Jeff Crouch & Ross Priddle

Christ In Color Ks

"And came and descended and saw that it was less than he thought."

There is a dull tick, still.

Tick

Tick

Blue Rates...

HAPPY NEW YEAR, ALL! XO

The Ferroggiaro - du Bois Gallery

What you thought you knew, but did not...

Sunday, November 16, 2008

The Ferroggiaro - du Bois Gallery

The Ferroggiaro - du Bois Gallery



World renowned photographer (photo artist), author and poet, Cherilyn Ferroggiaro creates some of the most extraordinary B&W and Color photography in the world. Her keen eye and creative mind has a profound ability to awe and dazzle admirers of her images. Her devoted and loyal global fans anxiously await her new image releases and others publish her work in major print media.

For the first time ever, Cherilyn Ferroggiaro is releasing her images for product distribution and has chosen Zazzle to make this release. Each of Cher's images is art. Some of her images appear to be paintings and you feel as if you can reach into the image and become part of it.

Recently married, Cherilyn has been inspired by the love she has for her husband and her emotions are expressed in her latest images and writing.

Enjoy her latest releases and past work as well, you will not be disappointed. It is poetry in pictures!

Emerging Magazine


ferroggiarodubois's Gallery at Zazzle

Samples of portraits for appointments - photojournalism also available :

3

-1-
overstepped actor, comic.
lightheaded star,

leave but never go

mind carpet
messy garden
stale blow.

murder. wax.
her sponge bottom.
catastrophic cushions.
cramps.
lip radish.
still point.

the occasional, dotted, I
(sometimes frayed
sometimes gold)

-2-

tongue of sometimes, pump fuck, felt snow
broke.
vague tooth
sometimes without

sounds tired.

cig hit
head-knee nod
dawn mud
cuticles bleeding bigger lampshades
slow web, eyelid shuttle
rope-like toe
snarky
fence crayon
mob miss
salt mirror - you're beds of this

3

u fell on me like a rock

honeywell fan blowing / i am feeling heavy. my veins are the color of smoke. sick robot girl, push your own lighted buttons...
ugly crush, grey knowing. the window open: my heart's not right: spumoni
there are no handbells no incense, only loose hair and money to make.
A copy of my soul on the floor. smiling up.

Hornby Desolate Cliffs in Sunny August

by Bruce Eisner

High cliff above ocean
Province of north country island
Clear day woods filled with life
Me at age fifty
22 years before I sat on bridge in Basel
Speaking intellectual about
Chemical discoveries, history, chemical purity
Purify your mind
Refine matter ever more precisely
Ascending frequencies of light
Each notch with its own recapitulated terrain
Waves of light
Yet few waves in the ocean in this ocean now
Gradients of blue
Go meditate she said
I needed water
Time stretches
Go away I want to be alone
Gazing in her eyes I had felt love in compassion
Suddenly replaced by cold indifference
I wandered away
Some cliffs were high above the water
Others so low you almost could walk to the ocean below
Along the path small kahki packs, shoes, a blue hard plastic water container
Market the spot that my two friends had retreated
Into the woods
Naked
Intense experience
I was abandoned once again alone
Hot and dry
Wandering in the desert
Searching
The day has duration
Time creeps slowly toward the days ending
Just as everyone has before it
Tabla ever more rapidly
Beats
I finally find Rita
She walks past me
Later on a memorial bench
Pointed at the ocean
She talks to me like Hermine in Steppenwolf
Archetypal thoughts penetrate deeply
If I were to speak my love
It would echo into an empty chasm
There is no love here yet I am hungry
A master at many things
I am an innocent in the ways of love and life
Walls everywhere
Disappointment
Amidst the ecstasy of my friends
I find my waves have crashed on desolate rocks
We return to the small cabin
Rita falls asleep
I talk until exhausted
Sleep alone and chaotically dream

August 29, 1998
Salt Spring Island, B.C. Canada

My sites
Bruce Eisner's Vision Thing
Bruce on Squidoo
Mind Media Self Improvement

Four For Horus

1. I've finished weeping the sun and climbing the stairs to a finger immersed in the blue of the city. I can feel my skin stretching over yours again. Music, pure ambrosia to those currents of mine which knowingly, willingly, choose to smother what is golden in the distance between trees. I've a sudden need to flap my leather wings with all the clarity of war on meat-hooked lips, psychological, astrological. And very much a windmill. It begins in the mirror, in the molten wonder of hedonists refused entry to a timeless world.

Cherubim with red hands...

2. They drool a strange kind of thunder, hiss pharoahs in order to persist in their young, particularly fragrant, delirium. Bones of truth without being a single syllable at sunset, memories like purrung from someone's frantic antennae. "Reality is invented by the incestuous," (a favorite maxim of mine) scrawled on the foreheads of habit, riding the bus alongside the many corridors of summer, what survived to contemplate murmuring geometries, the sneer of jazz. I've tapped out thick, foolish beginnings to chaos for gasoline, sold the laughter depicted by thieves beneath angry bridges. But everybody still comes to me for their 3 o'clocks, what I'll do to leave traces of genitalia on pillows wet like trembling strangers I met in slow motion.

Everywhere is hanging in a cave.

3. You are very Christ-like when my veins are thin, quiet, a neutrality nobody cares to notice. Or it doesn't matter to them in the least when my shadow casts off its democratic veneer. I was structured as a series of prefaces to dusty, secret backrooms, waves of light drunk with the power of perfectly-tailored suits and oil-slick ennui. The sorcery, nervous, discordant, wants to analyze the way you slip in and out of my television, leaving me to stare at worn, decrepit pictures of Frida Kahlo and wish I wasn't such a radio for erasures on the cusp of turning into sandy, warm, thighs.

4. I'm determined to be a mysterious rhythm in curves of breath stuck to the cold, hard, facts, little daydreams glimpsed quickly through a freshly-polished bakery window, where the tables are deeply in lust with pools of spilt coffee that drip lasciviously over their edges. Saxophones could grow in that loneliness. It's almost impossible to drive through the screams that persist in my motionless, black hair, Tokyos of young women sent by a notion to paint my empty bottles of rum. They left their individual testimonials scattered on throats bleeding the sorrow of every minute detail, despite the eyelids of earth and air.

POLITIKZ MADE EAZY

A Curious quotient

Tasty legs and dark hope

Is it wrong to take it?

Experimental evil is too confusing

Fuck. Him.

Does he have a vision?

Of course he has a vision!

Everything is a vision.

His eyes are clouds

His lips are cameras

His throat is tempting

That jugular makes me angry

What a vision that would make!

To see it ripped apart,

To see it flaccid and empty!

To see a pool of his longing

He wouldn’t dismiss me again.

Ever

lost in the box of my bottle

i feel safe.

un tired

i love you, your pace is
right

you ate the ghetto goulash

i ate your joy.

sucked my heart, kicked my ass

came like a cow, smoked the pack.

end of story.

寮國行腳 5/24 ～ 5/30

福至心靈地想去寮國（Lao）遛遛。順利搭上24號「寮國航空」（Lao Airlines）一早從曼谷啟程的螺蜁漿班機，費時一小時又25分，抵達首都永珍市。住進的旅館Parasol Blanc 和網路上的照片有出入，稍嫌簡陋，而且雨季泳池暫停使用，還好旅館綠化的很徹底，放眼望去到處綠油油一片，覺得蠻舒服，location不差，而且我也只訂兩晚，也就不計較那麼多了。

位於「Patuxay 公園」內的紀念塔就在旅館旁邊，是永珍市最著名的地標，走過去散散心。這座古樸的建築造型優美、雕工很細，可以爬上頂端，各樓層都有紀念商品販賣。

這兒的人做生意絲毫不積極，你可以靜靜地瀏覽商品，商家既不吆喝、也不慫恿；其他許多落後國家，一到了觀光客聚集的地方，小販立刻蜂擁而上，最惱人的是像蒼蠅一般黏著要錢的小孩子；這種情況在寮國幾乎見不到，更多小販只靜靜地待在一角，願者上鉤，不時興瞎嚷嚷這一套；給人感覺很自在，我最怕買東西有店員在一旁喋喋不休，在永珍還真沒有這個困擾。不知道是民族性使然或和寮國是共產國家有關？箇中原因我不清楚。

