The Rosary

She Was there. The pill freak Had vanished. The vacant look in her eyes Gone. Her soul Resuscitated. This new day Gave her hope, Her happiness Gave us all hope. Life, once again, Became a blessing. Repeated, Seemingly endless Suicidal thoughts Now cleansed, Replaced By a devotion, A care, A love For herself And all of those around her. Her new outlook on life Was branded on her skin, A rosary For eternal inspiration, A permanent mark of faith That will keep Her heart, Her fight Stronger than ever.

Central Coast Music Spotlight: Guardsmen Productions

You have to be a drunk to live in “the happiest place in America.” Because anywhere you go in SLO, there’s wine. Rivers of it. And with the almighty grape, comes terrible music. There is no escaping it. Even if you get blackout drunk, the music still makes your ears wish they had a rusty knife between them. That is until, you stumble upon one of the thousands of flyers around town with Guardsmen Productions stamped on it. They’re promoting a Punk show with Agent Orange or the Exploited. At last, your ears can rejoice. You put down the blade and say to your inebriated self, hallelujah! Thank god there’s actually an outlet for the battered, bored, and broken. But who’s responsible for all of this underground music in the middle of all this happiness?
Well, Lynt will tell you who. Since 2004, it’s been Chris Sandoval that has brought Punk acts here on up through to Santa Barbara. He’s not flying solo. He’s been assisted by Kristina Kelly from the beginning until just recently, who had to leave due to personal reasons. Now, Helen Lewis has come along to give a much needed helping hand. Together, they have poured their hearts into each and every show. It’s astonishing how much effort Chris, who also happens to be a 15 yr. veteran, and Helen, who’s studying to become a registered nurse, put in just to make a show go on. They dedicate months contacting the bands, booking them, the venue, marketing the show, passing out flyers, and making sure the band gets paid in full. If there’s no turn out because of you‘re too hungover, Chris has had to hit up his own bank account to give the bands the money they deserve. He’s committed toward guaranteeing more acts will come to the CC despite all of the obstacles.
It’s not right that he has to devote his own paychecks to the scene while you’re at home spilling wine on your cardigan. If it wasn’t for Guardsmen Productions, you would have had to drive hammered 4 hours to the nearest venue to see a decent show. Chris and Helen bring them here right to your backyard. You must be grateful for this act of generosity and chance to get this up close and intimate with your favorite Punk band. If any band, mainly Punk, Ska, or Metal, you’ve been worshiping since childhood has not been here before, email Chris and he will get them here. Guardsmen are more than open to suggestions. In fact, they encourage it. Lynt encourages you to get off your happy, bored ass and quit watching reruns of Oprah. Support Guardsmen Productions. Who knows wino, you may even be able to weasel a couple of glasses of vino out of it…

