’m on a diet
I’ll just have grapefruit and toast!
but anyway flock!,
I’m talkin’ ‘bout He
of song-makin’ soul shakin’,
devil quakin’ tone!
he’ll burn you with his fire,
even if he fresh outta brimstone!
yes, the devil himself
gotta recognize and enjoy
our everlasting Quasar
Brother Marty Roy!
the blood of the son
IS THERE ONE THIS MORNING WITH A DEMON TO LAY DOWN?
IS BLACK EVIL FORMING A CIRCLE ‘ROUND YOU NOW?
TO STOP YOU FROM HEARING SALVATION BEGUN?
TAKE THIS AIR AS A CLEARING DEVIL JUMP UP AND RUN!
SINNER GAMBLE ALL NIGHT IN LUCK’S WICKED PARADE
BENEATH A POISONOUS LIGHT FROM BURNING PRAYERS HE MADE
THE DEVIL AND HIS FRIENDS GROTESQUE ENSEMBLE OF FUN
CAN’T WASH YOUR WINE SOAKED SINS IN THE BLOOD OF THE SON
A CONSTELLATION OF HARPIES SHADOW YOUR GRAVESTONE BED
THEY TOOK YOUR SOUL AND YOUR CAR KEYS
LEFT YOU THE THOUGHTS IN YOUR HEAD
THE SONG OF EVIL BEGINS AFTER THE ANGELS HAVE SUNG
YOU GOTTA WASH YOUR SINS IN THE BLOOD OF THE SON
I KNOW YOU HAVE YOUR DOUBTS YOU AND EVERY HARLOT’S SON
BUT WHO DON’ WON THEIR BOUTS WITH THE DEVIL? NOT A ONE.
IS THERE ONE THIS MORNING SET TO KNEEL INSTEAD OF RUN?
AND BEQUEATH HIS SINS TO THE BLOOD OF THE SON
YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW IT BUT YER TRIPPIN…
ON THE BLOOD OF THE SON DON’T NEED TO SHOW IT BUT YER DRIPPIN… WITH THE BLOOD OF THE SON
IS THERE ONE THIS MORNING
WITH A DEMON TO LAY DOWN?
IS BLACK EVIL FORMING
A CIRCLE ‘ROUND YOU NOW?
TO STOP YOU FROM HEARING
SALVATION BEGUN?
TAKE THIS AIR AS A CLEARING
DEVIL JUMP UP AND RUN!
SINNER GAMBLE ALL NIGHT
IN LUCK’S WICKED PARADE
BENEATH A POISONOUS LIGHT
FROM BURNING PRAYERS HE MADE
THE DEVIL AND HIS FRIEND’S
GROTESQUE ENSEMBLE OF FUN
CAN’T WASH YOUR WINE SOAKED SINS
IN THE BLOOD OF THE SON
A CONSTELLATION OF HARPIES
SHADOW YOUR GRAVESTONE BED
THEY TOOK YOUR SOUL AND YOUR CAR KEYS
LEFT YOU THE THOUGHTS IN YOUR HEAD
THE SONG OF EVIL BEGINS
AFTER THE ANGELS HAVE SUNG
YOU GOTTA WASH YOUR SINS
IN THE BLOOD OF THE SON
I KNOW YOU HAVE YOUR DOUBTS
YOU AND EVERY HARLOT’S SON
BUT WHO DONE WON THEIR BOUTS
WITH THE DEVIL? NOT A ONE.
IS THERE ONE THIS MORNING
WHO WILL KNEEL INSTEAD OF RUN?
AND BEQUEATH HIS SINS
TO THE BLOOD OF THE SON
YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW IT
BUT YER TRIPPIN…
ON THE BLOOD OF THE SON
DON’T NEED TO SHOW IT
BUT YER DRIPPIN…
WITH THE BLOOD OF THE SON
bell song
OLD MAN Remember the day we became worthy of her revolutionarily anointed vulnerability? When the brittle echo of our manhood became song enough to sing? When our being grew eyes and a wing? And her moans and koans told the sailors to the shore what not to bring?