寮國人相當友善、害羞，不太多話，像貓咪。泰語也說的通，電視播放的也多是泰語節目，和一個南非人聊起這個情形，他說這叫「污染」，這詞兒未免用的太重了，白種人是這樣的，大驚小怪！反正我這口破泰語正好派得上用場，和一個雙條車（Tuk Tuk）駕駛議價，請他帶我去遊市區。

永珍市容很乾淨清爽，人們遵守交通規則，鮮少見駕駛開快車或亂按喇叭，等紅燈時更不見有任何車輛超過警戒線，機車店外的機車、一輛輛排的整整齊齊像閱兵似的。

這駕駛非常盡本分地載我四處溜達。中午剛下過一陣雨，下午天氣涼爽，就邀他在河邊餐廳喝起冰鎮的啤酒、享受河風吹拂，去作了節寮式足部按摩，力道比泰式足，駕駛就坐在一旁靜靜等著，問他要不要也來上一節？他只搖頭、淡淡婉拒，也不和按摩妹扯東道西，換成泰國人早認鄉親地聊成一片了。街道乾淨整齊，人們友善、守本分，這是我對永珍市的第一印象。

傍晚，帶駕駛回飯店，雖說他長得實在不怎麼樣，但好歹是個純陽之物，被他入了一頓、還是相當受用的。好的開始是成功的一半，希望未來一週的寮國假期能盡興。

週末夜，自然得出去闖闖。攔了Tuk Tuk、告訴駕駛我想去disco，他竟載我到一個類似夜總會的地方，外貌看來倒像是談生意的聲色場所，當然不是我要去的地方；後來，又到了一處杵在街道窩窩角看來像娼寮的地方，一堆酒鬼和穿著單薄的妓女在店前晃蕩！最後終於溝通清楚，來到這家名為「Soradith」的夜店，地方還挺寬敞，來客多是頭臉乾淨的年輕人，音樂放的也不錯，有三、四個安全人員各據一角，謹防舞客滋事；我這懸的半天高的心才輕輕放下。一個臉像裹了層麵粉的華、寮混血姐妹過來敬酒，並介紹我認識他一票男男女女、老老少少的朋友，有幾個長得還不錯；幾杯啤酒下肚，很快同他們打成一片，玩得很開心。這兒的夜店都很早打烊，即使是週末夜，寮國的首善之都仍顯得冷清。回下榻休息也才不過兩點左右。

隔天一早，包車到達目的地「旺陽」（Vang Vieng），車程約三個多小時，路況不錯。

旺陽，一個石灰岩地形、風景秀麗，因歐洲來的觀光客聚集而成的小鎮。先到一處公園，拾石階而上，進入一個石灰岩洞，享受天然冷氣；記憶中我去過墾丁、馬來西亞怡保和黃石公園的石灰岩洞，長得都一個模樣，差別僅在規模大小。

比較值得一提的是，這兒流行一種非常特別的水上活動：「泛輪胎」（Tubing），想出這點子的生意人還真有創意！就一夥人癱坐在輪胎上、順溪流而下，一路欣賞河兩旁秀麗景致，沿河每隔一段距離就有用竹木簡單搭蓋的店舖供「輪胎客」上岸休息、飲酒作樂，甚或攀上高台上拉著扶手狠狠地盪下來、再重重地掉在溪流中。參加這活動的多是些酷愛戶外活動、人來瘋的老外，我是其中極少數的東方面孔，有道是「輸人不輸陣」，我這不怕死、愛秀的賤性又犯了，高空彈跳都跳過了，這小陣仗哪難得了我？人都來了，要盪就盪唄，徹徹底底地作個令人刮目相看的蕩婦！特別的經驗！

回到永珍市都晚上九點多了，稍事梳洗，去當地的酒吧小酌一番。風吹來，竟有點兒涼意了。早、晚溫差大。

衝著「去了寮國，若沒去龍波邦（Lung-Pra-Bang）等於沒去」這個論調，第三天就搭了傍晚的慢速飛機抵達Lung-Pra-Bang，耗時45分鐘，住進市區的旅店Choumkhong Guset House。房間寬敞、地點方便、要價合理，去附近夜市逛逛；這夜市專賣布匹、絲綢和手工藝品，整整齊齊鋪在桌上和地上、供人瀏覽採買，店家統一點著昏黃的燈泡，靜靜席坐著、也不吆喝叫賣，一路行來、覺得還蠻詩情畫意的。一個好有氣質的夜市！

問了旅店老闆娘這兒年輕人晚上的去處，便叫了Tuk Tuk 去了一家舞廳，可能非週末假日，沒甚麼客人，稍事停留、就回旅店附近的酒吧點了杯Gin Tonic，看看來往行人，多是些老外；這些個老外還真懂得享受，哪兒好玩就有他們的蹤影。和兩個工讀的服務生調笑一番，早早回去休息囉。

龍波邦是座群山環抱的小城，有溪流經過，因此湖光與山色兼具，由於地處群山中，氣候相當涼爽宜人。感覺上這兒的人比起永珍人又多了份質樸，和人相處沒甚麼壓力，個個做事不疾不徐、慢吞吞地，一副天塌下來自然有別人扛著的模樣。

翌日中午，包了泊船去遊河，沿途風景秀麗、美不勝收，兩岸多的是捕魚人家和在河中沐浴玩耍的男女老少。途中冷不防下起大雨，雨停、河風襲來有點兒涼意，太陽公公也躲起來了，真是天公作美。

船行約一個半小時，來到一處典型的寮國村落，登高有一座尖塔式廟宇，稱得上雕樑畫棟，是該村落居民的信仰中心，禮佛民眾絡繹不絕。這殷實的船伕找了個同夥、開休旅車載我們去今天的重頭戲瀑布，有三、四層，我攀到第二層就沒勁再往上了；這瀑布稱不上壯觀，但姿態優美，水是湛藍色的，山風和瀑布濺起的氤氳水氣、把人的心都涼開了，忍不住下水游泳，徹徹底底被大自然擁抱。

船伕盡責地用向機捕捉我美麗的倩影，覺得自己真是美的固若金湯。呵呵。玩了一整天，回到旅店都傍晚了。累，但值得！

((((((((Subtitle-Horse--Online--Flash))))))))

Spring axioms so much, a yellow sworn to metaphysics

(diagonal with rigor, parts of famine are light-speed's day and midnight)

Very clustered and cannibal: what are lilac circles of emotion?

An unblemished cube can reply, "You are molten and therefore not really a part of sex on this world.

"

Liberty is almost close to spinning music like abstract etceteras.

Sulphur's heart can wear Mandarin collars with teeth sailing for beige lipstick and eyes infected with subterranean calculus

(headless toned effort ruts the weather's zero: pleats of mirage added)

The television's soul is puffy, an eightball oasis

--torrential plasma loved from my ear's sick machine gurgles back through, "I refuse to murder for your reality," zones to scream red off as time after dark burns dragons from the gutter and nods the blackened faces of men--Atlantis awaiting the one flesh cosmology she wears sabotaged of juicy corals that flicker ascent to express vision: everything has never been in love twisted of factories and a tree's slow pulse--high shadows desire in all directions or phantom the carnival like pleasure wets punctuated with the beat inside elbows as a leap from promised decay plateaus our only reward stolen by watery lips--haste to reverse the evening's monkey loaded into kisses a kind of dusk and is logic on the catwalk mask holds a red-light district after arrival's word let white really nylon the uterus with compassion: each corporeal tips the sky of significance saying, "Crimson, give me streets that will negate each other"--extant to interpret throbbing

He has sunshine blared on unlocking chromosomes, porn from carrion skies

(plague spines off the rain's fetish for mutilating my legendary simile cock)

Western lands fragmented on your shadow's groove: liquor factions artfully a shade of lungs melt violin ribs into the stench of irrational numbers

(myopia's passing fortune is an authentic order into youth's jazz and jewel funhouse: a purplish dress glaciers after sound's surprising tip of finger ossifies my tongue)

Ravishing over your arched power, the leer answers only in branches. Theory stuns this message, a bit archaic glistening on the surface of, "Iam always mistaken for a mist of silver collars on blank memory." Sunny radar in the nothing is true forever carved as desire, devotion to a coalescing god who knows every artery we are saying.

this blogggg toio

o
ooooooo

what I really want to discuss..

is the way
daylight dips into this
wine

why you don't smile

deep snow

and

fear.

