"It Just Is... - A Portrait Of John Balance" - approx. 11 x 17 pencil on paper

(this is just a crappy picture cuz I haven't scanned it yet)

King Of The Quicksand Hill

This was originally intended to be lyrics for a song. There is, in fact, musical accompaniment already written/demoed. Nonetheless, I think this stands pretty well as a poem as well.

Here ya go..."King Of The Quicksand Hill."

Further failure confirming

I'm destined to faulter.

Glory is always out of reach,

So why even bother?

Am I a glutton for punishment

Or just doomed to ignorance?

Sisyphus, you wrote the book.

Can the cycle

Ever be broken?

As the clock strikes "Too Late",

I'm floored with the realization

That I'll never be anybody's hero.

Is all my effort, all my sacrifice,

Striving to be

The king of a quicksand hill?

new work

untitled - approx. 9x12 pen & ink/watercolor on paper - Jan. 2011 - $75

to purchase, contact: captinertia@gmail.com

Halo Of Hangnails

After the dissolution of Revenant, a few of us were gonna start a new project called Baragon. Not entirely sure where this project currently stands...but nonetheless, here are the lyrics to our first demo - "Halo Of Hangnails."

Listen HERE.

A halo of hangnails

Hovers above his head.

He trims with intuition

Leaving common sense well-fed.

They pick and pull,

Leaving open wounds.

Into their open hands

The blood pools.

They lustfully reach for

Eminent infection.

Peel back the skin.

Bleed.

Terminally illogical.

Terminally irrational.

Crown them condemned.

Drag

He lit a cigarette he found on the table next to him and took a drag. He hadn't felt that suffocating smoke fill his lungs nor the quiet relief of exhaling it in nearly 10 years. Despite the absence, it came second nature. Not too harsh. It felt good. Muscle memory he supposed.

The grey cloud playfully shifted shapes and danced in front of him. It was as if he were watching a ballet set to the soothing ambiance of the city's sounds, conducted by his own fleeting breath.

This is what Webster's meant by "relaxation."

The smoke pirouetted right out the open window and into the night. Gone. He stared at the cigarette in his slightly swollen hand, caked in a thin layer of blood and broken skin, thumbing the back of the moist filter. It sparkled, leaving him entranced. A kaleidoscope of carcinogens.

Reflecting on the chemicals he had just inhaled, he was indifferent. Tar, Acetone, Benzene, Ammonia, Formaldehyde, Arsenic. Nothing could hurt him anymore. He hadn't a care in the world.

This is what self-help gurus meant by "letting go."

He placed the lit cigarette back on the side table. Sweeping away the remaining pieces of his broken cell phone, like pieces of so many broken hearts, he grabbed the bottle of cheap red wine. He liked red. It reminded him of blood.

This was his sacrament. These hotel rooms were his temple of worship.

Whether the bottle was half-empty or half-full, he didn't give a shit. It was irrelevant, cuz it still contained wine. He pressed the green bottle to his greying lips, titled his head back like a dump truck overcome with the holy spirit, and took a long swig. Re-examining the remaining blood of his saviour, he surmised the bottle was half-empty.

He let out a long sigh as he placed the bottle on the table. Using his thumb and middle finger he picked up the lit cigarette, spilling ashes on the floor and in his lap. He, again, politely removed another sensual drag from his beautiful ballerina and watched her dance out the open window.

This is what crotchety old men meant by "peace and quiet."