The Treat

Come here my children, gather around your dear ol’ granddad. I have a story to tell. Let me pack my pipe first. The smoke makes the story come alive. Don’t mind the red eyes children, just focus on the story. The horror.
Once, when I was as young as all of you, little fuckers, I would go on adventures. You know what that is? It’s not like any of your pathetic video games, where you can die a million times and still not have a scratch on you. No. I would go out there. In the world, where there are murderers, pedophiles, and rapists. Lunatics of the worst kind. I was right there. Playing.
I would travel all sorts of places. Places little children should never ever go. For hours, I would wander around cemeteries, abandon houses, and my favorite, train tracks.
Once, on the tracks, I came across a tunnel. It was dark in there. I felt as if there was no end to it, but I was brave. A fearless warrior. I was willing to travel where there is no end. Into the unknown. Fear grabbed my feet as soon as I stepped in. I moved slowly. Cautious with each step. Then, after the light became a speck, my eyes began to adjust and my fear began to dim. I kept walking. There was graffiti on the walls. Pictures of the devil stirring a cauldron of tiny dicks and watching all of those who dared entered. The smell of dead rats filled my nose. Broken bottles were everywhere. I was lucky not to cut my foot. So I thought I was lucky. I stomped on, until I heard grunts. They were loud and frightening. Unnatural. They shook the walls. They gave my soul goosebumps.
I stopped. Not knowing what to do. Should I turn back and run away? Or stay and be brave, like I said I was? Just then, the grunting stopped. I made my decision to be brave. I continued on. Off, deeper into the endless darkness, I began to hear footsteps. They drew closer. And closer. And closer.
I saw a black mass. A shadow growing. Hair sticking out of the darkness. A face. His face. The face of all that is evil moving into the dim light. Stalking me. Forever haunting my dreams. My first instinct was to run, through the walls if I had to. Fear held me there. I was his prisoner, paralyzed, and chained to the tracks.
All of my senses were heightened, especially my nose. His smell was inescapable. Piss and booze and dried sperm clung to his clothes, his skin. Our eyes met. He laughed. His teeth were hidden. His smile twisted and growing. He stuck out his tongue. I could tell he had a healthy diet of broken glass. His breath made me gag.
He grabbed me. His hands were scarred. Bloody. He laughed again. “Good morning lil’ boy,” he said, “I have a special treat for you.” He pointed with one of his hideous hands, deeper into the tunnel. “Go!” he yelled.
His laughter followed me. I could not outrun it, but I tried. Blind and filled with dread. My eyes were desperately grasping for the end. Then, my feet hit something heavy, something terrible. I tumbled, smacking hard against the tracks. Dust rose up around me. All crept into nothingness.
When I awoke, I could sense that I was not alone. A presence was there. I went closer to it, grabbing a stick to probe the dark. It hit rocks, empty bottles, dirt, flesh. I came in closer. A woman came into view. Her clothes were ripped. Her hair was covering her face. She was frozen. Lost in sleep. I poked her again, wanting to end her dreams. She didn’t wake up.
I kept poking. It was useless, so I moved her hair around to look for a face to see if she had one. Deeper and deeper I searched, listening for a heartbeat, a breath, anything. Silence.
I touched her hair with my hands. It was so soft. I had never felt anything so beautiful, so inviting. Was this my treat? I parted her hair. There was nothing there, but skin. Her face was missing. Sickness crept over me. Nothing felt right. The world was wrong.
I looked at her neck. It was twisted. Completely deformed. I jumped back, knowing where face, imaging what he was doing to her. With her body. Defiling all beauty.
My legs could not run fast enough. There was an end. I found it in more ways than one. Shit. Kids give your grandad a beer. This story is too much for me. My memories are terrifyingly real. I need another smoke too. Jeez. This is why I don’t mind if you kids stay in doors. Please stay stuck to your computers and wander mindlessly for hours in video games. I want you to view the world from a safe and distant place. I never want you kids to experience anything as horrifying as what I just shared with you.

I Would Eat Your Ashes

I love her.
All of her.

This is not
My first love,
Not the last,
But she is all that matters.

We share many memories
Together.
I cherish the embarrassing ones:
She once
Or twice
Farted
During the heat of passion.
I drooled on her
On multiple occasions,
But she always wiped it off and I
Always pretended not to hear.

We share many similarities
Together.
I embrace the tragic ones:
She was a foster kid,
Who’s parents choose drugs
Over their child.
I was fatherless,
Abused,
Scarred.

We both are cursed.

We share many differences
Together:
She likes terrible music,
Our sense of humor is way off,
The list could go on,
But our differences
Only complimented each other,
Perfectly.

We are meant to be
Together…
Forever?

Only time and decay will tell.

Time will also tell
Who dies
First
And if it’s her,
I will be there
When she’s cremated,
I will still be
By her side
When she’s reduced to ash.
I will even
Eat
Her ashes
To let her know
That I cannot
Go on without her.

Maybe then
She will believe
My love
For her.

Haunted Desires

Every night
is cast in a blood
mist.
Every night
I gaze out
and search
and search.

The church
across the street
invites my harvesting
eyes
in
and through the mist
I imagine something
there.

I sense its
presence.

A familiar voice
calling out from the haze,
inviting me with open arms
like an unfilled
grave.