Empanada Del Amore

When he awoke, which he did grudgingly, he bit down hard on a rasher of clothe knotted into a gag to stay the niggardly pain that he awoke to each and every morning like a scalding. He positioned his handcart to affect a bulwark between him and the outside world and mused on the day ahead. ‘Cupper’s are rot’ he mumbled, ‘rot and feces’. He saw the shamble leg man gambling and shimmying across the sideways his arms flailing like sailcloth. Empanada Del Amore strode defiantly across the sideways hissing and horning and making a general spectacle of herself. She tossed a bloodied butcher’s apron into the nearest dustbin and hurried up the downwash the harridan gibbering after her ‘sluttish slut, whore’s belly afterbirth!’ The legless man bellied from atop his handcart, ‘cock’s wattle and Gibb’s hard mustard, so much blather and nonsense, off with her head, sluttish whore!’ A coxswains’ shuttle whirled past his head, just missing his ear and the knob of his chin, and caromed into the Seder’s storefront window. ‘Cupper’s rot and feces; a tin of putrid sardines’ he hollered at the top of his lungs. Empanada Del Amore tippled sideways up the sideways, her feet marking the pavement like struck matches. ‘Never a moments rest for beery and incontinent: such rot and feces’. The lamplighter lit the street lamps with a kerosene wick held aloft over his left shoulder, his right holding forth and tight with the pavement below. As he was a wobbly old fool the lamplighter seldom lit a lamp on the first try, having to reposition himself, left shoulder level with his right knee, right shoulder beading an imaginary plumb-line on the asphalt, his eyes straining to find the exact spot on the lamp-wick. His greatcoat was grackle with ashes, the tops of his shoes piebald with burns and charred lamp-wick.

Chadwick Piebald stood in the exact spot where the lamplighter lit his last lamp and higgledy fished for eels, gently pulling the eeling-string to and up. His great, great-uncle Moesha Piebald taught him at his knee to eel and string, tucking the caught eels beneath the greatest part of his greatcoat. They caught dogfish (Mustelus and Squalus) and dried it in a sooty fish-kiln built out of tinder and woo-dash. There is no Chadwick Piebald nor a great, great-uncle they are mere knockabouts in my head, collusions and disruptions, nothing more. Without them I would be lost, lost to other thoughts, thoughts of a less savory character. Right now, this very moment, I am thinking about the loss of character in my own life, my lifeless life; a life spent in search of characters to fill the emptiness, the void, of my own characterless life. Chadwick’s and Piebald’s; great, great greater uncles and waifs with raffish hair; jaunty jaunts and steps that tap and tip and tack across the blacktop top, these I imagine, or imagine imagining, the point seems measly and not worth the bother of getting to the point of, piebald baldness, roughed-out and copied onto tracing-paper. This squalor of thought; this thoughtless thoughtlessness: such upheaval and boondoggledness.

can your senses

When finding 15
slippery minutes
epiglottis in mp3
(slimy ear)

You swallow. a pancreas

quiet line of butterfly

This acid
cold nose slurpee

then about
Feb

a circular soft swallow

no sugar

We with blocked windpipe
realizing biscuits
chewed back
03:28AM

air lips.

The my
The together.

wrong wings


:::::


strand of moonglass
bird wings
incandescent leaflets &
practical bulbs.
cooling
drain
shedding ghosts, aftershave, this topic is smoke
luminous
in swirling drags
perfect
Fingertips
three matched,
create light. intimate & short on the oxygen. to
wear
sleep aim stars
I was looking for a project,
light glass inside this breastbone
sent to me: the inside of a more loved,
flowering
diagonally
my days string nights
wind vines
Departures crossed. out
researching
this count
of perfume and verse weeks of
tipped-in windows
and
candles
glow bulb. vertical
sensations next to
burning topic. filament
tasting
Its dark, shadow kite

:::::

went a little red at
why the puddle was shallow

tugs between the twisty
cigarettes tried from the
star's known pocket

don't flair your nostrils
cuz I can't help this

people talk but they don't listen
&
when I sink, I can't hold on to anything

we've been thru this before, we've been thru

never with the touch
never with the light
only with insides of took

I know & you were wearing the girl driving cap
my fingers remember it

and what about the knees
the cliff that said right
in the dark

skyy-spun
please take a nap

‘Mama I’m going to be sick’

“When you say beef-steak you really mean beef-heart, so stop mincing words.’ The shamble leg man disliked nothing more than someone who changed one word for another word, an idea for an idea. He liked his world straight-up and simple, not addled and punched with confusion and error. (Author’s note: I will spare you the insufferableness of italics, for now at least). ‘There is no room for error, none.’ That morning, the one in query, the shamble leg man awoke with a fly in his eye. It, the fly, wove a bracket of eggs in the seam of his eye. The fly (the one in his eye) frittered in the seam of his eye. (Amendment to author’s note: I will use italics only when in brackets). No salve could soothe the itching in his eye; no ointment, balm or liniment. His eyes, the corners and the part that points inwards, were larval with roe. When the shamble leg man was a boy his mother stewed beef-heart in tripe with eel-tails and calf’s tongue. His mother slow cooked the beef-heart in a cast-iron skillet whisking the tripe into the heart, making it soft and chewy. The shamble keg man abhorred the smell, an acrid stink that filled he house with offal and boiled calf’s tongue. His mother insisted that he eat a plateful, bowering over him like a crazed alewife, hissing and biting at her lip until she drew blood, which only maddened her worse. ‘People would die for a bowl of beef-heart’ she’d say hissing. ‘Children cutting they’re arms off for a mere taste of stewed beef-heart’. He held his nose and swallowed, forcing the offal beef-heart down his throat and passed his taste buds, praying that it wouldn’t touch the side of his own tongue or get stuck in the craw of his throat. ‘Mama’ he’d whimper ‘I can’t take another bite.’ She’d press is fingers round the fork, twisting the beef-heart into the tines, and lever the fork to his mouth, his eyes watery with the stench and boil. ‘Mama I’m going to be sick’. ‘Enough’ she’d hiss ‘enough of your stupid tricks, now eat!’

Beef-heart chowder and consommé, gumbo, bisque and bouillabaisse, his mother made whatever she could from whatever she had, tripe, sweetbreads, liver (some so swollen and cirrhotic they couldn’t fit in the skillet) prairie-oysters (pintsize calf’s testicles whipped with heavy cream and fennel) outside round and flank-steak, ox-tail and wild mutton, kidneys and cock’s tongue, the gore and sluice from the slaughterhouse floor.

She either boiled or skillet-fried everything, adding whatever spices and condiments the recipe required. She rolled calf’s brains in farina and cornmeal and made a makeshift oven out of cardboard and tin-foil, then placed it over the searing meat like a Pope’s Miter. She plucked chickens and guinea fowl, partridge and wild turkeys, then poached the pale pinkish skin in a double-boiler until it turned gray and mottled.

(Byron Babcock didn’t come home) flank-steak, ox-tail and wild mutton, kidneys and cock’s tongue, the gore and sluice from the slaughterhouse floor, his eyes watery with the stench and boil. ‘Mama I’m going to be sick’. ‘Enough’ she’d hiss ‘enough of your stupid tricks, now eat!’ His wife stole his Pope’s Miter, then his left shoe then his right, and then pretended she hadn’t stolen anything at all (pintsize calf’s testicles whipped with heavy cream and fennel). The man in the hat dreamt he was dreaming, and in that dream dreamt he was awake. Food plays tricks on (pintsize calf’s testicles whipped with heavy cream and fennel) an empty stomach. Words become images of food and emptiness, a Pope’s Miter, chickens plucked featherless, guinea partridge poached to a gray offal mottle, ‘enough of your stupid tricks, now eat!’ The emptiness plays tricks on wild turkeys, gore-tipped shoes swish-swishing across the top of the slaughterhouse floor. Nothing is what it seems, ever. Ever is what it seems, nothing. The man in the hat dreamt he was dreaming, and in that dream dreamt he was awake (all that offal awful, sluice-gate bilge, all that awful offal swirling down the drainpipe maw).

