|M. Doughty (1970 - )|
Onward to Victory, mule, with a subatomic glimmer of rage humming a hot inch below the cheekbones moving down Water Street like an ox hound in fleshy lumber, muscles and lumps pouched up and numb like insect bites Inside the contours of veins blown up by mosquitos into tidek balloons, a single radiowave transmits itself into loose bits of metal scattered around; Keys. Beltbuckles. Scissors. Headphones. Streetlights sizzle like bees being taken to slaughter. On Water Street, two legs are the chick of drills spearing into the blacktop in the light further down what you can only hope will be some Imperial China is actually the orange noise at the ends of cigarettes glowing at your approach T H E I N C R E D I B L E M A G N E T I C M A N
Looking for a guy who’s done it? M. Doughty’s the dude. Once, a million years ago (like, in 1994) he was like, ticket-taker at a jazz club, moonlighting as a poet who dared to work with bongo accompaniment, OK?. Now, he leads the hit band Soul Coughing, touring the world and laying out the map for poetry’s Crossover Revitalization Program.
Uh, Zoom Links
Tonight the train is a curveball sloping towards portions of Darkest Brooklyn; some house unlit, like a blank face, where I assume you sit unsatisfied in a cubical room. I'LL BE YOUR BABY DOLL, I'LL BE YOUR SEVEN DAY FOOL
It's sad that such a talented writer gifted with the lost be-bop prosidy of Kerouac's haiku has been shackled into being recognized only for his music. Much of this prosidy can be found skedaddling along in the rhythms of his band Soul Coughing, but so much more honest intensity is evident in his writing as it stands alone. Even in the bedroom betwixt the satin sheets of Soul Coughing's primary site you can find only cheap financial ploys to buy yet another T-shirt. This isn't the man. This is his necessity to stay alive in the real world where money is required to survive. The real man promotes his self-published book of poetry, SLANKY, which apparently has nothing to do with Warner Brothers (shock!). As soon as the world comes around to recognizing literature as being an art as serious and progressive as film and fashion, we'll be reading M. Doughty to our school children. Until then, enjoy the Soul Coughing links.
Soul Coughing Addictions
In a dim bar, the treble rose in sharpness around her. The frequecies went straight to the teeth. She was meringue In a green suit, her silver shoes radiating and a shimmy that sent her hips in a liquid piston motion to the floor like cream shifting in a glass. One glance; the eye on the eye sizzled like crayons on super 8 film, and she bared angry monkey teeth at me - each tooth its own moon in a pollution town, tobaccostained pickups on a junkstore guitar. SHE GOT THE GOOD SHOES, SHE GOT THE BAD TEETH