everything is now

clown school pics

2009-11-12T18:21:09+01:00

Comments

recent happenings

2009-11-12T18:16:59+01:00

Comments

coral

2009-09-14T21:34:06+02:00

i will make a mermaid of her:

i will whisper
of lips
of red eyelashes

of the freckles around her coral mouth

as if all the things in the ocean
conspired to make her face
a beautiful sad diagonal
swaying in the undertow,

a soft sea gaze
floating in a moving tangle of amber seaweed

she will fix her eyes to yours like barnicles
and her skin will dip and slide beneath yours
full of sea-fruits and salty promises

you will see her for as long as you can hold your breath

when you surface
still tasting red honey
you'll remember her tongue
swimming slowly
like a sleepy pink fish
as she tried to mouth something to you
under water

Comments

beloveds

2009-09-04T21:17:48+02:00

so, beloved ones,

its official, will be staying in spain til at least november - have enrolled for autumn academy here at The Independent Republique of Failure on Ibiza... (its a clown school... the documentary below sold it to me) looks juicy and challenging - 2 months from sept 28, and probably doing 2 weeks trapeze intensive 14-23rd sep in barcelona's Escola de Circ Rogelio Rivel... - spending the rest of the time studying spanish, swimming and eating fruit... VENGA!

http://www.bonts.com/

come visit ibiza or barcelona!
x
love

--
---
"Whatever I do is done out of sheer joy; I drop my fruits like a ripe tree. What the general reader or the critic makes of them is not my concern."
Henry Miller

blog: hernandez.blog.co.uk
number: +447946457908
skype username: tryhardtobekind

Comments

burbujas

2009-08-28T16:27:16+02:00

Comments

the surname of sleep

2009-08-26T19:14:24+02:00

"You see," he says to me casually, "the moth is way up there by the white wall of the doorway, and it is visible only because it moves. From here it almost looks like a bird high up in the sky, if you think of the wall as the sky. That's probably how the moth sees the wall, and only we know it is wrong. But it doesn't know that we know. It doesn't know we exist. You try to communicate with it, if you can. Can you tell it anything in a way it understands; can you be sure it has understood you completely?"

"I don't know," I replied, "Can you?"

"Yes," the old man said quietly, and with a clap of his hands he killed the moth, then proffered its crushed body on the palm of his hand.

"Do you think it didn't understand what I told it?"...

..."Now, imagine" he went on, "that there is somebody who knows about us what we know about this moth. Somebody who knows how, with what, and why this space that we call the sky and assume to be boundless, is bounded - somebody who cannot approach us to let us know he exists except in one way - by killing us."

"Somebody on whose garments we are nourished, somebody who carries our death in his hand like a tongue, as a means of communicating with us. By killing us, this anonymous being informs us about himself. And we, through our deaths, which may be no more than a warning to some wayfarer sitting alongside the assassin, we, i say, can at the last moment perceive, as through an opened door, new fields and other boundaries. The sixth and highest degree of fear (where there is no memory) is what holds and links us anonymous participants in the game. The hierarchy of death is, in fact, the only thing that makes possible a system of contacts between various levels of reality in an otherwise vast space where deaths endlessly repeat themselves like echoes within echoes."

Milorad Pavic The Khazar Dictionary

Comments

stop

2009-08-23T11:30:20+02:00

The fact of the fugitive life is that you have to keep on escaping, every day and every night.
Gregory David Roberts

Arrive in the flatlands with a flat tyre. Roll slowly off the ferry, lopsided, but full of determination.

Make the repair and get to Amsterdam in good time.

Meet her and walk, surrounded by the usual scenery: cafes, shops, markets, parks, bored looking people.

Feel out of it for the rendezvous, lopsided, lost for words.

Evening. Blue Tea House, Vondelpark. You sit, she lies, her head in your lap, looking up into the trees, in the fading light. She reaches her arms up around you, pressing her head into your chest and embracing you.

After all the bullshit she finally says something that makes sense to you.

Let me go, it’s the only way for me to find out how I really feel.

Drive. Drive on, through Holland, Belgium, France, stopping only for coffee, petrol. Drive for 15 hours or more, without blinking, for 500, 900, 1200 kilometres, with no spare tyre. Pause, blink, fill up, drink, but do not think, drive on.

1300 kilometres. Southwest France. Heat… the sun rolling over everything, the roaring engine beneath you, your dry burning eyes, and a smell, like something is melting. The floor of the van is getting hotter under your bare feet, the gears are not shifting as they should.