OLD WOMAN stares silently out the window.
OLD MAN When we were post-fateful, blue & grateful? When our hateful became thankful? When our drums became nightful? When black clouds squirted glam band glitter lining? When we became pentatonic clouds endlessly signing?
OLD WOMAN giggling softly, picks up a copy of Orlando and grins quietly into its pages.
OLD MAN When we came armed with sickle, silk and gong and every hook looped bells til it was all night wrong but worthy of her softly ringing song?
OLD WOMAN looks up at OLD MAN with the smirk my Mother employed while staring dismissively at my Dad.
OLD MAN Do you remember this, my love? Or do I have it wrong?
OLD WOMAN exhaling…That day never came.
EVER MOTHERFUCKER!!!
Her scream lifts OLD MAN off of his chair and he stays suspended in air.
OLD MAN Yeah. (adjusting to his new position) You right, baby. (pause) You right.
OLD MAN Remember the day we became worthy of her revolutionarily anointed vulnerability? When the brittle echo of our manhood became song enough to sing? When our being grew eyes and a wing? And her moans and koans told the sailors to the shore what not to bring?
OLD WOMAN stares silently out the window.
OLD MAN When we were post-fateful, blue & grateful? When our hateful became thankful? When our drums became nightful? When black clouds squirted glam band glitter lining? When we became pentatonic clouds endlessly signing?
OLD WOMAN giggling softly, picks up a copy of Orlando and grins quietly into its pages.
OLD MAN When we came armed with sickle, silk and gong and every hook looped bells til it was all night wrong but worthy of her softly ringing song?
OLD WOMAN looks up at OLD MAN with the smirk my Mother employed while staring dismissively at my Dad.
OLD MAN Do you remember this, my love? Or do I have it wrong?
OLD WOMAN exhaling…That day never came.
EVER MOTHERFUCKER!!!
Her scream lifts OLD MAN off of his chair and he stays suspended in air.
OLD MAN Yeah. (adjusting to his new position) You right, baby. (pause) You right.
saturday in the park
covetous night left blood on the shrine said “if it’s clothed it is loathed but if it’s naked its mine” polyester bound to plantation chain synapse ground spent a round lodged in hood brain don metal apron domesticate the game in camo and lace blue musics to blame the sortie of song my ww3 in the shadow of your smell at the bottom of your tree the harpie said “don’t fake it leave glue on my nine” night said “I’ll take it for if it’s naked its mine.”
10/9/21 saturday 5pm fort greene park
covetous night left blood on the shrine said “if it’s clothed it is loathed but if it’s naked its mine” polyester bound to plantation chain synapse ground spent a round lodged in hood brain don metal apron domesticate the game in camo and lace blue musics to blame the sortie of song my ww3 in the shadow of your smell at the bottom of your tree the harpie said “don’t fake it leave glue on my nine” night said “I’ll take it for if it’s naked its mine.”
10/9/21 saturday 5pm fort greene park
another gig blurb
REVEREND PJ CURRY speaking
Now it is said -- and I think I’m the one that said it -- that twenty years ago one Sunday morning a struggling young minister in a failing church with a tired old choir received a vision wherein the Main Man Himself appeared unto him saying: Thou shall be The Shaper of the Final Chords...
Curry cues sound of rain...
Well every baby got a daddy. And every pimp got a caddy. Well may the least of these pass me the keys cuz that daddy in the caddy would be none other than the Right Reverend Super Visionary Ministerial Mix-Master of the Everlasting One: a most proud and humble father of the Jesus-esque Son!
Curry cues an explosion…
In an effort to shield his anointed offspring from the rigors of the road and thus the World, The Earthbound Father opted for the warm, snugly, borderline abusive comforts of the recording studio to carry out God’s commandment.
Curry cues the sound
of 7 gospel vocalists
all singing different songs
simultaneously
He embraced the timelessness of the perfect take, the dying moment captured, trapped, locked down, frozen in mid-air, caged. All this The Earthbound Father did while developing ground-breaking, visionary approaches to production... like his never photographed, never seen, echo portal...