I turn away
denying the very thought
of its existence.

This must be an illusion.

He should be dead.

A frightened soul
lost in another dimension,
trying to be heard,
felt.

Maybe that's me
reaching out to him,
an illusion
I want to believe
in.

Is he there?

Every night
I find myself
gazing
out into the bloody
mist
searching and searching
for him,
wondering
if his ghost will ever
come.

The Only Thing That Should Matter In Your Life

You seek approval
like a cactus searches for water.

Your roots
are sunk deep
in the shitty thoughts of people
who will criticize
your every decision,
degrade your dreams,
hate you
until you are dead.

Yet,
their opinion matters
to you.

You should be above this
negativity,
You should be beyond
free,
soaring,
a weightless spirit
seeking absolutely nothing,
experiencing all
your heart can offer.

Desperation

The toilet flushed,
She stepped out
And headed straight
Towards the kitchen.

Out of the corner
Of all our eyes,
We watched
As she pulled out a knife
And dug its sharpness
Deep
Into her skin.

My aunt
With a newborn baby,
Got to her first.
I jumped next,
Desperately trying to save
Her life.
We wrestled the knife
Away.

The baby yelling,
Exposed
To hell for the first time
In her cursed life.

The family stood in shock.

Blood dripped
On me
As I held her.
“I don’t
Want to
Live
Anymore…”
Was all she could say.

My eyes went blind,
My ears went deaf,
My body went numb,
Her blood still dripped.

She was gone,
Her mind
A cave of madness and misery.
Her suffering
Eternal.

There was no help.
Anywhere.

She needed more than pills
Or doctors,
She needed more,
But what?

And as she got sent
To the madhouse
Again,
A helpless wave of frustration
Possessed me.

What can
I do?
What can
We do?

We are all
Asking
For a miracle.

For the first time
In my life,
I prayed for it.

The Lost Gift

I kept thinking
I’m fucking
My dead baby’s
Soul.

I had its blood
On my fingers, dick
And mouth.

I have never been so turned on…

Scared shitless.
Also.

I felt so
Unprepared to be a father.
The time was not right.
I,
We
Didn’t feel right
Which is why
The baby had to be
Flushed away.

We could not bring a life
Into this pathetic
World,
But there will be more
opportunities.

There will be a chance
For me
To become a
Father.

I hope one day
I’m ready.
I hope one day
I can be mature enough
To handle
This wonderful
Gift.

The Will Of The Shitless Queens

Be weary
of a woman who never
shits.

The miracle of her freshness,
cleanliness
is an omen.

She is saving
every bit of excrement.
Years and years
piling up
in her soul.

The day she unleashes
you will say,
I love you
for the thousandth time,
only you'll truly mean it.

You will be
her slave.
You could kill for her,
bleed for her,
die for her.

She will smile,
rip out your heart
and shit on its remains.

The true smell of her love exposed,
suffocating you nostrils,
capturing
the last breath of life.

Her mission complete.

Lost Within the Kingdom of Fools

He knew he was wrong,
but he cut her
wide open.

He wanted to get
inside her,
smell her,
feel her,
see her true self,
bare and fully
exposed.

No longer
hidden
behind makeup,
perfume,
or clothes.

Her ugly secrets,
unearthed
from her soft flesh.

Just what he wanted.

Or was it?

With his sensitive soul,
weakened heart,
judging eyes,
and unfiltered mouth,
he was
unprepared.

He didn't want to cut
and gouge
so deep,
but curiosity drove him
inside her.

The point of absolutely
no
return.

Now...

He is forever
sown within her flesh,
forever reaching out
for a false freedom
he once held
so dearly.

All is lost
for the king of fools.

He has only
himself to blame.

Article On Appetite Local Hip Hop Producer

Let’s face it, the music industry today sucks piss. It’s nothing, but a decaying factory pumping out one polished turd after another. Our generation is partly to blame. We don’t want to pay for music anymore and we’ve grown accustomed to the awful sounds that flood the radio. We may even, at times, like the manure the record companies are pouring down our ears. However, those seeking authentic music shouldn’t completely lose faith. There is hope. Local talent, Appetite, is committed toward eradicating soulless pop music and producing authentic Hip Hop with a message. He is our savior.