You are approaching Spain, and something is coming loose. No garage is in sight, only the road, only the Pyrenees looming in the near distance, The Iberian Peninsula. Drive. Drive on.

Approaching the toll gate, trying to shift down a gear, something snaps. It is the gear stick. It has broken off completely and is loose in your hand. The engine is still in fifth gear, with no way to change.

Roll into the toll, pressing the clutch down, stationary in fifth gear, holding a metal stick in one hand and counting out money for the cashier with the other.

You are walking, in a desolate industrial area of Hayenne, a weird little ghost town in the far south west corner of France, just off the motorway, 5 kilometres away from the Spanish border. You see huge grey corrugated buildings, clean wide streets completely devoid of humans, a prefabricated world deadly still under the fierce sun. You need to piss.

Walk into a post office, see seats in lines, a counter with a glass window, a stopped clock, no people, just a low hum. Find the toilet, and later, elsewhere, a mechanic.

The knife bears down into the last piece of the bread you brought with you from England. You are sitting, consuming the last remnants of a life you are leaving behind, under a tree, on a sharp, thick, dense little scrap of grass, overlooking an empty playground, in front of a huge grey building whose ground floor shop-unit is occupied by a funeral parlour. Everything has stopped. The insects have stopped, the birds have stopped, time has stopped, the prefabricated buildings have stopped, the people have stopped, the future has stopped.

You did not want to stop yet. Terrible thoughts escape when you stop. You did not want it to end. Now, the fatigue - of a 20 hour journey, of this incessant silence now widening between us, of this broken feeling you are left with – grips your body.

The sweetness, the safe haven you shared, has gone. The passion lived through her, has now to find a new place to live, here, in this body, where it does not yet fit.

You have driven your vehicle too far without stopping, until parts of it have bent and snapped. It seems you must now break down, and you must find yourself to be here, at the border between countries, alone, in this empty place.

And the universe says

Stop here. Stop here and be alone. Do not be afraid. Feel this, it is yours. You are not ready to pass in to Spain yet.

You are trying to listen.

In the workshop a miserable French man with hard black oily hands is ripping out broken pieces of your vehicle and welding them back together, and under this tree you are sobbing, pulling out broken bits from your own blocked up innards and laying them on the grass in front of you. Your fear, your arrogance, your weak, impulsive, destructive behaviours, your half-finished thoughts, your dependence, your reluctance and your denial, your mis-spent energies, which, so shamefully, you laid out before her.

Your soul, cut open, exposed, which does not want to be alone, which, above all, clings doggedly to the idea of two, asks you

what is freedom without love?

and you still don't know. You only know that now you are going to find out, and it shouldn't be so terrifying, but it is. So you sob. There is pain in your chest, in your throat, in your eyes, in you guts, as you weep for these broken parts of yourself.

Lay them out in front of you now, then say goodbye.

Leave it all here, on the grass, under this tree. Pull out the broken car parts and make some space for this passion to fit inside you again.

Call her back, and say goodbye, and mean it this time.

Spain has opened its mouth and swallowed you. You enter a mountainous region, the van labouring up hills and coasting down them, passing through weaving roads and tunnels. You think of the tunnels as a part of your own body, a Spanish part of you.

At the border, you felt light and empty. Loneliness is a prayer, a deep longing to know and feel. There is great strength in wanting. There is dignity, not shame, in loneliness, sorrow isn’t the enemy.

Your body knows this, it needs you now.

By dawn you are in an arid, rocky landscape punctuated by small villages. The sun rises in a pink haze and you start to wonder who it is you want to be. Singularly, and whole heartedly, after what seems like your whole life, you ask yourself, at last, now that it’s all yours:

Who is it that I want to be?

Comments

la musica

2009-07-18T17:01:50+02:00

Comments

SENJI

2009-05-25T10:49:59+02:00

/ 1

A SINGLE LEATHER CASE
SITS STERN
ON THE FLOOR OF THE CARRIAGE.

HIS
SHORTENED LEFT LEG
WEARS A SPECIAL SHOE
WITH AN ENORMOUS PLATFORM.

TAKING OFF HIS SPECTACLES
HE SOON SNOOZES THERE LEANING
AGAINST THE PALM OF HIS HAND.

