Black Rebel Motorcycle Club ASK iAN * BACK WHEN I WAS SUGAR SHIT SHARP

Ask iAN

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i was living in Kansas City and i hadn't the faintest about sweet fuck All...
my girlfriend left me because frankly...i sukked.
i was long of hair, had delapitated biker boot rankness, i didn't know a
drug from a
chick, a
book, or what it meant to hold yer grain alcohol or how to not talk smack to
a cop.  i was a fuckun' mess...but i was

i was starving my dick off in that slum and i had just lost my job working at a record store
in the Ghetto

i met my 1st mentor then.  He lived just down the hall...and the strangest music came from his gaff...i had to knock.
He was tall and lanky...handsome in the right light and his name was Davis.  He wore a Scratch Acid T Shirt, sang for a local band called
Piston Grind and played mostly at Universities where he would write in lipstick across his tits ART FAG just to rile all the so called ARTIST on campus...He had a wicked skin disease which at times went into such a free radical mode one might think he had was fucking jack awesome.

Davis could see that my dick was green and he took me under his diseased wing and let me into his trash world.
One bed in a flat on the second floor with a balcony.  Above the bed the number 133...he said that was when Christ died or some such shit...
He had a peace symbol tattooed on his arm...which was Christ hung upside down in the center of a crown of thorns...and he had lucky strike cigarettes, a fridge always stocked with cheap beer and a record player...and lots of records and books.

When Davis was at work i spent my time alone in my delapitated apartment...lying on the floor drooling...waiting to be fed some kinda knowledge...waiting to learn something...waiting for Davis to get home....


I began drinking heavily with Davis...he got mad at me once when i stepped on a cockroach...he told me that they were living in his flat long before he had got there and that was uncool to harm that insect...and i learned.  Respect the small things in this life...insects already have it bad enough just being born insects.  We drank the beers and smoked the fags and then he played me
and i fell off of my dingy chair...he loaned me books to read...and i devoured them while he was at work...Bukowski, the beats and all the rest...The Divine Comedy...and all the rest...and we smoked and drank and he played

The Birthday Party and it felt like getting hit in the heart by a trashcan thrown at me by Christ...he knifed out the Scratch Acid...he blasted Einsturzende Neubauten, he slapped me in the face like i was hit by a wet dick with the sounds of the first white zombie lp...he played the Velvets, he played Cash, he played Howlin' Wolf...i was having my head blown off with the power of one hundred shotguns and i was laughing from my guts all the way...and then he played me PUSSY GALORE and gave me some Acid....and the sugar spaz in me was born...i saw the dirty light and my nipples were firmly aroused....i was a shit ass sooth sayer...all those books, all that stripped down music...and those sweet little paper cubes with the majick chemicals soaked inside?


I was king of the fake hairlips
cousin to all apes, wolfs, half breeds and inbreds
i was a stunt abortion
Master for a month...jack of trash-fire for a life time...and things only went up hill from there....

Davis went out and skin popped some dope one night and said it gave him a mild pussy high...and then we pushed each other around until we were slapping skulls, yankin' teeth and pinchin' tits....we was out by the train tracks late at night...he picked up one of my beers, spit it in my face and slapped my skull once more before running off, and leaping onto the train and letting it take him into the night where ever it may...took him 3 days to get back from shitsville.

Our trash train just kept on ah rollin' Up hill....before long i found myself at industrial clubs...puking in the bog...eating mushrooms i bought off some flock of seagulls lookin' dude...and i blew chunks on the dance floor....i walked home through the black part of town...walking into jazz clubs sideways with one eye on the biggest broad and the other on the large black man that was getting ready to open my top hatch and shit down the insides of my face...the women were kind to me the poor boy...and got me out of there before i was wearing my skeleton on the outside and my flesh on the innards....

I found myself in a rat infested basement...laying it into some lady of the night...i showed her a thing or two about being bad in one moment i had my pecker stuck up over her ear like a cigarette or a number 2 pencil...we were rollin' around on some filthy pink silk and dry piss mattress...mice...busted water pipes...broken baby chairs....the odor of mold hung green as goblin sweat in the heavy puffed out air...she didn't even charge me afterwards...we just sat there...slamming hot drooling beer down onto my saggin' nuts...trying to understand this haunted house life of mine....and the trash train kept on a rollin'....

I wound up at butt rock cocaine parties where i always spilled the cola before it could even flash up my nostrils....a real bummer for the whitesnake boys....and they didn't like me asking for them to play pussy galore...they thought it was a sex game...a dirty childish sex game....when it was just the soundtrack to my life at the time.....

There was lots of broken windows...lots of pissin' in public...there was a serial killer on the loose in my area and sometimes i wondered if.....naw...fuck that noize....i wasn't into boys....i was into women...the kind of women that spat me out like cheap gum....gawd damned night snazzy sisters....and then Davis moved away...and left me a book called Love is a Dog from Hell....I cried cause i missed my maker the mad i gathered my trash....i took another hit of Acid...grabbed my scraps and my walkman with sugar shit sharp in it....and got on a Seattle....or god knows where...


i keep a dirty ear still to the wind....but i hear no trash clanking around out there....i hear no rare breed of gutter clang...i hear no busted glass guitar...i hear no hand drills fucking snare drums....i hear no sloth coming from rotten sweet rose dumb biblical mouths....all i hear is cute plastic kid rock....

i miss the trash
the lucky strikes without FSC
i miss the whiskey mouthed wet dream
the smell of motor oil in my wig
i miss seeing my own dick under drunk dew drop milky moon light....

i miss Davis.

I still gots pussy galore.
and i am still Sugar Shit Sharp Photobucket

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