Stop It, Smalls, You're Killin' Me

Ather, a hub russet. Robotic Ema.

Euthachian dimples. Real hair

supporting nothing.

Crashing my armada into your ass.

My pandenic fever all over
your drunk touch.

Arbutus. Anisette. So divan. (like the couch)
Joy-sput with possible split
lip. Yours.

- - -

Prague. stupid spammers in the lobby.
Cold room, no balcony.

I'm glad we had this talk.

cockrings. Another sneeze. Holly as
an apostrophe. A decoy. A tiny system
that fits anywhere.

We walk and walk.

I want to fall in love with breakfast again.

Forget about it. What should we buy, beer?

Overnight in the Overnight Sanitarium

That night overnight in the sanitarium the man overnight in the asylum developed a raking cough the likes of which the manager of the overnight sanitarium had never ever seen. They tried giving him a cough-suppressant but he continued to cough, they applied a warm facecloth to his throat but the coughing prevailed. Finally, after no little propitiation, they managed to arrest his coughing with a menthol lozenge and a tinctures’ worth of Fruit Smack. The man in the asylum overnight was making notes for God. He felt it his job (much more than a simple avocation) to take notes for God, describing in great detail, and with as much perspicuity as he could muster, what was happening in earth, the realm that existed outside the godly realm. He scribbled notes into a child’s exercise book with a pencil, making sure to date each entry at the top of the page. For example: October 28th nineteen-seventy-seven (he preferred writing out the numerals, as it gave them a stately more important look), Doctor Ballista gave Smith a shot of Thomasine to calm his jitters, followed with an ice-bath, a Smack Fruit enema and a Librium suppository. Smith responded poorly, his eyes turning into the back of his head, his legs jimmying like crazy; then he fell to the floor and bumped his head on the wingtip of Doctor Ballista’s shoe. The head nurse and the orderly Ackers then enacted The Hymn of the Pearl (also Hymn of the Soul, Hymn of the Robe of Glory or Hymn of Judas Thomas the Apostle) which Akers recited in the original Syriac. When Smith was slow to respond to the divine being’s message which came by way of a revealer (Doctor Owens, doctor Ballista’s assistant, a task generally ascribed to Jesus) the head nurse prescribed insulin-shock and a mild apagogic. He figured the best way to keep God apprised of the shenanigans going on down below was to keep a ledger, an unabridged compendium of the earthly realm (the one God cared not to live in) the very same one where he spent countless nights sitting in a lattice-backed chair in the asylum dining-room scribbling in his child’s exercise book. The man in the hat met the man in the overnight asylum one night when he was visiting a sick friend in the overnight sanitarium. His friend had swallowed a bottle cap (a bevel-edged Spruce Beer cap) his throat tighten like a garrote-knot. The Doctor prescribed a stool-softener and sent him home, saying that the bottle cap would find its way down his esophagus and out through his rectum when he had his next bowl-movement

December Whispers

mold

holiday tray. smoke chain. ear-lead.
fuck you? fuck me, lobe bone.

OooooO, line wiggle in the belly of my
fat head

drip giggle

Aims is playing with bare teeth

you don't say

transducer. loose interior.

rum balls
pumpkin pound cake
all I really wanted to do

was?

kiss.

doodles

feet in the grass

wandering, wandering

reefer breath. a green stillness.

my semen on strange faces. the backseat of
death

-In The Next Room-

is everything Okay?

no, and I'm sure it's me, my
get-drunk-want-stare

pulse inmate

teal smile.
striking erection.
ampule.

saliva skating

outside, the city glows. Nina doesn't know why
but, chartreuse comes to mind.

you said we could leave soon
you said the empty spaces
are bothersome

where did I leave my flower

right where I put it

where?

in your hair.

Don't Mean Nothin'

Dreams: mobile

"to feel you're not two billion other unselves is enough" -- ee cummings

ME fluid
my H20
flows reality
I Love

Can’t do much more

Is there beyond love Kieu est yond

Cocain jesus has a colon

Wanna B
GODs
U
R a real pain in the
ASS

BETTER than
BEST


Like yeast - shitting gas and pissing wine….

IWANT GIVE
2 Me

where is emptyness?



- I&I leaping realeyes BC554

"outside in the cold distance"

(like it used to be) white man sings the blues

john ravenscroft forever peeled

no crisps from john peel.
no tasty snacks to savour.
no mark e salt and vinegar.
no robert wyatt beef.
just an empty hat and a vacant seat.

discharge 3

go here....discharge3 ...NOW!

with a skip
and a trip
and long leather whip
he taught the child a lesson
.
.
.

Morehi Ushebi

i shagged tracy

DISCHARGE

we are discharge.

we are deviant.

we are dark angels with bright wings.

we are dysfunctional.

we are blog art.

discharge2

DISCHARGE - the best art collective in the blog world

Fresh Baked Tart in Fish Net Stockings.

HUBBA HUBBA

xkcd - A webcomic of romance, sarcasm, math, and language - By Randall Munroe

xkcd - A webcomic of romance, sarcasm, math, and language - By Randall Munroe

Kill Bill

Dreams: mobile

Dreams: mobile

"to feel you're not two billion other unselves is enough" -- ee cummings

-1-



the doomed
invent help
and a secret window

the bruise is really a coral colored crystal

around the doorknob:
beasts split &
spit

on hot pillows
lips
part

give it to me, baby!

eyes possess the power of reckless
rubbing
or
in a blink
wide fields of
stairways & haunches


-2-

and so / the girl
moves in margins

nipples kidnapped
nuzzle
heavy metal

italicized
the contraption
shuts

&

his strokes fill her completed body
with long knots of shadows

who's winning now?

shaggy
bonbon fingers
cream puff
late as snow
outside
rain starts to fall in clear strings
the razzle-dazzle of lightning
hits the ceiling


-3-

she remembers
the first time he came in her
she thought he was on the other side of the ocean

I'm making the waves too strong..

as her new brows grow in
too thin
she watches him through webs
and a million haunted cell/Ohs

once when she was at work
he moved her errors
and added a throne


-Later-

she wakes to dark skies
tumbling
into darker skies
and all the strings of rain have turned into ropes
she starts to search for some comfort he may have left behind

a sheet of angel dots:
tiny ushers covered in mist

the air is breathtaking, too big

-on the screen -
a funny commercial:
a girl whipping her shiny hair
back and forth
mouthless face
faintly glowing


-The Next Day-


piles of grayish light
option
lit
up
on the screen
please order more

what was the sense in that
the rain ropes were still falling
fatter & harder

all was as it had been
growing up was a lie
and her joints ached

she stands mute on the faded glass floor
one ear on and glittering

-phantom of the opera - the music of night-

we did know each other in france
my face was moon-sheer
and I wore a white gown
we stood in a place where branches hung
with all their brilliant leaves
slowly turning
you had been stripped of your birth-right
and had a cheek on one ash smudge
and I..
I was already dying of fear
your eyes said
calm
and
open
but squatting next to you
was the red outline
of a demon


-Static-

in the steam / stream
of the shower
my thoughts begin to unbraid

victims of too much heat

the fat cat
slides one paw
beneath the door


-At Work-

accused seams
gruel supper

forms copied
only to be filled in

strolling through the long corridors, keys jingling
she remembers running through alleys
his feet: brown & bare
fumbling hands
empty pockets

sickly stray dogs
ferocious fangs
& in the rotting garbage
a tarnished chain
hung with tears


oh! my love!
don't let me stay
stuck
in past progressive tense

Okay, but I seem to be tacked to black paths.


-The Rain Suddenly Stops-

on the 4th level, the 3rd floor deck
glistens

"pretty plain, loony-sane"

once, during the time of heavy bell ringing
they took a nap on a round
wrought iron
balcony
he broke their circled rhythm by making
beads of blood appear on his skin

her first instinct was to lick them
acre by acre until her tongue became
too sticky and greedy


-Other Things.. The Night Sends Back Too Quickly-

laughter
jumpy solace
blocks
masks, rocks, false pretense

alienation

mosquitoes &
deep prisons

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

even when we are connected
we aren't connected
that would make it all too real

VERMEER IN DRAG WITH ECTOPLASMIC BIRDMARE

Infernato

Infernato

Los pingüinos están en el wáter. ¿El tren ya ha partido, queréis alquiler una bicicleta?