/ 2

CLUTCHING THE CASE
HE STANDS
IN A SCRUFFY PASTURE
BEHIND A DERELICT FARMHOUSE

A MASS OF WEEDS
GROWING AMONGST RUBBLE
CHICKEN WIRE
AND BROKEN TILES
TANGLES ITS VINES
THROUGH THE WINDOW

/ 3

HE DREAMS CHILDREN
FLOATING LIKE BALLOONS,

THEIR THOUSAND EYES
THEIR BURNING EARS
THEIR THREAD-LIKE VOICES,

RISE

Comments

For Solomon

2009-05-20T22:04:11+02:00

I CAME FROM TRINIDAD AT 5 YEARS OF AGE

MY MOTHER - FULL OF PULSATIONS
AND AGONIES AND REPETITIONS
- INSISTED ON BRINGING ME HERE.

HER DREAM
WAS STRONG

SHE ENCOURAGED ME
TO MAKE PAINTINGS
AND SANG TO ME
INCOMPREHENSIBLE SONGS:

"AGWE ARRORO
PROTECT YOUR LITTLE ONES,
RECEIVE
THE SPIRIT
OF ERZULIE:
OF EVERYTHING WHICH IS
MORE
THAN THAT
WHICH IS NECESSARY -
OF VUDUON:
THE MYSTERY THAT
IS GOD IN THE WORLD"

SHE KNEW
THE MOVEMENTS
OF CELESTIAL BODIES,
AND RELATED STORIES
BY GRAVITY

O
THE BEAUTIFUL COMPLEXITY OF THIS WOMAN:

MUSIC FOR THE EYES

Comments

FOOD OF THE GODS

2009-05-19T16:25:20+02:00

"There is something more. It is now clear that new developments in many areas - including mind-machine interfacing, pharmacology of the synthetic variety, and data storage, image and retrieval techniques - are coalescing into the potential for a truly demonic or an angelic self-imaging of our culture. Those who are on the demonic side of this process are fully aware of this potential and are hurrying full-tilt forward with their plans to capture the technological high ground. It is a position from which they hope to turn nearly everyone into a believing consumer in a beige fascism from whose image none will escape.

The shamanic response, the Archaic response, the human response, to this situation should be to locate the art pedal and push it to the floor. This is one of the primary functions of shamanism, and is the function that is tremendously synergised by the psychedelics. If psychedelics are exopheromones that dissolve the dominant ego, then they are also enzymes that synergise the human imagination and empower language. They cause us to connect and reconnect the contents of the collective mind in ever-more implausible, beautiful, and self-fulfilling ways.

If we are serious about an Archaic Revival, then we need a new paradigmatic image that can take us rapidly forward and through the historical choke point that we can feel impending and resisting a more expansive, more humane, more caring dimension that is insisting on being born. Our sense of political obligation, of the need to reform or save the collective soul of humanity, our wish to connect the end of history with the beginning of history - all of this should impel us to look at shamanism as an exemplary model. In the current global crisis we cannot fail to take its techniques seriously, even those which may challenge the divinely ordained covenants of the constabulary"

"You don't examine obsessive behaviour; you just do it. You let nothing get in the way of your gratification. This is the kind of life that we are being sold at every level. To watch, to consume, and to watch and consume yet more. The psychedelic option is off in a tiny corner, never mentioned; yet it represents the only counterflow directed against a tendency to leave people in designer states of consciousness. Not of their own designs, but the designers of Madison Avenue, of The Pentagon, of the Fortune 500 corporations. This isn't just a metaphor; it is really happening to us.

Looking down on Los Angeles from an airliner, I never fail to notice that it is like looking at a printed circuit: all those curved driveways and cul de sacs with the same little modules installed along each one. As long as the Readers Digest stays subscribed and the TV stays on, these modules are all interchangeable parts within a very large machine. This is the nightmarish reality Marshall McLuhan and Wyndham Lewis and others foresaw: the creation of the public as herd. The public has no history and no future, the public lives in a golden moment created by a credit system which binds them ineluctably to a web of illusions that is never critiqued. Their authenticity lies in their ability to obey and follow style changes that are conveyed through the media. It is a world of pornographic wealth and slavish consumerism where in the participants become nothing more than the petrified object of their own unrequited desires. Lurking beneath the glistening surface of their perpetual lust for enterprise exists a strange brand of horror - the freedom from meaning. This is the ultimate consequence of having broken off the symbiotic relationship with the Gaian matrix of the planet. This is the consequence of lack of partnership. This is the legacy of imbalance between the sexes; this is the terminal phase of a long descent into meaninglessness and toxic existential confusion.

