a future teacher
i am constantly hiding traces
this summer air
makes my brain
melt
sludge
like sex
in the night haze
and no-one suspects a thing
stolen blankets
sucking thumbs
realistically, a suicide mission
my karma
turns me into
mud
blood
fire
drown in the heavy-set
liquid
lungs are concrete
eyes are
misguided
missiles set on flesh
only cadavers sleep/cadavers only sleep
where do i
fit in?
my
father's laugh ricochets inside
my
skull
it's a pale echo
we are our own enemies and we die fighting ourselves, never each other
respectable men perish like dust
Monday, 31 May 2010
Tuesday, 16 February 2010
Do you like Aphex Twin, Stefan?
CIRCUS FREAKS ALL WEEK!
LALOO!
No more lies Stefan. Eve, go easy on the boredom. Smells brand new. Egyptian motifs and middle fingers.
B&W.
LALOO!
No more lies Stefan. Eve, go easy on the boredom. Smells brand new. Egyptian motifs and middle fingers.
B&W.
Wednesday, 10 February 2010
EDWARD NORTON IN THE BATHTUB
A CHILD'S BROKEN LEG. SHE SITS NURSING BRUISES>SHE SITS CURSING NURSES. HER MOTHER WAS A DRUNK, SLURRED PROFANITIES BROKE EARDRUMS AND FINGERS>TEARS MAKING PATHS IN HER MUDDIED FACE. FATHER WORKED. FATHER WEARY AND TIRED/ CAN@T SEE HER PATHS> HER EYES DON'T MEET ANYMORE. A PROPER STANDARD PINOCHET. WILL SHE BE DIGNIFIED? STANDS IN A PLAYGROUND. CENTRAL. EXPOSED. SUN BURNS HOLES IN HER POCKETS> THIS TIME NEXT YEAR MAYBEALITTLEHELP. DREAMS OF HER BROTHER SO FAR AWAY. HE FORGETS SHE EXISTS. SHE MAKES DAISY CHAINS. SHE WISHES SHE COULD BAKE. HER DRESSES ARE RIPPED. ALL THE KIDS WITH BELLS AND WHISTLES, MOTHER SUCKER SUCKER SUCKER SUCKER PUNCH. WHAT FUN AND GAMES. A CLICHED IMAGE OF A BEAR. INSIDE THE BEAR IS A SECRET.
"FOR CRYING OUT LOUD! ALPHONSE! Help the fucking girl! Jesus..."
"Colonel, she's dead."
"Shit, Alphonse, that's the third dead child I've seen today ...Right, chin up, we've got to keep moving."
All my pictures have thumbmarks on them.
Twisted ankles, broken bangles, pens.
sex scandal sex scandal sex scandal sex scandal sex scandal sex scandal sex scandal sex scandal sex scandal sex scandal
they've become letters and the words are just sounds. if you say something over and over it loses all meaning. the same works with thoughts. think the same thing over and over and it becomes a reaction. most probably a reflex, not geniune human nature. we're robotic. chemical. our pens and and the propulsion of ink on paper reflects not individuality but the succumbing of man to his motor and electrical impulses. creation is futile and vain. all the words you write, no matter how innocent you can pretend they are, have ulterior motive. it's just the case with everyone. the inherent exists constantly and man is often treated as mad because sometimes the inherent is obvious. placing man under the spotlight so sharply triggers the defense reflex and any accusations or statements are usually withdrawn or stopped. is there a solution to this? there doesn't need to be. life is chaos, but malleable chaos. my fucking head is all over the shop this morning. attention!
"FOR CRYING OUT LOUD! ALPHONSE! Help the fucking girl! Jesus..."
"Colonel, she's dead."
"Shit, Alphonse, that's the third dead child I've seen today ...Right, chin up, we've got to keep moving."
All my pictures have thumbmarks on them.
