Agraphia

The loss of a pre-existing ability to express one's self through the act of writing.

"For what it's worth: it's never too late or, in my case, too early to be whoever you want to be. There's no time limit, stop whenever you want. You can change or stay the same, there are no rules to this thing. We can make the best or the worst of it. I hope you make the best of it. And I hope you see things that startle you. I hope you feel things you never felt before. I hope you meet people with a different point of view. I hope you live a life you're proud of. If you find that you're not, I hope you have the strength to start all over again." - Benjamin Button

None More Negative

One year later and I still cant believe it. This past year has crawled by like a bad dream. I hope you understood the impact that you had on the lives of some of your fans because your death has left us crushed. Now with no new Type O Negative on my horizon I sit here sad and angry. Sad and angry that you're gone while I'm still here. Sad and angry over how unfair it is that you helped save me but there was nothing that I could do to help save you. After all, I was just a fan. A fan that never had the privilege of knowing you personally but cared for and respected you as if I had. Like many others, I looked upon you not just as one of the greatest singer/songwriters of all time but also as a hero. And like many others, I don't want the ride to be over. In this stage of my denial I lose myself in the band that sustains me in my darkest hours. The band that played a major role in my decision not to self destruct out of existence. Thank you Peter, Josh, Kenny, Johnny, and Sal for helping to save my life with all those years of musical perfection. As all of us Type O fans know, music will never sound that good again. 

Pour my heart and soul into thin air
and watch as they're absorbed
by evaporating shadows
that haunt me when they're gone
from this room
like an unanswered prayer
that regrets being spoken

I have no idea what Jesus would do
but if it were up to me
I'd beat his little parable spinning ass
and drop him off at the door step
of one of the dozen churches nearby
where he'd lay beaten and penniless
the way most martyrs end up
maybe he'd be drug off by the cops for trespassing
or some shit
hopefully before morning service
because otherwise he'll freak out the flock
and they don't want to be freaked out
they want to come and worship like normal people
unlike me and the rest of the unsavable
who will charge God's throne
and remodel it with a sledgehammer
before you can say amen

rebel angel transmission

     "I don't love you!" Christ said, staring at me through the holes in his hands.  His crown of thorns worn proudly and wrapped tightly around his head.  It appeared to be on upside down or sdrawkcab or maybe both.  It doesn't really matter.  I was so spellbound by the blood dripping from his forehead and hands that I almost forgot where I was.  I quickly pulled myself together, licked my lips and watched it fall counterclockwise into about a million different shot glasses. "Drink", his eyes locked on mine, "all of it".  Without flinching I down an odd number of shots, choosing each one at random.  The glasses, crawled, hovered and refilled themselves with my memories, or so it seemed.  I wasn't sure if I was hallucinating from the blood or if it was only Christ messing with my mind, but it was the type of rapture that most of us only pray for over long periods of time.  So anyway, since he sensed that this was going to be a special occasion, he made a toast to the Holy Ghost and gave to me the greatest gift that I have ever received. An authentic drop of fire from Hell, complete with fangs and horns, which I immediately used to burn down Heaven.  Lord knows I was mesmerized.  I must have been speaking in tongues because subtly it began to rain a lifetime supply of angel tears. So there we were soaking wet listening to them play these goddamn hymns in reverse on harps with broken strings.  Some type of warped, hypnotic little jingle jangle that echoed through my subconscious like a wallet sized photo of the crucifixion.  I think angels are a lot like mosquitoes.  We forever silence their beauty by impaling them on our thoughts of graven images.  You should have seen the looks on their faces.  Forgive us if you want but we couldn't help but laugh 9 years down the drain.  Funny thing is, soon afterward Christ slowly leaned over to me coughing and confessed, "Between you and me, n-n-nothing feels like a resurrection. Nothing.  Not the second coming.  Not even the third or the fourth.  My crucifixion had its moments also, but uh, I guess you had to be there."  "That may be true messiah," I paused, shapeless and d-d-digging up reusable veins, "just remember that my allegiance is forever with the god below.  I sold my soul the moment we were introduced and never looked back.  Besides your followers ruined you.  Now maybe it's time we ruin them.  Maybe God is just a bad dream and now that we're both awake we should celebrate."  So we celebrated.  Celebrated like we never have before, with a fury and with vengeance in our eyes.  I hum the magic words and all the serpents began, begun, begin to rise.  "I have a few tricks of my own, Mr. Walk On Water."  "It takes one to know one," sayeth the Lord.  "What is that supposed to mean?"  I hear the words even though I don't actually say them.  "I was hoping that you could tell me," we say in unison.  My little episode is interrupted and we're told that the celebration will continue as soon as we're ready.  Maybe I should say a prayer.  "Maybe you should," his eyes locked on mine.  "From here on we only speak in parables."  Like two thieves in the night we laughed, we high fived, we turned sheep into swine.  We even gathered, I say gathered, bible after bible and happily tore every single copy into shreddie shred shreds.  We filled our stomachs with angel wings and the barbecued, honey glazed lambs of God, and then buried him, her, it whatever, with this note:
     Dear God,
          We don't want you anymore. Leave us alone. We rebuke you in the name of Jesus.
          P.S. If you come back or if we ever see you or hear from you, you're dead!
          End of story.