The credit for giving us tools to resist this horror belongs to unsung heroes who are botanists and chemists, people such as Richard Schultes, the Wassons, and Albert Hoffman. Thanks to them we have, in this most chaotic of centuries, taken into our frail hands the means to do something about our predicament. Psychology, in contrast, has been complacent and silent. Psychologists have been content with behaviourist theory-making for fifty years, while knowing in their hearts that they were doing potentially fatal disservice to human dignity, by ignoring the potential of psychedelics."

Terrence Mckenna

Comments

madness

2009-05-17T19:07:29+02:00

when i call myself mad
i only acknowledge
the triumph of my own ego
over a perfectly beautiful
non compos mentis
reality

was i not
so hung up over myself
instead of being mad
i would merely be
a fascinated raconteur,
a tourist of untravelled countries

i would not ask stupid questions like
"am i mad?"

i would perhaps just shrug
and see madness
as just another tool
as another way to integrate

i will try
not to fear madness
or even the loss of my own limbs

if i die
or go mad
so be it

this is not bravery
it is only an attempt to be
less ego-centric
to acclimatise myself to
things

it is quite possible
for a man with no limbs
to light his own cigarette

so who are we to lament our own madness?

Comments

acting on instinct

2009-05-16T19:24:23+02:00

acting is believing oneself to be
someone or something else.

if you can believe with conviction
you will transform

life is a cabaret my friend
and the truth is
that god alone is wise

knowing that
you know
nothing

you might begin to try
to inhabit
or embody
another you

maybe a bit-part
maybe an extra
maybe a cowboy or an injun

whoever

just act it
with conviction
and belief

knowing that
truth
is only as true
as you can be

Comments

coleoptera

2009-05-11T22:26:02+02:00

AND I SEE
a beetle:
the black scarab of the ancient pharaohs -
rolling a ball of dung across the cement floor.
Egyptians once believed the beetle
strong enough to roll the sun
across the heavens

and i see you there, sweating
on a creaking bed, sweating
beneath a musty mosquito net,
lying on a dirty mattress. there is
music outside. it is still light.
the market traders are still
selling their wares as you lie, still,
waiting for cooler, darker hours

meanwhile, thoughts meander and drip, sweating,
slipping off anything solid, dwelling
nowhere, evaporating.

it's hard to think straight in the heat.
it's hard to sleep.

you turn sideways and laugh.
probably you would be better off
outside, somewhere shaded.
at least the air would move, but

out there you will be cajoled
you stick out like a sore thumb.

no, stay here.
close your eyes for a bit and listen

you hear
high spirited talk
melancholy music
the rattle of decrepid rickshaws
rusty automobiles

everything has been rolled over
ravaged by the incessant sun.

at last
sleep is coming
and strange dreams.
sweating, slippery dreams
of laughing buddhas and
dancing shivas and
The Cave.

you hope to dream of rain
rumbling rolling rain,
but that dream must wait.

you
dream about the temple again.
you have lost your sandals and
must now walk barefoot. you look
down and see that you are naked.
you have lost your clothes.

you
run, in the heat, your feet dirty
and burning. you run - hiding your
penis in a cupped hand - from the
brown-skinned locals, who stare at
you angrily. they are deeply offended
by your nudity and intend to do violence.

they
surround you, holding sticks
and machetes. its hot, too hot to
run. where are your clothes? where
are you? what is this stink of
sweat and bad food?

you
do not wake up.

you
do not realise that
this is a dream.

a man orders you to lie down, and
you do. the people lower a heavy
stone slab over your whole body
so that you cannot move

you are still cupping your balls in
your hands and you hear the beetle,
scratching at the parched
earth near your toes.