Estaba sentada aquí tomándome algo y me he dado cuenta de que preferiría tenerte a ti en lugar de la copa. Tu aliento ole como los melocotones.

Mi hijo es un gángster sin corazón, y yo necesito un abrazo. Quiero mucho ver las diapositivas de vuestra operación de hígado pero en primer lugar necesito ir cortar mi cabeza en pedazos pequeñitos con mi peine. Un rey no muere nunca, solo duerme. He perdido mi pasaporte.

Me siento mal.

Favorite Mountain Photos : Mountain Photography by Jack Brauer

Favorite Mountain Photos : Mountain Photography by Jack Brauer

Reloaded

[From NOIRIGAMI: Drink responsibly]

Portrait of The Allan

The StarFish Journal

Okay, it looks like the issue of the mighty StarFish Journal I helped put together is pretty much live and ready to go!

It features the work of some established voices like Andrew Lundwall and Carol Novack, some exciting work by up and comers like John Moore Williams and Luka HeronBone, and perhaps more importantly, there are a number of complete unknowns that we are excited to be bringing to you for the first time.

Please, check it out.


And, if you are interested, we are looking to link exchange with as many sites as possible, so if you are down with that, please drop me a line at:

cosmiccommunist@hotmail.com

The Rise and Fall of the Trigan Empire

In 1965 I was 11. Music was great. The Kinks were in the charts and this was constantly shoved beneath my pillow. The Rise and Fall of the Trigan Empire. With glorious artwork by Don Lawrence.

Little Leeks like Poirot

CAROLEE SCHNEEMANN


Carolee Schneemann, multidisciplinary artist. Transformed the definition of art, especially discourse on the body, sexuality, and gender. The history of her work is characterized by research into archaic visual traditions, pleasure wrested from suppressive taboos, the body of the artist in dynamic relationship with the social body.

Painting, photography, performance art and installation works shown at Los Angeles Museum of Contemporary Art; Whitney Museum of American Art; Museum of Modern Art, NYC; Centre Georges Pompidou, Paris; and most recently in a retrospective at the New Museum of Contemporary Art in New York entitled “Up To And Including Her Limits”. Film and video retrospectives Centre Georges Pompidou, Paris; Museum of Modern Art, NY; National Film Theatre, London; Whitney Museum, NY; San Francisco Cinematheque; Anthology Film Archives, NYC.

She has taught at many institutions including New York University, California Institute of the Arts, Bard College, the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. Recipient of a 1999 Art Pace International Artist Residency, San Antonio, Texas; Pollock-Krasner Foundation Grant (1997, 1998); 1993 Guggenheim Fellowship; Gottlieb Foundation Grant; National Endowment for the Arts Fellowship. Honorary Doctor of Fine Arts, Maine College of Art, Portland, ME. Lifetime Achievement Award, College Art Association, 2000.

Schneemann has published widely; books include Cezanne, She Was A Great Painter (1976), Early and Recent Work (1983); More Than Meat Joy: Performance Works and Selected Writings (1979, 1997). Forthcoming publications include Imaging Her Erotics, from MIT Press. A selection of her letters edited by Kristine Stiles is also forthcoming.

THE LAUGHING SPAGHETTI FACTORY

Section One.

In the Laughing Spaghetti Factory there are:

(a) Hand-woven portraits of Mama Pork rendered in multicoloured silks and fuse-wire.

(b) A mock-up of the Sistine Chapel circa 1693 made from toothpaste.

(c) A selection of Andy warhol's wigs, including the one he wore when he died.

(Pick one of the above and go to Section Two)


In the Laughing Spaghetti Factory there are:

(a) A series of mildly racist jokes specifically designed to be offensive to Spanish people. They mostly involve incest and crying statues of the Blessed virgin. (The curators take no legal responsibility for any (i) riots, (ii) wars or (iii) accidental births that may occur as a result of this exhibition. The Laughing Spaghetti Factory exists outside of any known legal system and/or recognised conceptual continuality.)

(b) A wall of snails.

Section Two.

This is Section two. Please go to Section Four.

In the Laughing Spaghetti Factory there are:

(a) A number of water-colours (post-industrialist landscapes of Lowell, Georgia, mainly) painted using the diluted vomit of Jack Keruouac and his mother.

(b) Some old chipped marbles belonging to my father when he was a child that have been placed in an old Maxwell House coffee jar.

(c) A sty full of pigs wearing human masks. One of them is a representation of your face, drawn in wax crayons. Can you see it?

You're lying.

Section Three.

This is serious. Stop laughing. Go to Section Nine.

Section Four.

Go to Section Three. No, don't go.

Section Five.

In the Laughing Spaghetti Factory there are:

(a) Eleven blind men dressed as monks. None of them believe in God.

(b) A blind God dressed as a man. He believes in nothing.

(c) A choir of rotting cats.

(d) A row of telephones, endlessly ringing.

(Select one of the above that most closely resembles your body weight, then go home. If you die in your sleep then magpies will pick at your skin, half-heartedly searching for ticks.)

Section Six.

Close your eyes. Imagine there is a secret wardrobe that contains a homemade replica of JFK's blood-soaked shirt. There are strands of hair on the collar and tiny fragments of bone. Ignore this. Can you see me yet? I'm wearing ribbons. Open your eyes.

Go outside for fresh air. The cafeteria is now open.

Section Seven.

This is not Section Seven.

There is no Laughing Spaghetti Factory.

There is no Laughing Spaghetti Factory.

There is no Laughing Spaghetti Factory.
There is no Laughing Spaghetti Factory.
There is no Laughing Spaghetti Factory.

There is no Laughing Spaghetti Factory.

This is not Section Seven.

Section Eight.

Please, I'm begging you. Please Don't leave me.

THE MOMENT THAT I STOPPED LOVING YOU

Green Fluxus

Winding Gamma Nude

In came the Winding Gamma Nude, a n n n n n n n odd seethe, a blocked drain of a manchild, a pulsing oedema of.... (here even Henry trailed into disinterest; they all hated it - and coughed loudly - whenever the words themselves started to leak sobriety) a nnn nnnn nnnnnd more flecks of fruit per metre than anything Christy had ever seen.

(((((What big eyes you have etc.))))))

The Gamma Nude smiled annnnnnnnnnnd started rolling itself in, hoping to disappear completly my midnight.

"Don't you ever just... relate?" Christy asked.

The Gamma Nude shook his head, the hair grew outwards so quick that before Christy could really get her bearings he had flippd from:

<<<<according to a NELogic>>>>

"You never listen!" yelled Malcolm, already teaming with lice and lichen from his spell in the bush (cue jokes half-heartedly pushed out of Christy on a Bungle Bungle theme) but by then the Winding Gamma Nude was long long long.

Mordant Music - Winding Ourselves Into The Ground

a Yousendit sodluckenfullpip production

IRON FATHER

Rain gossips underneath iron. Rain tastes the bicycle, watches it rust. Rain changes into iron. Buried cars are crushed by the weight of worms. Rain picture-shifts into an iron photo of my father.

Mange-riddled wolf compiles my father using a plague-box and creates a Scotch Western. Why did the stereo-glove ignore my glowing father? How come this iron rain flooded my father? His vehicle is its own logo.

Father Rain leaps! He leaps across the conduit and smokes a strange brown deposit. He laughs, then cycles home beneath a tourist. Father Rust objects. He eats a Hostess Rung Cake and slowly bursts. Father Rain decays!

Father Rust scores beneath the trash. This is a farce, he reckons. Why can’t I reach behind the microwave? Father Iron listens, then gestures. There is dust on his hands.

Ignore this line - it’s just a parody. A laughing peanut socket.

These booklets randomly document your father’s decline, they eventually told him. Sand him down, I say! Sand him down until only iron remains. Iron and rain.