Twisted ankles, broken bangles, pens.
sex scandal sex scandal sex scandal sex scandal sex scandal sex scandal sex scandal sex scandal sex scandal sex scandal
they've become letters and the words are just sounds. if you say something over and over it loses all meaning. the same works with thoughts. think the same thing over and over and it becomes a reaction. most probably a reflex, not geniune human nature. we're robotic. chemical. our pens and and the propulsion of ink on paper reflects not individuality but the succumbing of man to his motor and electrical impulses. creation is futile and vain. all the words you write, no matter how innocent you can pretend they are, have ulterior motive. it's just the case with everyone. the inherent exists constantly and man is often treated as mad because sometimes the inherent is obvious. placing man under the spotlight so sharply triggers the defense reflex and any accusations or statements are usually withdrawn or stopped. is there a solution to this? there doesn't need to be. life is chaos, but malleable chaos. my fucking head is all over the shop this morning. attention!
Monday, 1 February 2010
RIPLEY'S RIGHT HAND
The next story will be about a sex scandal. Maybe it will involve Zachali, the character from an unfinished story. That cheeky old loverboy. What a fox. Maybe Munroe Fox. Maybe it will involve the Colonel from the other story I am plotting based on certain visual experience? Maybe seventeen sons all with bullet wounds between the eyes. Maybe Ripley's Right Hand. I think I'm feeling a lot better. Bright colours. Tennis players from Alabama. Tails, 50ft tall, long-legged. Who knows? Have some pictures.
Wednesday, 27 January 2010
Tuesday, 26 January 2010
E A R P L U G S
I've never had such blissful sleep as I did whilst having these beautiful pieces of expanding rubber pushed deep into my ears. When you've blocked out the sound of unnoticeable, invisible things it becomes clear how loud they really are. Water running through a pipe. A red fox's pawsteps in the loud air, along the creaking earth. The bricks your house is built from, rubbing against the cement, against each other. At the same time, the growling hum of the fridge, the clunking of the washing machine, pipes stretching themselves, stretching their metal arms to ensure they are useful when the sun rises. The handles of cupboards, loudly aching to be pulled or twisted, like the audible desire of downtrodden housewives, opressed by the jealous patriarch. Convulsing electronics, unsure when to keep quiet. The cause of an unpredictable life. Lightbulbs dancing to the loud, evening music of the breeze and sleeping birds. An unbearable cacophony of silence.
All gone once I've filled my ears. I become aware of my breathing, the hard beating of my heart that seems like it's resonating from miles off, a pounding of Thor's hammer against the bare earth, when my breath increases and I'm aware of the images inside my mind. Images of skin. Afterwards, while turning over, a wheezing sound tells me the air has been pushed out of my lungs. So liberating. I become aware of the blood inside my veins. Each individual cell. They are bustling like the women of my past life at the market place, queuing for meat and vegetables, queuing to feed their families. Pushing against each other, anxious to get something decent, worn down from the early rises and the late nights and brave face that is eating into their real one. Worn down to acceptance. Worn like rags. My bones creak. It runs in the family. I imagine a road and it's completely silent: so beautiful. This place I'm in right now, it's the best place in the world. Complete solitude. No worry, no chemical reactions filtering my reactions and thoughts. Darkness and silence. I can finally think clearly, devoid of the shouts from girls and boys interested in "culture". I'm trying to avoid using the words "fad" and "craze" and "latest trend" because it's all one trend. It's always been one, fluid trend. There are those who want to be part of the trend; they are accepted. There are those who are hypocrites. I am a hypocrite. I hate the trend, but it loves me so much I accept it. It makes me hate myself sometimes. Velvet is ugly, but people buy it. The trend doesn't care, it's not real. People care and they shouldn't and this is what I fortunately forget when the earplugs are in and all I can hear is my body living.