Comments

Meshes of The Afternoon

2009-05-07T01:13:07+02:00

and shadows fall
straight down
sharp as the midday sun.

she walks
toward a door
a slight breeze moves her hair.

in the house,
sitting straight down
closing her eyes
to look
receding
as the sweltering afternoon
sleeps.

a second person
the same as her
dreams
floating now
between each step
deliberate.

she
pulls a key
from between her lips
the room turning
sideways.

returning to that bed
where death left flowers on the pillow
where sleeping lips glisten and taste of metal
she opens the old wounds
of her former self.

taking slow giant steps
towards her double,
crushing whole worlds
beneath her sandles

she holds the knife
before her.

and blood seeps
seaweed slow

and around again
turns the room
a glass smashing there

her gestures
her movements
her steps
deliberate

Comments

love

2009-05-05T11:51:19+02:00

love
is not a harpsichord concert
in a genteel drawing room
it isn't social security
the lottery
or roller disco

i think of the lunar card
in the tarot deck
some strange huge crustacean
its armour glistening and
its pincers wiggling
clatters out of a pool
while wild dogs howl at the moon

underneath the hearts and flowers
love is loony like that

attempts to housebreak it
to dress the crabs up like doves
and sing soprano
always result in thin blood
you end up with a parody

Comments

Room 11 (Vasha Znakomaia)

2009-05-02T20:08:32+02:00

Out on the factory floor
workers in gray smocks
operate the presses
and down bares the large blade
through piles of newspapers
sad and determined.

Discarded cuttings
fall empty there.

One dark corner
is stacked with huge cogs

In another room
the typists finger
drops like a piston
and the sunlight
all wrinkled
scribbles sparkling white lines
in a water decanter.

Climb up the stairs
hold on to the banisters
cutting light into strips
that float on the carpet

Cling and sway
my lady
The soft varnished wood
under your smooth hand
hesitant

Pick up the scissors
and press them into your neck child,
for the world is too thin

Sort through
the myriad lamps
the leather shoes
the ashen smell of fresh print
the gigantic reels
of paper

Arrange neatly
your quill and ink bottle

Draw letters
with a finger
on the dusty table top

Pick up the scissors
and cut your long hair sister
and cut off the sleeves of your dress

Discarded cuttings
under the arched doorway
where you fought
disheveled
automated
oiled

Comments

the acne man

2009-05-01T21:00:55+02:00

Asleep
on the coach from Santa Elena de Uairen to Puerto La Cruz
my bag was stolen from right beneath my feet,
in the stupid cozy darkness
at the end
of a ten hour journey.

As we came into the station
I heard a noise
and looked down
at a dark skinned Venezuelan man with acne scars.
I woke, and gave chase.

No good, he was faster, and the bag contained my shoes.
My tattered Pumas,
my notebook,
my music, my t-shirt and
absolutely nothing of
material value to
anyone but
me.

I gave chase anyway
in a tangle of Brazilian rubber flipflops
tripping and hurting my toe.

The tall man ducked away
into dusty favelas
far ahead
but still I chased,
cursing him and my own
stupidity
and the soft sleepy seats
of that coach

My tattered Pumas, my notebook,
my music, my t-shirt and
most importantly
all the words recorded
on that trip.

You see I was on the way
to meet my father
for the first (and last) time and I
wanted to get the notebook back.
I had written it all down.

He's dead now,
that crazy Gordo
drowned himself.

28 years old carrying a broken bottle
looking for the acne man
who stole my bag
no use
no shoes

at a certain point with dirty feet
breathing hard
bleeding from the toenail
you have to say
fuck it

Comments

Diary Entry: 9/11 Sept 2000, New York City, 24 years old

2009-04-29T12:56:43+02:00

Hello, New York is an inspiring place. On Tuesday I went to see LTJ Bukem DJing @ Centro-Fly. It was wicked. I love the way people move to drum and bass - so much more instinctive and sensual than techno. Met Sarah - she dressed dorky to hide the fact that she was really fit. She was an excellent dancer. I tried to make her kidnap me but it didn't work out.

The other day I made a stencil and did my first bit of spray-art in New York - or anywhere for that matter - it was fun.

Last night I was at a rooftop rave in Brooklyn and ended up going completely crazy with Kevin and Luciana. We were throwing paint everywhere and using fire hydrants as musical instruments and shouting "DESTROY EVERYTHING!"

Jen and Rikky had a party last Thursday. It was mostly a good laugh though a bit awkward at times. There were some really nice people there like that artsy designer girl and the funny fat caner girl who kept getting us more and more stoned. I got a bit paranoid I think. We got a taxi back across Brooklyn Bridge.

Tara's dog's dead. She was fighting back the tears and I really felt for her.