Highway Golf Platform

white mother pupa in the code snake falls
you have taught me to hunt with these prosthetic robotic antlers
swarming with nanotrilobyte hoverkraft plurceptalia
taught me to catch and unwrap the wriggling segmental fever fugue
whose synchrosmonscoptlic undulantern is the way so knotty by the figure
the fugure's future fastening quickens to the arc of falling
kinetic tesselata is the kindergarten dream lesson of your milky mind brilliance mother
but quickly we leave the stylized worlds to enter into your cascading breast platelets

we hear the somber song of your branching head mollusk analog
the cities which hang like fruit in the illusory density of your recording vectors

circle the waves
agony triagadont the jelly paw tastes lily encumbrance technical moon flower sequence
space manta trance dreamer in its robo-surgical sarcophagus time-womb

we are here little hittites, here to utrecht you with allichu pe swa quqare'

tarzan borg yokels masturbate with egg salad tornado column

Little Sister

O Rang - Little Sister

A Yousendit Sit-In Protestation

Picture found via Monster Brains

Coeur-bete

Rankled

Therwe ware newver enouwgh opportunwities fwor thew rewal stawrs owf stwage wand scwreen...

She came slowly, in a flood of damp, shredded newspaper, snorting like a horse.

A wave of dark pestilence swept through her body, blotchy and swollen, like mumps. Knots of wood, rough and scabbed with lichen, formed on her forehead and leaked tiny drops of pale-coloured sap. A chill wind blew leaves and religious pamplets across the pillow.

The shadow of Christ on the Cross fell across us at a contrived, Expressionist angle, flickering in time with the lights from the airport and making us giggle like drunken children.

I don't think I've ever loved you more than in that moment.

Macaroni and Cheese

When will my wine soaked heart learn that
the fear of uncertainty is steering me
into a haunting corner, wavering
my tomorrow
into dust

?

even the comments on discharge are art

Post a Comment On: discharge "sell"
15 Comments - Show Original Post
Collapse comments


Dr Anthony Donovan said...
trope of sealight
visioning oughter
audit scene
configure slaughter
*
attack iraq /express as coalition
ban iran /express as coalition
smear n korea /express as coalition
scam sudan /express as coalition
*
bomber
breaks baby bone
village shop
and mobile-phone
*
remote contrived
as expected
perp leaves
undetected

12:05 PM


Dr Anthony Donovan said...
FLUXUS as KILLING JOKE

12:05 PM


Dr Anthony Donovan said...
Arve Henriksen Quartet SOS

12:06 PM


Dr Anthony Donovan said...
Derek Bailey's right arm

12:06 PM


Cocaine Jesus said...
hannibal lecters half blood mud blood brood bruv.

12:06 PM


Cocaine Jesus said...
ps.

o vilcum bick

12:07 PM


Dr Anthony Donovan said...
!desc nick
medication
i,m [sic]
of dedication

12:08 PM


Dr Anthony Donovan said...
o executioneers

sing horror to your soul

2 PARAphrase, bing bang bang

KA-BOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMM

cartoon killing spreee o n o

12:10 PM


Cocaine Jesus said...
dead -
ication
leads to villification.
lunacy by degree's
you have degree's?
A's O's and...
i digress
by degree's

12:12 PM


Dr Anthony Donovan said...
we're not singing till to stop

or

sing till you dropenshopenhaur


[when they spoke they spoke with knives] [holy six nations] [isle b chad] [isreal in africa] [loose cannnnnnnnonnnnnnnnnnnnnnnsssssss, losing] [not an animal]

12:13 PM


Dr Anthony Donovan said...
ARTAUD or death

12:13 PM


Dr Anthony Donovan said...
middleground. acid.

we will eat you up

12:14 PM


Dr Anthony Donovan said...
WAKE

12:14 PM


Cocaine Jesus said...
Death in vegas
Darth vada
Dearth of ideas like autumn leaves
Falling
Failing
Flippin’ heck
(auto systematic bleeding)

12:16 PM


Dr Anthony Donovan said...
ERA 404. a Metheny excision, on queue-esque-basis, as deaf god-u-like. Ilk-u-r sounds like lynch the poet to us. Tighten. Tighten.

Site of Scaffold. An attenuated Quang Duc and a Meat is Murder badge on a leather coat.

Race her to your bed. She will be two nail despite. Behind her password, you will be flailing, penis-failing.

lol

lol

lol

lol

12:26 PM

Monterey

"...which reminded me of a girl with slightly lopsided eyes and hair that fuzzed and fizzed over her shoulders and her beautiful long arms. When they ate her, I cried all through the night and my eyes were still black the next Monday when, to my surprise, they decided not to cancel work after all..."

Tim Buckley - Monterey

A Yousendit Escalope d' Alsace

Happy Tuesday!

love & kisses,
Tash

Paradox Chimeras

...tangents of remission. Check your

ticket, the predilection of Xs and Os calling template
modesty away from paradox-->chimeras

ooze memory's intent

pursuit black wavelets holiday: salute dim clusters:
please affix each scrutiny to aeroplane lined foreheads

[protean fluid piles amongst pretense. civility acting as threads of separation amnesia. a noon strata neither motley nor the tropical valorized. just add hashish to the outskirts of asexual]

against this dream: wiser lip-synch fangs
grab every metaphor: fluid drones supine lungs:
decorated angles thirty-three arrests: drink
optical metrics: bent liturgy an ozone coldness:

---->lost looking half-spoken which exits

only to find what was never lost

Sappho (by Castor)

SAPPHO, the one great woman poet of the world, who called herself Psappha in her own Aeolic dialect, is said to have been at the zenith of her fame about the year 610 B.C.

During her lifetime Jeremiah first began to prophesy (628 B.C.), Daniel was carried away to Babylon (606 B.C.), Nebuchadnezzar besieged and captured Jerusalem (587 B.C.), Solon was legislating at Athens, and Tarquinius Priscus, the fifth king, is said to have been reigning over Rome. She lived before the birth of Gautama, the (founder of Buddhism, the religion now professed by perhaps almost a third of the whole population of the globe.

That she was a native of Lesbos, an island in the Aegean sea, is universally admitted; and all but those writers who speak of a second Sappho say she lived at Mitylene, the chief city of the island. The existence of a Sappho who was a courtesan of Ersus, a smaller Lesbian city, besides the poetess of Mitylene, is the invention of comparatively late authors; and it is probably due to their desire to detach the calumnies, which the Comic poets so long made popular, from the personality of the poetess to whose good name her own contemporaries bore witness.

HERE IS ONE OF SAPPHO'S FRAGMENTS:


The stars about the lovely moon
Fade back and vanish very soon,
When, round and full, her silver face
Swims into sight, and lights all space.


(Translated by J. A. Symonds, 1883)

LAWRENCE OF ARABIA..THE SEVEN PILLARS OF WISDOM ...EXCERPTS FROM CHAPTER I

LAWRENCE OF ARABIA

THE SEVEN PILLARS OF WISDOM

EXCERPTS FROM CHAPTER I

Some of the evil of my tale may have been inherent in our circumstances. For years we lived anyhow with one another in the naked desert, under the indifferent heaven. By day the hot sun fermented us; and we were dizzied by the beating wind. At night we were stained by dew, and shamed into pettiness by the innumerable silences of stars. We were a self-centred army without parade or gesture, devoted to freedom, the second of man's creeds, a purpose so ravenous that it devoured all our strength, a hope so transcendent that our earlier ambitions faded in its glare.
The everlasting battle stripped from us care of our own lives or of others'...Each day some of us passed; and the living knew themselves just sentient puppets on God's stage:...We lived always in the stretch or sag of nerves, either on the crest or in the trough of waves of feeling.
This impotency was bitter to us, and made us live only for the seen horizon, reckless what spite we inflicted or endured, since physical sensation showed itself meanly transient. Gusts of cruelty, perversions, lusts ran lightly over the surface without troubling us; for the moral laws which had seemed to hedge about these silly accidents must be yet fainter words. We had learned that there were pangs too sharp, griefs too deep, ecstasies too high for our finite selves to register. When emotion reached this pitch the mind choked; and memory went white till the circumstances were humdrum once more. Such exaltation of thought, while it let adrift the spirit, and gave it licence in strange airs, lost it the old patient rule over the body. The body was too coarse to feel the utmost of our sorrows and of our joys. ... The men were young and sturdy; and hot flesh and blood unconsciously claimed a right in them and tormented their bellies with strange longings. Our privations and dangers fanned this virile heat, in a climate as racking as can be conceived. We had no shut places to be alone in, no thick clothes to hide our nature. Man in all things lived candidly with man.


