Jesus sat on my bed
nervous and twitching
he said
he'll pull you out
he'll pull you out

I shot an arrow into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in its flight.

I breathed a song into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For who has sight so keen and strong,
That it can follow the flight of song?

[...]
it's not the bottle
it's not a face
it's not the needle
or the vial
it's not the powder
or the evening
we’re strangers
and there are many
thinking back
to the time
when you were together
so honest
so perfect
and adored
no more
no more
hallelujah
until you are nothing
hallelujah
until she is everywhere
hallelujah
until together
you are somewhere
hallelujah

Labels: echo

When I have won, I am last.

Labels: one-liner

I’ll make the bed and cut my legs

there’s enough room
for this mess
we’re going through
enough separation
time and space
in dirty noise
between dry words
in yellowed pages
about clouds
and consciousness
to make our match
love our tests
to plan out and waste
not enough miles
to stop it
with all these knots
in our heads
making us run
and not come
instead
train my eye
to understand
the affectionate

if I can’t make it through the room
how can you?

Labels: artform

The Inescapable Us

the day i met you
decay will let you
learn to bend
we are better butterflies
all meek we get the end
it makes me sick
it makes me laugh when i shouldn't
kill what i came to keep alive
your turn to spill
your turn to spill
your turn to spill now
that's fate looking our way
your sparkling spot hasn't caught on
that's fate stealing away
your sparkling spot hasn't caught on
hasn't caught on

the day we met up
it's hard to get up
and live it down
we are smaller maybe
than what we can't get around
it makes me sick
it makes me laugh when i look at you
clap while it's kicking us around
and what it spills
and what it spills
and what it spills is
fate looking our way
your sparkling spot hasn't caught on
that's fate stealing away
your sparkling spot hasn't caught on
hasn't caught on
hasn't caught on
hasn't caught on

-Matthew Good

Labels: music

Il y a un bas usage de toutes choses comme de tous sentiments. Il y a cet usage qui transforme tout en sang épais, en sommeil noir: de quoi, peut-être, aller d'une heure à l'heure suivante. Vous prenez soin de n'appeler personne. Puisque personne ne pourrait rien. Puisque rien ne vous arrive. Il y a des saisons plus favorables que d'autres à cette fin des temps. Disons l'été, quand le ciel pèse de toute sa lumière sur votre pensée. Disons aussi l'automne. Disons toutes les saisons, puisque chacune peut vous mener ainsi dans son enfer. Depuis l'enfance vous avez beaucoup appris sur ce dommage éternel de chaque jour. Vous y avez trouvé votre formule du bonheur informulable. Elle tient en un mot, et ce mot se tient sur un souffle, au bord des lèvres: rien. Un rien vous enchante. Si un rien vous enchante, c'est aussi parce qu'un rien peut vous anéantir. La même lumière peut, selon les heures et la direction du songe, vous exalter ou vous ruiner.

Labels: jargon, passages, reading

I know nothing of art, success or society. I can hardly bring myself to get up in the morning and get dressed, let alone write theories and commentaries that could possibly shed light on anything remotely important. That said, I think art is a joke. The good kind. I think art is more important than the oscars, fashion, guns, politics and coffee.

I have a headache, I’m depressed, I need warmth. I want to curl up in bed and dream of suns.

Art, in all it's forms, starts me up. We all know how art can affect/infect people, but I can't say for sure what it represents. I think the story created by the reader, listener, spectator is separate from the artist’s story. Both are important, personal and reflective. That’s why it's so easy for fans to admire/worship musicians because they are responding to what feels like a voice that is personally speaking to them. There’s nothing wrong with that. In fact, how many times have you heard that a song saved somebody’s life?

Yet how much can the listener really know of what made that song possible? For all I know, that poem has nothing to do with what I think it is saying. Of course I think art can be the tool/statement that the creator wills it to be but once it is released into the wild, the chances of it returning intact are slim. Its likeness will change in every eye that falls upon it.

I see art on the train floor. At first glance it's just a scribble or stain but after staring at it a few minutes, the abstract morphs into whatever my mind can produce at that moment. A piece of art is like a big fat red dot on a map with an arrow next to it saying "You are here." Let that be translated through you, as you wish. Ingest it and spew it out like you want but don't blame the dot. Don’t blame the messenger for being too loud or too red, just move on to the next dot. So, to define art is ridiculous. Give awards to humanitarians, not artists. The way some societies are so sick with power to instill a sense of rivalry in everything is beyond me.