I've been thinking a lot and feel a bit melancholy like something is missing not just in me but in the whole way people interact and the social constraints. I just wish it was easier to communicate and we didn't have to go through so much shit... I guess this feeling arises when you're meeting nice people who you know you probably will never see again, and you feel like you want to get to know them instantly, and you do in a way, because you have to rely on them in the absence of anyone else who you might know better. I feel this underlying regret that it's all so finite and transitory, and it almost compares to deep love. I feel like I really love these people because I know I'm going to lose them very soon. It's kind of beautiful though, and somehow we all feel it I think.

There's still time so lets make the best of it. The thought of going back home and back to how it was fills me with trepidation. I fear the old me will return and I will become weak and fragile. I fear falling back into old cycles of dysfunction. These three weeks in New York have been pure and free and innocent and playful and FUN... Like the time I got drunk in Chelsea and ended up back in a hotel room with two lesbians showing me all the electric goods they bought in the Hello Kitty store, or singing at BMW's and stroking that cute little dog with that Lithuanian girl, or hearing PALEFACE play at the Sidewalk Cafe, or shopping at the Salvation Army on 20th and 8th, or spraying stencils or skidding around in the rain or swinging off scaffolds or climbing big rocks in Central Park or taking photo's of skyscrapers or VIP passes to the Empire State or belly dancers or Energy drinks or Vodka Lime Tonics or scrawling 'hello' on the toilet wall of Esperanto cafe or playing frisbee or laughing or Banana Stacks with Maple Syrup, or saying 'gimme a slice' without saying please or thankyou, or Being Direct.

Yesterday it rained hard. I went to MOMA (Museum of Modern Art) and snuck in for free. Now I'm at Chelsea Piers. Gotta go find my sister..... BYE!

Comments

ELEPHANTS SENSED THE WAVES COMING. Reuters

2009-04-28T11:29:06+02:00

KHAO LAK, THAILAND - Agitated elephants felt the tsunami coming, and their sensitivity saved about a dozen foreign tourists from the fate of thousands killed by the giant waves.

"I was surprised because the elephants had never cried before," mahout Dang Salangam said on Sunday on Khao Lak beach at the eight-elephant business offering rides to tourists.

The elephants started trumpeting -- in a way Dang, 36, and his wife Kulada, 24, said could only be described as crying -- at first light, about the time an earthquake measured at a magnitude of 9.0 cracked open the sea bed off Indonesia's Sumatra island.

The elephants soon calmed down. But they started wailing again about an hour later and this time they could not be comforted despite their mahouts' attempts at reassurance.

"The elephants didn't believe the mahouts. They just kept running for the hill," said Wit Aniwat, 24, who takes the money from tourists and helps them on to the back of elephants from a sturdy wooden platform.

Those with tourists aboard headed for the jungle-clad hill behind the resort beach where at least 3,800 people, more than half of them foreigners, would soon be killed. The elephants that were not working broke their hefty chains."Then we saw the big wave coming and we started running," Wit said.

Around a dozen tourists were also running toward the hill from the Khao Lak Merlin Resort, one of a line of hotels strung along the 10 km (6-mile) beach especially popular with Scandinavians and Germans.

"The mahouts managed to turn the elephants to lift the tourists onto their backs," Kulada said. She used her hands to describe how the huge beasts used their trunks to pluck the foreigners from the ground and deposit them on their backs. The elephants charged up the hill through the jungle, then stopped.

The tsunami drove up to 1 km (1,000 yards) inshore from the gently sloping beach which had been so safe for children it made Khao Lak an ideal place for a family holiday. But it stopped short of where the elephants stood.

On Sunday, the elephants were back at work giving rides to the tourists on whom the area depends.

German Ewald Heeg, who said he came from a small town near Frankfurt, said his charter company had offered his family -- wife, two daughters and one of their boyfriends -- the chance to go straight home, but he had turned it down.

"Our family is OK so we stay here to make our holiday," he said.

"Today, we make a safari. We go by elephants at first, then we make a boat trip.

By Mark Bendeich
Reuters
January 3, 2005

Comments

intimacy

2009-04-27T10:34:55+02:00

Intimacy is the principle source of the sugars with which life is sweetened. It is absolutely vital to the essential insanities. Without it humour becomes inoffensive and therefore pap, eroticism becomes inpersonal and therefore mechanical, poetry becomes exoteric and therefore prose, behaviour becomes predictable and therefore easy to control.

Tom Robbins

Comments

she

2009-04-26T15:48:07+02:00

She was swollen, stretched out, swelling beneath that transparent layer of silk.