All gone once I've filled my ears. I become aware of my breathing, the hard beating of my heart that seems like it's resonating from miles off, a pounding of Thor's hammer against the bare earth, when my breath increases and I'm aware of the images inside my mind. Images of skin. Afterwards, while turning over, a wheezing sound tells me the air has been pushed out of my lungs. So liberating. I become aware of the blood inside my veins. Each individual cell. They are bustling like the women of my past life at the market place, queuing for meat and vegetables, queuing to feed their families. Pushing against each other, anxious to get something decent, worn down from the early rises and the late nights and brave face that is eating into their real one. Worn down to acceptance. Worn like rags. My bones creak. It runs in the family. I imagine a road and it's completely silent: so beautiful. This place I'm in right now, it's the best place in the world. Complete solitude. No worry, no chemical reactions filtering my reactions and thoughts. Darkness and silence. I can finally think clearly, devoid of the shouts from girls and boys interested in "culture". I'm trying to avoid using the words "fad" and "craze" and "latest trend" because it's all one trend. It's always been one, fluid trend. There are those who want to be part of the trend; they are accepted. There are those who are hypocrites. I am a hypocrite. I hate the trend, but it loves me so much I accept it. It makes me hate myself sometimes. Velvet is ugly, but people buy it. The trend doesn't care, it's not real. People care and they shouldn't and this is what I fortunately forget when the earplugs are in and all I can hear is my body living.
Monday, 18 January 2010
TIMBACA/RUSLATIVER
PART 3:
A brown gooze flowed into the rhinocerous's eyes. Trembling, opening the paper sog with her cardboard fooves and twinkling her nose, she looked anxious. I tried to picture the rhinocerous as she looked before, in my nightstories, but all I could see in my memory was the image before me. Having been alone for such a long time now, I don't think I could have stopped myself from going over.
"Hello."
A silence stabbed at the air, clutching.
Not awkward however.
"Do you need a hand with that?"
"OH! Crikey, I didn't see you there. I, uh, am just trying to open this bloody sog, but my fooves are too bloody big," the rhinocerous coyly replied (cheeky).
"Sorry, don't you mean box and hooves?" I was perplexed. It seemed inbetween all the "self-exploration" and thinking I was doing, I realised I hardly ever stated anything. I needed to stop asking questions and start asserting myself but first, this puzzle.
"Ah, no no. I see you've only just arrived and made me. I knew I was going to exist soon, but I didn't realise that you'd given me birth. As I imagine when you were a human, you didn't remember your birth. As for my fooves," her hooves melted into strange rectangular brown fingers, "I can choose between fingers and hooves whenever I want, so this is a simple and efficient way of describing my limbs. And clearly, this isn't a box, it's far too wet, wouldn't you agree?"
Stumped, I nodded my head sheepishly. Clearly, I still had much to learn about this strange metaphysical reality, if that even is the correct terminology. If terminology is even relevant. If anything is even relevant.
"I want to know what I have to do here," I tried to assert. It's difficult not to ask questions when you don't know what is going on at all.
"If the trees line-up and the birds sing songs in an open space, can I paint my face?" was the ridiculous reply. She had sung it in a strange, strained way like something filled her body and control was lost. Nothing seemed to be making sense and it was so frustrating, so difficult to maintain logic and contact with any real thought. Bubbles formed out of the brown gooze that was still flowing into the rhinocerous and formed letters above me, forcing me to strain my neck looking up.
B E N I C E T O Y O U R F R I E N D S A N D
D O
N O T B E A F
R A I D T
O
D A N C E
The brown bubbles blupped and popped back into the fabric of nature and life and out of physical existence. Looking at the shy, clearly sad rhinocerous, I realised something extremely important.
"I'm sorry, let me help you with that." I said, offering her, (I assumed it was a her as she had a high pitched voice, red lipstick and beautiful ornate, pencil eyelashes, like the curls on exotic wallpaper, a hand with the brown sog. She handed it over with no fight and the wet paper fell apart in my hands, reminding me of a bad dance teacher who can't keep a class in check. Fell apart. Suddenly, I had a flashback to when I was alive (I had stopped questioning the xylophone, I was clearly dead and he was right) and a beautiful girl, with big gentle eyes and curly red hair wearing a denim dress with no sleeves and a thin belt, held my face. She then dissolved into sand and annoyingly, the flashback was over. Nothing seemed to last more than a fucking second in this damn place. I remembered who she was though, and a massive warthm came over me, just like when I had first woken up here. I vouched to be nice to the rhinocerous and not let jealousy or paranoia ruin the clearly fragile friendship I had already. Regardless of my thoughts, I now had the contents in my hands.