sob story

abandoned
bummed out
cheerless
comfortless
companionless
dejected
dismal
down
fed up
gloomy
gone
goner
going in circles
hopeless
hurting
inconsolable
incurable
in pain
in the dumps
in the pits
in the toilet
joyless
lonely
lonesome
lost
miserable
moody
poor
somber
tragic
unhappy
worsening

the first poem

i had an emptiness
you killed it
i had a void
you filled it
i had a pain
you eased it
i had a soul
you seized it
i had a dream
i gained it
i had a world
you reigned it
i had a wish
it came true
i had a need
it was you

Type O Forever

Peter,

It has taken some time for the shock to wear off enough to be able to write this letter without crying. Your death has knocked the wind out of me. You were much more than just some guy in a band that I thought was cool. You were one of my heroes. The reality check that my heroes aren't invincible, like I always thought they were, has made it difficult to breath.

Mr. Steele, due to what you did with Type O Negative I chose not to kill myself. Your words and music helped pull me through endless, exhausting years of depression, self-loathing, loneliness and addiction. For me, Type O Negative was by far the most original, creative band that I have ever heard. My obsession since Slow, Deep and Hard has kept me going when all I've wanted to is die. This band changed my life. Having your collection of music at my fingertips all these years has made this dreary existence worth enduring. It's been great just being a fan.

Fortunately, I was able to meet you a few times and every time I thanked you. I don't know if you took it to heart. I hope you did. I planned on thanking you again. I just never imagined that I would be saying goodbye too. Peter, thank you so much for giving me something to live for and look forward to. You were the green light at the end of my dark tunnel. You will never be forgotten.

I will now happily drown my sorrows in Type O Negative. Type O Forever

All my Love and Respect,
David M. Corry


"I can't believe things turned out this way
And though I hate to see you go
I know it must be so...
The dream is dead"
- Excerpt from
The Dream is Dead
Type O Negative

The Moon

"The moon will never lie to anyone. Be like the moon. No one hates the moon or wants to kill it. The moon does not take antidepressants and never gets sent to prison. The moon never shot a guy in the face and ran away. The moon has been around a long time and has never tried to rip anyone off. The moon does not care who you want to touch or what color you are. The moon treats everyone the same. The moon never tries to get in on the guest list or use your name to impress others. Be like the moon. When others insult or belittle in an attempt to elevate themselves, the moon sits passively and watches, never lowering itself to anything that weak. The moon is beautiful and bright. It needs no makeup to look beautiful. The moon never shoves clouds out of its way so it can be seen. The moon needs not fame or money to be powerful. The moon never asks you to go to war to defend it. Be like the moon."
— Henry Rollins (Solipsist)