Resisting the screaming exigency of his own bloated cock he refrained from ripping aside the damp fabric and tearing into her. Instead, a pause. Taut. Fecund. Then, he began nudging at her with his nose. She extended further: a space opening, a slow-motion surge to the tip of clit: the curve of his erection tapping insistently at her ankles.
He placed his hand on her belly and felt an undulation there - deep in her abdomen. Pressing upwards he pulled silk tight against the eddy of her opening, swaying into her with a big, flat tongue.
Her hips went into flux.

Comments

Frank

2009-04-25T11:13:22+02:00

1.
Frank crept slowly, aphid-like, through the trees. The birds were shrieking at each other up there, clinging onto those branches and pecking at the berries with their beaks, then prodding at them with their weird hard tongues. Frank was not pleased, not pleased at all. He had no predilection for creeping slowly, aphid-like, through the trees. The humidity prickled heavily on his forehead like a dead hedgehog, and he had lost one of his shoes back there in a bog, running away from those killer bees. No, it hadn't been a good day for Frank. He hadn't planned to embark on some hair-brain adventure when he'd boarded the W7 bus on Stroud Green Rd that morning. He'd had no inkling he would be being stalked by a gorilla on heat in the Amazon rainforest that afternoon, and not attending a seminar on 'Pet Insurance Policy Scheduling'.

"Jesus Christ!" he muttered, "Monkeys"
and then "FFFF, FFFFUCK" as he encountered an unexpected dip in the path and tripped, landing painfully on his wrist and a colony of seven million biting ants.

"EEEEEAAAAAAARRRRRRGGGGGGGH!" he said dispondently, extricating himself in as dignified a manner as he could muster, given the circumstances.

2.
Mona swung dolefully through the trees with the poise and grace one would expect from a primate in its natural habitat. In her small dark gorilla eyes was the tangible sadness of one who has been shunned, of one who has offered love but been refused. Hidden within those shimmering black baubles of sadness however was also a seed of determination and hope, and maybe even of joy and purpose. Mona was in love with a man from Stroud Green Road and she intended to have him even if it had to be by force...

Comments

if

2009-04-24T19:54:44+02:00

if i could write

i would wonder
aimlessly
through forests

picking beautiful words
like magic beans.

i would show you

that paper was trees once

we could count the years together,
draw water,
through stem and node
rooting depths
for nutrients
.

i would invite you
into my tunnels
and show you
concentric rings

if i could write

Comments

cafe cambodia

2009-04-22T19:58:00+02:00

Klip, Klop, the legless man walks, in his own way, on two stout, blunt, short, black, wooden stools, sitting on one as he moves the other. I too walk: straight past, not wanting to stop and stare. But how can I just walk by? I feel a lump in my throat, and pride in these people: the survivors. The legless man must have perceived me too, yet he ignored me - intent on the rhythm of his progress, shifting the weight of his torso from stool to stool on wiry brown arms.

stop.

stop here, at this cafe, sit down, smoke, order something.
"here's your coffee, the salad will be out shortly"
Klip, Klop.

Comments

two, three

2009-04-19T20:40:35+02:00

In the distance two huge cranes stood like insane mechanical giraffes under the clouds.

As she squeezed the over-ripe fruit it swelled and burst open, revealing stringy orange interiors. She offered it up to his mouth and he bit into the dripping flesh, taking a huge sickly mouthful. The juices and chunks of broken fruit dripped down his cheeks down his clothes and he chewed and they laughed.

They were to be married. These two.

His first wife.

The ferry hummed and whirred. They sat at a plastic table and looked out over the water and the gray sky and the cranes and the universe. She thought the cranes resembled lobsters.

" i like your crooked nose"
she said, eyes wet, scanning his face.

" i like you boots"

The heels of her boots were worn down unevenly. She tripped on them often.

She was an extrovert, his first wife, a talented exhibitionist, a good dancer, a mischievous arch-prankster with mercurial eyes. She smelled like sweets and her body was lithe and nimble. They had been friends for a long time. The love locked in the eyes like invisible smoke passing between them. It was white fire held in the mouth of a crocus flower.

The window creaks and I look out at the North Sea. It is foamy and cold and salty. It is too big to comprehend, surrounding us. We'll never understand it, so I take another swig of scotch from the bottle and think about something else. It's still dark. It's slate-blue, 6.38 in the morning, I still haven't slept. The blue slate sky stretches out towards Edinburgh. Scotland hovers before my eyes, scratching itself and waking up.