Predictably, it was a compass. It had three hands and instead of the expected N, E, S, W letters, it had eight points on the compass and clockwise they were:
LIFE
WATER DEATH
FRIENDSHIP JOY
HER PAIN
CHAOS
I had no idea what this compass meant, but it looked boring.
"I think this is yours," I told the rhinocerous, who looked, all of a sudden, distinctly happier.
"No, I think it is yours. Take it and go to what you want. I'll see you at friendship."
Strange. Again, I stood alone in this vast expance, wishing I didn't exist.
A brown gooze flowed into the rhinocerous's eyes. Trembling, opening the paper sog with her cardboard fooves and twinkling her nose, she looked anxious. I tried to picture the rhinocerous as she looked before, in my nightstories, but all I could see in my memory was the image before me. Having been alone for such a long time now, I don't think I could have stopped myself from going over.
"Hello."
A silence stabbed at the air, clutching.
Not awkward however.
"Do you need a hand with that?"
"OH! Crikey, I didn't see you there. I, uh, am just trying to open this bloody sog, but my fooves are too bloody big," the rhinocerous coyly replied (cheeky).
"Sorry, don't you mean box and hooves?" I was perplexed. It seemed inbetween all the "self-exploration" and thinking I was doing, I realised I hardly ever stated anything. I needed to stop asking questions and start asserting myself but first, this puzzle.
"Ah, no no. I see you've only just arrived and made me. I knew I was going to exist soon, but I didn't realise that you'd given me birth. As I imagine when you were a human, you didn't remember your birth. As for my fooves," her hooves melted into strange rectangular brown fingers, "I can choose between fingers and hooves whenever I want, so this is a simple and efficient way of describing my limbs. And clearly, this isn't a box, it's far too wet, wouldn't you agree?"
Stumped, I nodded my head sheepishly. Clearly, I still had much to learn about this strange metaphysical reality, if that even is the correct terminology. If terminology is even relevant. If anything is even relevant.
"I want to know what I have to do here," I tried to assert. It's difficult not to ask questions when you don't know what is going on at all.
"If the trees line-up and the birds sing songs in an open space, can I paint my face?" was the ridiculous reply. She had sung it in a strange, strained way like something filled her body and control was lost. Nothing seemed to be making sense and it was so frustrating, so difficult to maintain logic and contact with any real thought. Bubbles formed out of the brown gooze that was still flowing into the rhinocerous and formed letters above me, forcing me to strain my neck looking up.
B E N I C E T O Y O U R F R I E N D S A N D
D O
N O T B E A F
R A I D T
O
D A N C E
The brown bubbles blupped and popped back into the fabric of nature and life and out of physical existence. Looking at the shy, clearly sad rhinocerous, I realised something extremely important.
"I'm sorry, let me help you with that." I said, offering her, (I assumed it was a her as she had a high pitched voice, red lipstick and beautiful ornate, pencil eyelashes, like the curls on exotic wallpaper, a hand with the brown sog. She handed it over with no fight and the wet paper fell apart in my hands, reminding me of a bad dance teacher who can't keep a class in check. Fell apart. Suddenly, I had a flashback to when I was alive (I had stopped questioning the xylophone, I was clearly dead and he was right) and a beautiful girl, with big gentle eyes and curly red hair wearing a denim dress with no sleeves and a thin belt, held my face. She then dissolved into sand and annoyingly, the flashback was over. Nothing seemed to last more than a fucking second in this damn place. I remembered who she was though, and a massive warthm came over me, just like when I had first woken up here. I vouched to be nice to the rhinocerous and not let jealousy or paranoia ruin the clearly fragile friendship I had already. Regardless of my thoughts, I now had the contents in my hands.
Predictably, it was a compass. It had three hands and instead of the expected N, E, S, W letters, it had eight points on the compass and clockwise they were:
LIFE
WATER DEATH
FRIENDSHIP JOY
HER PAIN
CHAOS
I had no idea what this compass meant, but it looked boring.
"I think this is yours," I told the rhinocerous, who looked, all of a sudden, distinctly happier.
"No, I think it is yours. Take it and go to what you want. I'll see you at friendship."
Strange. Again, I stood alone in this vast expance, wishing I didn't exist.
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