An Afternoon at a Real College: Poems by Will Wood

by Will Wood

/
  • Streaming + Download

    Includes unlimited streaming via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality download in MP3, FLAC and more.

      $1,000 USD  or more

     

1.
01:03
2.
01:09
3.
00:36
4.
01:09
5.
01:05

about

Poetry is easier than music. Give me a thousand dollars.

credits

released February 17, 2016

Me.

tags

license

all rights reserved

about

Will Wood and the Tapeworms New Jersey

"...THE EPITOME OF A PERFORMANCE" -The Aquarian

"YOU NEED TO HEAR [Will Wood and the Tapeworms] RIGHT NOW... A TWISTED, HISTRIONIC TALENT" -NJ.COM

"[BEST MALE ARTIST 2016] EXHAUSTINGLY ENTERTAINING... NEW JERSEY'S NEXT BIG THING... INSANELY MASTERFUL"
-mycentraljersey

"A JOURNEY INTO GLITTERING HYSTERIA"
-AXS ENTERTAINMENT

"FASCINATING...
REALLY SPECIAL"
- DYING SCENE
... more

shows

contact / help

Contact Will Wood and the Tapeworms

Streaming and
Download help

Shipping and returns

Redeem code

Track Name: Stupid
What is with all this arbitrary nonsense?
Information bundled together in clusters that insist upon their relevance and significance but all I can see is a tangle of gibberish knotted between here and kingdom come. Everything goes over my head, somehow, despite it being in the clouds.
But bullshit stinks to high heaven and it must be that I'm the only one smelling it.
Dry heaving between chuckles and slam poetry, eyes watering and bleedin as they laugh at the light that fucks their dilated pupils.
A little con-non-con as the sick happy puppies at the recent BDSM munch would call it. Not that I'd ever utter the safeword here because I am just too God Damn amused by the utter ineffability of this thing people keep telling me is reality.
Molecules scream across cathedral alleyways and atoms split in time and space with nothing but self-deluded and superego-induced self-involved human narcissism to offer up an explanation in a primitive meaningless language.
So I burn my dictionary and cut my throat over the Britannica to make my point, only to bleed to death and cook myself before realizing I've merely contributed to the arbitrary nonsense splattering itself across the pages of this retard life.
Holy fuck, why? Why not? Why why not and why not why not?
The spiral laughs in my face.
Stupid.
Track Name: Art
At the end of the fucking universe, which may be a time or a place or both or neither.
God steps away and squints. He cocks his head, rests his chin in his thumb and forefinger and opens his mouth as if to speak. But then purses his lips and chews on the inside of his cheek, his eyebrows furrowed.
He looks his work up and down, forward and backward, in and out, all at once and separately or both or neither- words stopped up in his almight throat...

All in one sliver of time, one sliver of space, is the perfect moment, the ultimate everything.
God pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs.
Which one of these points in time and space, out of all of them, is the one?
Which signifies it all, which is the crux, the center -- the one single "it" that wraps it up?
What will be the thumbnall by which his work is recognized?
What title would work best?
It may be a time or a place or both or neither.

God looks closer and sees you, right here and right now.
From the end of the fucking universe.
He crumples it up, throws it away, and starts over.
Track Name: Untitled
Spinning fractal tessellations
Tumble from your mouth
Splashing into technicolor galaxies on the floor,
Windows unfolding from origami tangles in your pupils
For me to look through one by one and examine our surroundings.

Where are we now?

The sky smells like blood and the ground whispers schizophasia
So I shut the porthole and shred the documents: dead men tell no tales.

I swallow my teeth.
And spinning fractal tessellations
Tumble from my mouth.
Our colors bleed

And we’re friends.
Track Name: Nervosa
Gray rattling noises cackling in the corner.
I dye my hair silver to match the interior.
Fresh, new, clean, cold refrigerated chrome upholstery
Cushioning my tar-fucked lungs and tickling heart palpitations.
My bones creak squeak and squeal grinding against and joint buckle under withering weight.
Gravity reverses so I can float fat and sink skinny in ice water and see beneath the iceberg that claims more than meets the eyes.

I don't get wet. And don't absorb the shallow stagnant fluid:
I have replaced my blood with formaldehyde and isopropyl alcohol to preserve the walls of the empty house I call a chest cavity:
Rib cage rattles gray in the corner and at the foot of your bed whispers:
"Feed me, love me, kiss me, fuck me, see me now" while you sleep and dream of starving coffee cigarette buffets.

Ephedrine pumps the valves for you.
No more effort needed to breathe.
There are machines that can do that for us now.
The future is deep, and free from ego.
We will all be one in the perfect
perfect
perfect singularity.

I have decided to quit eating.

And I've never looked better.
Track Name: Relax
Relax.

Melt your backbone down to lukewarm fluid, and take on the shape of your container.

Rigid lines bend now, triangles wilt to semicircles and softly sigh.

The day is over, and the deep night holds you with the loving arms of sleep wrapped around your infant form.

Comfortable, for once. You won't even need to smile to show yourself the proof of your contentedness.
You're finally the real you, no more need for airs, or pretense, or anything else.

It feels good, doesn't it?

That release of tension that ripples through your body and gives way to still water in your bloodstream.
You can give in to that now.

You're here and now here and now.
No information processing, no vibration behind the eyes.

That warm ache?
That silence in your body?
That cool river quietly carrying us into long-awaited peace?


...It must mean I'm dying.
I'm so scared.