Raised in the slums of Shoalin, Josh Mangiardi aka Appetite was encouraged by his mother to be creative. Growing up in a hippie household gave him an abundance of freedom, but not an abundance of money. He’s had to struggle and deal with frustrations on a day to day basis, which is why Punk music was so appealing to him as a youth. He related to The Misfits and Dead Kennedys’ Jello Biafra. The fuck you, I don’t give a fuck about what you think attitude is permanently cemented in his mind. He carries his rebellious mentality everywhere he goes. He brought it with him when his family moved to the west coast. Between the waves and the dunes and the angst, he discovered Hip Hop. Real Hip Hop. Cypress Hill to be exact and with a few hits from the bong, a soon to be psychedelic Hip Hop producer was spawned.

At the age of sixteen, his “step brother” Picasso, from Living Legends, showed him how to program a simple beat on a drum machine and after that he said, “the rest of my life was over.” He didn’t party. He didn’t have a normal social life. He was utterly committed to be the best. He locked himself in his room and taught himself everything there was to know about producing. Eleven years later, he is still after it. No queef sucking boss or unpaid bills or anything the “system” throws at him, can stop him from producing. He stated, “Nothing is more interesting to me than making music.” He can transcend above all the negativity, even above his own ego.

His hard work and devotion has paid off. His beats are an “elevation of the traditional style of Hip Hop.” The illest I’ve heard in too fucking long. Probably because he samples rare psychedelic prog rock records from the 70s. He chops them up, slows them down, and arranges them to perfection. What he creates is a dark and moody and strange and funky Hip Hop track that incorporates vocal samples and different time signatures. It’s fucking madness. They are obscure, intricate, complex underground gems that any artist like Elzhi or Immortal Technique would love to get their hands on. If only…

He has worked with various artists such as Army of Pharaohs, medafORACLE, and local act Public Defendaz. He refuses to work with the flavor of the month. He only wants to work with artists that have “their own message, style, and sound.” Straight raw, grimey, underground Hip Hop acts. He doesn’t care if you like his style or not. He maintains his punk attitude. He doesn’t make music for the ignorant masses. He makes music for himself. He will keep making it for true b-boys and b-girls until the mortician takes his final measurements. In the meantime, be sure to turn off your radios, scrape all of that nasty shit out of your ears, and regain your appetite for authentic music.

Listen to his mixtape “In My Mind’s Eye” @ http://hulkshare.com/qng2jdv5ptfj

Artists can contact Appetite @ g.vergoglini@gmail.com

He's the Last Person You Should Call

I sat there in the car
Looking at the dead
Sleeping beneath the earth,
Hidden away
From the burdens of life.

I wished I was at peace
With them, but
I could not get away,
I was right there
With the suffering,
With the lost,
And then,
He spoke, as usual, too much,
He told me about his friend, Antman,
About the days before his suicide.

Ant was down in his own hell,
Drowning himself in alcohol,
Trying to fend off the flames of madness,
But there was no escaping,
So he decided to face his worst fears,
Head on.

He grabbed a shovel
And stumbled to the graveyard
To dig up his son.

He had to hold him
In his arms
Once more.

He thought
It might ease
His own suffering.

He never got to find out,
The cops showed up
When his shovel hit the coffin
And took him away.

Upon release, he hit the bottle,
Hard,
But it was useless,
The flames soared.

He gave up.

He found a tree
Instead,
He also had a rope,
Which he made into a noose.
The gateway to his son
Was open…

He spoke, again,
Antman made one last call to me.
I don’t know why,
Maybe for help,
Maybe to say goodbye,
I will never know,
I let the phone grow silent.

It’s unbelievable
He can still live with himself.

He was never there
for him
or his friends,
or his family,
Especially for the person
We visited on that cold day
And when you need him most,
He will not be there
For you.