...our youths began indifferently to slake one another's few needs in their own clean bodies--a cold convenience that, by comparison, seemed sexless and even pure. Later, some began to justify this sterile process, and swore that friends quivering together in the yielding sand with intimate hot limbs in supreme embrace, found there hidden in the darkness a sensual co-efficient of the mental passion which was welding our souls and spirits in one flaming effort.

nein nein nine three

The Drunken Song

O man, take care!
What does the deep midnight declare?
"I was asleep —,
From the deep dream I woke and swear:—
The world is deep,
Deeper than day had been aware.
Deep is its woe —,
Lust—deeper yet than agony:
Woe implores: Go!
But all lust wants eternity —,
— Wants deep, wants deep eternity."


Das trunkene Lied

O Mensch! Gib Acht!
Was spricht die tiefe Mitternacht?
"Ich schlief, ich schlief —,
Aus tiefem Traum bin ich erwacht:—
Die Welt ist tief,
Und tiefer als der Tag gedacht.
Tief ist ihr Weh —,
Lust—tiefer noch als Herzeleid:
Weh spricht: Vergeh!
Doch alle Lust will Ewigkeit —,
— will tiefe, tiefe Ewigkeit!"

(by Friedrich Nietzsche)

www.post-truth.com

Post-truth is an ongoing community art project where people mail in their truths, revealing their identity, on one typed and homemade blog-comment space.


No secrets.

No truths masquerading as cheap art.

Electric Hummer

Viva Last Blues

Ballad of Crackling Dee
(a song for Christmas)


Back up the house where the rumblin's comin.
A whole Dee family happily slummin

'Here's Crackling Dee, messin with the fruitcake.'

Yes, hair everywhere: starts in the ears,
Down the back like an ink-blot, catching the beers.

'Here's Crackling Dee, heavy with the Remington.'

Over hands n knuckles n Sterns n Bows.
Just the right kind of static that the Government allows.

'Here's Crackling Dee, with one less finger.'

Watch him at the doorstep, pickin rust out his throat
Strange lad, with arms like a duff billy-goat.

'Here's Crackling Dee, attacked with a pushbike.'

They rattled his skull with the back of the frame,
Spoked an arm, made a hairy leg lame.

'Here's Crackling Dee, face like a taxied stoat.'

He's got Raleighs for arms n a crackin little toe
N one sludged mouth n a bucketful of woe.

'Here's Crackling Dee, best hump the beast.'

A slunk n unconscious T.G. Kindle
Dee jabbed down his eyes on a bamboo spindle.

'Here's Crackling Dee, tossed Tom to the birds!'

A three n a half coma, the boy flipped like a lighted tramp
N tossed to the mainframe, with his legs full of cramp.

'Here's Crackling Dee, dragged to the cemetery.'

Bugger doesn't know it yet but Jesus-God his eyes have failed
Flushed n worn n ready to be nailed.

'Here's Cackling Dee, with his thumbs all stuffed.'

N optics done n nerves a flappin,
Crackling's gone n caught Tom nappin.

'Here's Crackling Dee, with the slasher boots.'

With Tom wrecked, there's Dasher Jones.
Dee'll make sheep-meat from his bones.

'Here's Crackling Dee, picking food from his teeth.'

Crackling is stroking his beard; got that old fixed stare,
His arms are gashed but he don't mind a little air.

'Here's Crackling Dee, smoking bracken after dawn.'

Lookin at the coils of gunge n watching with derision,
Slagger makes a mark on him with surgical precision.

'Here's Crackling Dee, tie the loose arms to the horses.'

Horse n cart n ready-mades, fust and dust and sickle
Heave the Dee across the square, leaving blood a trickle

'Here's Crackling Dee, pulled in two with all this trouble.'

Stiffed n boned n thrown around, blended with the gristle
In the broken stump of old Dragged Dee, a briskly shredded thistle.

'Here's Crackling Dee, gardener to the stars.'

Spread him thickly, spread him thin, garnish land with muscle

'What?'

Palace Music - Work Hard/Play Hard
A Yousendit Swweettnneessss

Edgard Varese: The Idol of My Youth By Frank Zappa

I have been asked to write about Edgard Varese. I am in no way qualified to. I can't even pronounce his name right. The only reason I have agreed to is because I love his music very much, and if by some chance this article can influence more people to hear his works, it will have been worthwhile.
I was about thirteen when I read an article in Look about Sam Goody's Record Store in New York. My memory is not too clear on the details, but I recall it was praising the store's exceptional record merchandising ability. One example of brilliant salesmanship described how, through some mysterious trickery, the store actually managed to sell an album called "Ionization" (the real name of the album was "The Complete Works of Edgard Varese, Volume One"). The article described the record as a weird jumble of drums and other unpleasant sounds.
I dashed off to my local record store and asked for it. Nobody ever heard of it. I told the guy in the store what it was like. He turned away, repulsed, and mum- bled solemnly, "I probably wouldn't stock it anyway . . .nobody here in San Diego would buy it."
I didn't give up. I was so hot to get that record I couldn't even believe it. In those days I was a rhythm- and-blues fanatic. I saved any money I could get (some- times as much as $2 a week) so that every Friday and Saturday I could rummage through piles of old records at the juke Box Used Record Dump (or whatever they called it) in the Maryland Hotel or the dusty corners of little record stores where they'd keep the crappy records nobody wanted to buy.
One day I was passing a hi-fi store in La Mesa. A little sign in the window announced a sale on 45's. After shuffling through their singles rack and finding a couple of Joe Houston records, I walked toward the cash register. On my way, I happened to glance into the LP bin. Sitting in the front, just a little bent at the corners, was a strange-looking black-and-white album cover. On it there was a picture of a man with gray frizzy hair. He looked like a mad scientist. I thought it was great that somebody had finally made a record of a mad scientist. I picked it up. I nearly (this is true, ladies and gentlemen) peed in my pants . . . THERE IT WAS! EMS 401, The Complete Works of Edgard Varese Volume I . . . Integrales, Density 21.5, Ionization, Octandre . . . Rene Le Roy, the N. Y. Wind Ensemble, the Juilliard Percussion Orchestra, Frederic Waidman Conducting . . .liner notes by Sidney Finkelstein! WOW!
I ran over to the singles box and stuffed the Joe Houston records back in it. I fumbled around in my pocket to see how much money I had (about $3.80). 1 knew I had to have a lot of money to buy an album. Only old people had enough money to buy albums. I'd never bought an album before. I sneaked over to the guy at the cash register and asked him how much EMS 401 cost. "That gray one in the box? $5.95 - "
I had searched for that album for over a year, and now . . . disaster. I told the guy I only had $3.80. He scratched his neck. "We use that record to demonstrate the hi-fi's with, but nobody ever buys one when we use it . . . you can have it for $3.80 if you want it that bad. "
I couldn't imagine what he meant by "demonstrating hi-fi's with it." I'd never heard a hi-fi. I only knew that old people bought them. I had a genuine lo-fi . . . it was a little box about 4 inches deep with imitation wrought-iron legs at each corner (sort of brass-plated) which elevated it from the table top because the speaker was in the bottom. My mother kept it near the ironing board. She used to listen to a 78 of The Little Shoemaker on it. I took off the 78 of The Little Shoemaker and, carefully moving the speed lever to 33 1/3 (it had never been there before), turned the volume all the way up and placed the all-purpose Osmium-tip needle in the lead-in spiral to Ionization. I have a nice Catholic mother who likes Roller Derby. Edgard Varese does not get her off, even to this very day. I was forbidden to play that record in the living room ever again.
In order to listen to The Album, I had to stay in my room. I would sit there every night and play it two or three times and read the liner notes over and over. I didn't understand them at all. I didn't know what timbre was. I never heard of polyphony. I just liked the music because it sounded good to me. I would force anybody who came over to listen to it. (I had heard someplace that in radio stations the guys would make chalk marks on records so they could find an exact spot, so I did the same thing to EMS 401 . . . marked all the hot items so my friends wouldn't get bored in the quiet parts.)
I went to the library and tried to find a book about Mr. Varese. There wasn't any. The librarian told me he probably wasn't a Major Composer. She suggested I look in books about new or unpopular composers. I found a book that had a little blurb in it (with a picture of Mr. Varese as a young man, staring into the camera very seriously) saying that he would be just as happy growing grapes as being a composer.
On my fifteenth birthday my mother said she'd give me $5. 1 told her I would rather make a long-distance phone call. I figured Mr. Varese lived in New York because the record was made in New York (and be- cause he was so weird, he would live in Greenwich Village). I got New York Information, and sure enough, he was in the phone book.
His wife answered. She was very nice and told me he was in Europe and to call back in a few weeks. I did. I don't remember what I said to him exactly, but it was something like: "I really dig your music." He told me he was working on a new piece called Deserts. This thrilled me quite a bit since I was living in Lancaster, California then. When you're fifteen and living in the Mojave Desert and find out that the world's greatest composer, somewhere in a secret Greenwich Village laboratory, is working on a song about your "home town" you can get pretty excited. It seemed a great tragedy that nobody in-Palmdale or Rosamond would care if they ever heard it. I still think Deserts is about Lancaster, even if the liner notes on the Columbia LP say it's something more philosophical.
All through high school I searched for information about Varese and his music. One of the most exciting discoveries was in the school library in Lancaster. I found an orchestration book that had score examples in the back, and included was an excerpt from Offrandes with a lot of harp notes (and you know how groovy harp notes look). I remember fetishing the book for several weeks.
When I was eighteen I got a chance to go to the East Coast to visit my Aunt Mary in Baltimore. I had been composing for about four years then but had not heard any of it played. Aunt Mary was going to introduce me to some friend of hers (an Italian gentleman) who was connected with the symphony there. I had planned on making a side trip to mysterious Greenwich Village. During my birthday telephone conversation, Mr. Varese had casually mentioned the possibility of a visit if I was ever in the area. I wrote him a letter when I got to Baltimore, just to let him know I was in the area.
I waited. My aunt introduced me to the symphony guy. She said, "This is Frankie. He writes orchestra music." The guy said, "Really? Tell me, sonny boy, what's the lowest note on a bassoon?" I said, "B flat . . .and also it says in the book you can get 'em up to a C or something in the treble clef." He said, "Really? You know about violin harmonics?" I said, "What's that?" He said, "See me again in a few years."
I waited some more. The letter came. I couldn't believe it. A real handwritten letter from Edgard Varese! I still have it in a little frame. In very tiny scientific-looking script it says:
_____________________________________________________________________________________________