So there's this woman sitting at a bar and a man walks up to her and says "Be very careful leaving tonight. I just had a vision that you had an accident because of alcohol." and leaves. The woman, finishing her first margarita, rolls her eyes, pays the bartender and exits the bar. As she is crossing the street, she pulls out her car keys out of her purse and gets hit by a truck transporting a load of beer.

Labels: artwork, cult, kids in the hall, notice the sign, opinion, theory, there is no ship like championship, titles

Picture books always spark my imagination. The world wide web is nothing less than Pandora's Box.

My Tumblr account holds imagery that has fascinated me and inspired me to write. Click here to visit my page.

Labels: graphic journal, photography

Note: The label function was introduced only a few months ago. Half, if not more of the posts are still an obscure mess.

This is good.



from www.matthewgood.org


GO. NOW.

Labels: born losers, matthew good, music

Enjoy this Kids In The Hall sketch, in which Scott Thompson plays Manny Coon, speaker to the graduating class of the Ontario College Of Art. Find the complete monologue below.

Labels: cri de coeur, manny coon, monologue, Scott Thompson, video

So the operation went well. I think I’ll survive.

Still, the lovers strike. JJ, get me my shovel. The boys are broken after all.

After days of no sleep, no food (but much inspiration and zealousness), no fresh air, too many myspace annoyances have pushed me to that place in my mind where I hide dedication. I finally sat down and went through a list of people that are mostly strangers, to realize that the faces that were familiar were gone. It seems that a lot of people decided to delete their profile while I was away hunting mammoths. I don’t care for hollywood or script bots. I don’t care for your star-system biz. I’m more interested in the one who can play the oud.

One of the reasons I flipped my profile to private was because I was getting ridiculous amounts of service spam. Now that I’ve gone private, it’s much easier for me to deny a request from Sherry-No-Cherry without viewing the profile and feeling bad about it. I don’t need any more friends, I can barely stand the ones I’m with. (I think the next person who asks me to go see the “pumpkins” should be dragged into the street and maimed.) Being that myspace is like a tree of undefined parasites, I decided to prune. Fred did it and he seems much more at ease now online. We don’t have to deal with those people anymore. They are gone. All they ever wanted from us was the ease of our springboard. (Et que personne le sache qu’ils sont tous des mal baisés! Ton mari est un connard et ta femme fait le con.) It’s incredible how the internet has morphed the sophomore into magnificently tagged and erect penises.

Who needs the back of a bus when you can get behind a clever moniker and obtuse signature references? It doesn’t change anyone. A fish is a fish no matter the attack.

Anyway, David and I almost came to the conclusion last night that the comatose urbanites are people too and that they need our support as much as the next goose. Blasé you say? Try getting a depressed heartbroken guitarist to get excited about music again. (On s’en fou de la pouffiasse! Ouais, elle n’est peut-être pas si pire mais regarde, tu as en ta possession un engin magnetic. La guitare merde. Ça c’est du coq.) Being calm is one thing, but trying to remain unmoved when the train is passing by less than a foot away from the tip of your nose could cause serious injury. You may not feel the pang immediately, you usually don’t, but the day you’re drinking your potage through a tube you might think back and see that moment as the day the cow jumped over the moon.

Stand your ground son. That ain’t no mound of skulls you’ve stepped upon.

Labels: artform, folk, jargon, there is no ship like championship

(Français)

About the author: Writer living in Montreal with a few published things.

She is a Film School drop-out and a mediocre hat collector. She has not been known for penning pages of comebacks for friends & strangers in need.

For a list of published works, visit the "official" website: The ShowerLight Project

About the About Me section... It's a super kind of profile that you can only get if you're on time. Ask me anything here.

Updated at random.

Labels: moi, Primessa, titles

To the person who sent me a friend request and then deleted the profile:

I think you should try again, honestly.

Labels: myspace

5d.mp3

Labels: phone

lift me up when
the sun is shot

all of a sudden
your hair is long
your voice is loud
in no time
your shoes are too white

smile back at me
show me your teeth

i'm bent to the screen
of so little room

all of a sudden
seems youre gone
before the light is green
in no time
your shoes are still white

death-inked locks on
coffin-silk cheeks
don't start that song
if you can't bring me home

Labels: artform

Labels: artform, book, craft, experiment