LOOKING FORWARD TO SEEING YOU YOU YOU YOU…
AT FORT GREENE PARK PARK PARK PARK PARK…
THIS SATURDAY AFTERNOON NOON NOON NOON NOON…
REVEREND PJ CURRY speaking
Now it is said -- and I think I’m the one that said it -- that twenty years ago one Sunday morning a struggling young minister in a failing church with a tired old choir received a vision wherein the Main Man Himself appeared unto him saying: Thou shall be The Shaper of the Final Chords...
Curry cues sound of rain...
Well every baby got a daddy. And every pimp got a caddy. Well may the least of these pass me the keys cuz that daddy in the caddy would be none other than the Right Reverend Super Visionary Ministerial Mix-Master of the Everlasting One: a most proud and humble father of the Jesus-esque Son!
Curry cues an explosion…
In an effort to shield his anointed offspring from the rigors of the road and thus the World, The Earthbound Father opted for the warm, snugly, borderline abusive comforts of the recording studio to carry out God’s commandment.
Curry cues the sound
of 7 gospel vocalists
all singing different songs
simultaneously
He embraced the timelessness of the perfect take, the dying moment captured, trapped, locked down, frozen in mid-air, caged. All this The Earthbound Father did while developing ground-breaking, visionary approaches to production... like his never photographed, never seen, echo portal...
LOOKING FORWARD TO SEEING YOU YOU YOU YOU…
AT FORT GREENE PARK PARK PARK PARK PARK…
THIS SATURDAY AFTERNOON NOON NOON NOON NOON…
OCTOBER 9 GIG BLURB
“I am broke, sensitive and terribly complex” whisper-screamed Zeek the Handsome: fried hair, be-zoot-ed, macho-frail, blistering Billy Eckstein-icity glistening and fizzling, as the ever deepening pool of blood he lay in on the Kansas City jail-cell floor sang a ever-widening burgundy bass note which savored then swallowed him. Almost.
“My sisters will come and kill you motherfuckers, ALL.”
He’d been smoking since he was ten. He was from the street of no sidewalks. He was from the hollow where white encyclopedia salesmen would get beat up then invited for dinner.
He broke into a Kansas City library one night at age 12 to read by candle til morning then slept among the history section’s aisles. He wanted to be discovered by the librarians in the morning.
Upon discovering him, the white librarians, who were liberal for their time, who read Shelley and who wore sweaters in summer (when they weren’t conjuring book dust for future estate sales), inhaled his intelligence deeply and got high off it and danced down history’s aisles and when their dancing was done they made a room for Zeek in the basement and told him he could sack out with the books as long as they could inhale his mind in the morning.
Jail Master Harry patiently explained to Zeek the Handsome that a black one could not - not even a handsome black one - shoot a living being (even if he was a negro) from across the street square in the left ass cheek while having lain in wait for 5 hours in the bushes just because said ass-cheek made an ill remark about one’s hat.
“Besides Zeek, what’s a well-read negro like you doin’ fuckin’ with a weapon?”, pleaded Jail Master Harry, a void of beige-pink misunderstanding swelling slowly about him like an octet of aggressively blown plastic trombones. “One minute yer leadin’ discussions at the Strangely Integrated Book Club - well, we both know it ain’t really integrated - they just let you in because you smell so damn good - then next minute yer performin’ ghetto as all get out, shootin’ and carryin’ on like one of yer own who ain’t read Henry James nor Balzac.”
Zeek giggled at the sound of “Balzac” and Harry giggled at it too but even louder and then they both yelled with childish, possessed laughter. When they were done genuinely laughing they fake-laughed for a minute which eventually switched to a real moaning laughter, a series of long, pained soul wails, wherein each tried to drawn the other out with their depthless hegelian sonics. But they were evenly matched. Both collapsed and Harry lit Zeek’s cigarette.