Dadagram #18

Balloons. Naked spindles lying there bleeding profusely from invisible wounds. A headache bathed in treachery is the territory. Lethargy from above failed to report the crime. This venereal world scaled pokes snoring underwear as penance. Halved to prone. A minion transcendence. Peruse revolutionary leaflets and let's evolve together or not at all. Store the money north of the venerable. Atone for the brightness of your teeth. Pure mess survives meat and bone.

Impaled by vapours to the eye lesion. Imperious wrinkles too fine as fists. Multiplied by their haunches. Glazed audiences and free will whorled of some gay labyrinth credits shift welts. Flashing steel to revitalize the slaughter. Morbidly faster than front-page material. Washed two families out to sea in this carnival pasta. Vexed moles forbidden. Concrete wallowing in hiss. Red onions and swelling vomits a year to learn the haste of love and forgiveness.

The Dilly Song

"Then the block'd and the burned all came up (wingspeed made decent) and in the air was holes of sweetness and in the eyes of Lora came tiny blue-grey sparrows, each with their own name (Brockenback, Swarmling, Broowinter) and each with their own understanding of what it meant to be reverent."

From: The Desecration Of Theolomy, Sui Rua, Hancocks, 1975

Current 93 - The Dilly Song
A Yousendit UrLundunninium

Headnail And The Hepcats

Spooky Tooth & Pierre Henry - Prayer
A Yousendit Rapidloss Overbreath

When I used to sit around at the Place It Never Rained with my now sadly insane friend B. we used to imagine groups into existence, working out all the details like what the album covers would be like, how they'd sound, what their lyrical themes might be. how they'd deal with the difficult second album. whether or not they'd eventually give in to the filthy lucre lure of the majors...

At no doubt did we think about this album and, spookily, it's fairly hard to think about now.

Whatever consensus opinion might be (and I don't claim to know), I still think this track would have been better if Pierre Henry had got together with Cliff Richard.

Poem 21 (Unfinished)

Thanks to LadyPillow for use of her Photographs in this work

Check out her photographs on Flickr

The Throatmeister Keeps on Cumming

discharge

artwork by stickleback2

Jack of Diamonds

discharge

Rate of the Echo

Rate of the Echo

that which ends. Easy and languid in this densest of nights. Beneath infinities. A storm of sadness, crosses buckling under the weight implicit in their architecture. Subcutaneous wisps laugh with medicinal glee, take another drag off of a refuge never seen again. Awash in acrostics, hieroglyphs swimming through your palms at a rate that can't be sung. An outline of terror gleaned from the mechanical myriad, yet clung to by the ambrosia of pure damnation.

You are a miracle making the long climb

towards nothing again.

salir des anges avec les jolies visages

discharge

salir des anges avec les jolies visages

Barbara

Shuffling and Breathing

daring utility flying fish yippies

^ cocAine jEsus^doRiandRa sMith^stiCKleback2^rAven^matiNa^miA mAlkiA^

thiErry tilLier^porCElain skull^Peter ciCCariellO ^docTor anThony doNOvan^

tHE nEw brOOm on tHe blOG

Whore Frost

Because of a debate.

The first was the clicking of bones, the second the odd burrchatter that came from the wind snaking in and out of the Belltower. The third we all knew already (Captain Mandible's odd snatch of dialogue still hanging in the air) and the fourth, a blasted acorn of despair that curled up somewhere near his SCN and started bloating his sense of time.

Reading James Joyce

...and tapping finger nails

freddy and his playthings.

humble

hymble

hemble

New Year

This time last year,
I was in a coma,
I was dead to the world.

I wasn't alive.

All I could hear were the plastic sheets.

I thought I was a project.

I thought I was a project of tubes.

I wondered if I was alive.

This time last year,
I was in a coma,
Dying.
Leaving the world.

It wasn't terrifying.
It was a release.

To fly across ceilings,
With no movement.
Even my breathing was controlled by bags and concertina air,
I thought that life was white.
Like music.

I went into different places.
I went up into the sky.

I saw everything in white.

A New Year,
Or a New Year,
Or a New Year,
Or just:

Wake up
Wake up
Don't sleep forever.

she said

"i pull the string and he is bound to leap.
it is
NOW
just a question of how high?"

all i could say was

"hmmm"

hand relief

oh to be a duffy, doughty, willoughby or leek

early 1890's
amos doughty of suffolk married virginia duffy of ireland
four sons had they and one named
albert thomas diamond jubilee
born as he was on queen victoria's celebratory year
a half english half irish son of empire
why they moved to london is anybody's guess
maybe they didn't
(but)
albert married hilda florence willoughby
to confuse the issue and hide his bloodline
or was it love?
lust?
they lived in upton park
and his children
edward, eileen, richard, patrica and maureen
learnt the words and the songs
of ireland
old ireland
bruised and abused and lyrical ireland
and they played with their cousins
the murphys and
the doyles and
the prigans
oh to be a duffy, doughty, willoughby or leek

god bless animals

in cold comfort he cages the words in code

the better to hide behind me dears

cages the words to secret the meaning

and loose the verb that has no feeling

but the climb up his arse is a long rope

and he spends many a day there

studying his d&g like a bible

like a bible full of tripe and trip wire

with the intent of becoming intellectual.

intellectual my fat backside me dears

oh for the blush of cruel animals

that acts with instinct

and hates with passion

anything better than the semaphor of prose

anything better than that pretension.

copyright forsaken

Merry HOHOHO & All That SHIT!

capstan make it

too much vodka i guess
too much coke
his sphincter opened like a flower and in concert with his stomach drew this pretty pattern...

all words and art are

bush and blair discuss who to fuck next

Where is Popo Pupalatchki (when you need him now)?

PoPo PiPi

sex & death

discharge (stains on the blanket)