Comments

A Christmas Tale

2009-04-16T11:45:10+02:00

"NO!"

He stands up, knocking his plate off the table, a brown streak of gravy shit-staining his slightly crumpled trousers.

"30 YEARS I'VE HAD THIS BULLSHIT, YOU WANT A TANTRUM? I'LL GIVE YOU A PROPER FUCKING TANTRUM"

Granny opens her mouth to speak.
"now Felix..."

"DON'T YOU FUCKING START EITHER, NONE OF YOU STAND UP TO HER!"

Gravy, dripping, he stands - trampling half chewed sprouts and bread sauce into the carpet - and walks towards the Christmas tree, leaning forth to grip its piney boughs. The tree shakes, needles dropping, baubles swaying, as he lifts it, ripping the fairylights from the socket, flimsy branches scratching loudly against textured yellow wallpaper.

"Felix! No!"

"ITS TOO LATE!"

He curls his lips back and lifts the tree over his head, a rain of needles bouncing off his blinking eyelids, takes a deep breath and hurls it towards the window with all of his force, hissing through his teeth. An explosion of green and glass, a horrible twist of tree-lights tentacle across the room.

He looks down at his palms, perforated by sickly smelling bright green pine needles. Nobody moves.

"You see? you see what you've done?"
"I've gone mad and it's all your fault."

Comments

doors to ariel

2009-04-14T23:56:56+02:00

in the indent of her pulse
were flashes of inspiration
a quiet thump
of soft matresses
flung on the floor

tap tapping
into darkness
we spoke
as if words were animals
baying in the red dusk

their eyelids droop and wane like suns

and small things
is what we were there
as each short sleep
dissolved another layer
like honey on ricepaper

we awoke relieved, younger
closer to childhood
hid under a table
whispering childish things

Comments

up to the present

2009-04-14T14:54:41+02:00

up to the present
my idea
in collaboration with myself
has been to get off the gold standard of literature
my idea briefly
has been to present a ressurection of the emotions
to depict the conduct of a human being in the stratosphere of ideas
that is
in the grip of delirium
to paint a presocratic being
a creature part goat part titan
in short
to erect a world on the basis of the OMPHALOS
not an abstract idea nailed to a cross

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4HQJyAacTnc

Comments

Postcard from Finsbury Park

2008-12-07T18:01:11+01:00

A Polish man with red hair combed into a side parting arrives with a steaming plate of egg, baked beans, sausage, mushroom, and chips.

"Your toast is coming"

You are sipping Earl Grey tea in a small cafeteria opposite the gates to Finsbury Park. The food is cheap, the decor is simple and the windows are large enough to see the big dirty city squinting outside. Pedestrians walk purposefully by with hands in pockets, moving from Point A to Point B, under a blanket of dust and grime, past black rubber and asphalt, in phase with the traffic lights, on the unsleeping floor, babbling, limping, but limping with purpose.

It is a London Sunday, the afternoon masquerading as morning after another long lay-in.
The cafe is half empty and mostly people sit alone at the small tables: a pensioner, a paraplegic, a small group of students, a Senegalese mother feeding chips to her young boy. The eyes in the faces sparkle with untold stories.

A man enters. He is very old. His clothes are worn and dirty. His face is strangely empty: a mass of thick white skin caving in beneath a tattered woolen hat. His eyes - pale, pale blue, almost white, like a wolfs eyes - fix upon the North African girl behind the counter. He smiles a little and orders a tea, lingering whilst she busies herself, wanting to talk. In a soft Scottish accent he asks her if she will give him a photograph of herself.

"Leave me alone Edward, you know I wont do that" she says, with a tone of playful reproach.

Edward takes his tea and goes to sit down. He moves stiffly across the room, hardly bending his legs with each step. His trousers are disheveled - both too short and too wide - and have gathered up into the crease of his arse. Perplexing, you think, the effects of age on the human arse. Finally he places his tea on the table and sits, pulling a ragged newspaper from the pocket of his stained brown jacket.

The gentle creases around his pale eyes spread like capillaries as he reads, lifting an elbow to bring the mug towards his lips, the hot liquid making them shine. He swallows slowly, revealing more wrinkles around his mouth, leafless trees creaking against a white winter sky.

The strange old man turns his pale eyes towards the North African waitress.

"When will you be in again Jessica?" he asks.

"Next weekend" she replies, unperturbed.

Comments