The doctor entered the cell like a man who didn’t care whether a black man bled to death or not. Zeek began screaming like the known universe. It sounded like the pain of all things forcibly united. Zeek went unconscious. “He overacts when he reads, he overacts when he bleeds” said the doctor. “He will, sadly, live. He has to. My wife would quit the book club if he croaked.”
At 15, after being missing for 3 years, Zeek the Handsome returned to Rattlebone Hollow. His mother made him bathe in milk for 3 days. “I was wondering how long it would take you to get tired of being inhaled” said she.
The Negro Problem will be at Fort Greene Park Saturday October 9th 5pm
“I am broke, sensitive and terribly complex” whisper-screamed Zeek the Handsome: fried hair, be-zoot-ed, macho-frail, blistering Billy Eckstein-icity glistening and fizzling, as the ever deepening pool of blood he lay in on the Kansas City jail-cell floor sang a ever-widening burgundy bass note which savored then swallowed him. Almost.
“My sisters will come and kill you motherfuckers, ALL.”
He’d been smoking since he was ten. He was from the street of no sidewalks. He was from the hollow where white encyclopedia salesmen would get beat up then invited for dinner.
He broke into a Kansas City library one night at age 12 to read by candle til morning then slept among the history section’s aisles. He wanted to be discovered by the librarians in the morning.
Upon discovering him, the white librarians, who were liberal for their time, who read Shelley and who wore sweaters in summer (when they weren’t conjuring book dust for future estate sales), inhaled his intelligence deeply and got high off it and danced down history’s aisles and when their dancing was done they made a room for Zeek in the basement and told him he could sack out with the books as long as they could inhale his mind in the morning.
Jail Master Harry patiently explained to Zeek the Handsome that a black one could not - not even a handsome black one - shoot a living being (even if he was a negro) from across the street square in the left ass cheek while having lain in wait for 5 hours in the bushes just because said ass-cheek made an ill remark about one’s hat.
“Besides Zeek, what’s a well-read negro like you doin’ fuckin’ with a weapon?”, pleaded Jail Master Harry, a void of beige-pink misunderstanding swelling slowly about him like an octet of aggressively blown plastic trombones. “One minute yer leadin’ discussions at the Strangely Integrated Book Club - well, we both know it ain’t really integrated - they just let you in because you smell so damn good - then next minute yer performin’ ghetto as all get out, shootin’ and carryin’ on like one of yer own who ain’t read Henry James nor Balzac.”
Zeek giggled at the sound of “Balzac” and Harry giggled at it too but even louder and then they both yelled with childish, possessed laughter. When they were done genuinely laughing they fake-laughed for a minute which eventually switched to a real moaning laughter, a series of long, pained soul wails, wherein each tried to drawn the other out with their depthless hegelian sonics. But they were evenly matched. Both collapsed and Harry lit Zeek’s cigarette.
The doctor entered the cell like a man who didn’t care whether a black man bled to death or not. Zeek began screaming like the known universe. It sounded like the pain of all things forcibly united. Zeek went unconscious. “He overacts when he reads, he overacts when he bleeds” said the doctor. “He will, sadly, live. He has to. My wife would quit the book club if he croaked.”
At 15, after being missing for 3 years, Zeek the Handsome returned to Rattlebone Hollow. His mother made him bathe in milk for 3 days. “I was wondering how long it would take you to get tired of being inhaled” said she.
The Negro Problem will be at Fort Greene Park Saturday October 9th 5pm
looked for us yesterday here we are today
welcome dear one back to the new abandoned shack yer fm station on the information highway tis my hope that you check in both now friend and again to submit to a bit of friendly verbal horseplay now it won’t be like that twitter where you get to run your spitter screaming how I’ve got it all painfully wrong nah this here cornerz for me so do slip on in to see and on occasion you might even find a song.
#1
welcome dear one back to the new abandoned shack yer fm station on the information highway tis my hope that you check in both now friend and again to submit to a bit of friendly verbal horseplay now it won’t be like that twitter where you get to run your spitter screaming how I’ve got it all painfully wrong nah this here cornerz for me so do slip on in to see and on occasion you might even find a song.