TTTTTGGGG

here there be...

Urstings and Birthday Beasts

...she offered, but got rejected and had to fold her limbs away.

"Even as a birthday present... it's a poor show; I've seen buckles bigger than that kids head," said Geoff, his arm waving Masonic Distress Signals that he couldn't remember receiving.

Still, Janice waited for her moment; cursed Geoff under her breath - Anaal Nathrakked him, multi-tracked her sideways glances into a wave of mutilation.

Geoff stood still; taking the blows and preparing to burst the candle flames.

Janice smiled, found herself an unexpected Janus.

"Curses, weathered, boiled..."

Janice swifted and turned; like a gull dive, like a spoiled breakfast.

Urrrrrrr

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 :

CALL FOR PERSONAL ESSAY SUBMISSIONS FOR BOOK

Topic: THE HEALING POWER OF GIVING
posted: September 26, 2008
Submission Deadline: November 29, 2008

Book Title
29 GIFTS: How to cultivate a daily giving practice that will ignite your energy for life
by Cami Walker and the 29Gifts.org Community

Book Description
29 Gifts is the story of how 29Gifts.org founder, Cami Walker, healed from a major illness by taking an unusual prescription from a South African medicine woman. The remedy? Give 29 gifts to others in 29 days. Midway through Cami's 29 days of giving, after seeing many miraculous changes in her life, she launched a website encouraging others to take the 29 Gifts Challenge and share their stories about how it impacted their lives. Six months and 1,765 committed givers later, Cami was contacted by a major publisher and decided to say YES to their request and write a book. The book is scheduled for release Fall 2009.

In addition to Cami's inspiring personal story, 29 Gifts will also include a collection of 29 personal essays from others about the Healing Power of Giving.

SUBMISSION DETAILS
Authors whose stories are chosen for publication in the 29 Gifts book will receive a one-time payment of $200.

Selected contributors also get a brief bio at the end of their story and a link to their 29Gifts.org profile page. On your 29Gifts.org profile page, readers can learn more about you, leave comments for you about your story, and link to your website.

How to Submit:
1. SIGN UP for the 29 Gifts Challenge at http://www.29Gifts.org

2. Give away 29 gifts in 29 days. Your gifts can be ANYTHING given to ANYONE -- smiles, kind thoughts, old sweaters, cans of soup, spare change...

3. Write and submit a story that is 2,500 words or less about how it impacted your life to focus on giving for 29 days

4. Email your story in the BODY of an email to story@29Gifts.org (NO ATTACHMENTS, please)
*Put STORY in the SUBJECT LINE of your email
*Include your FULL CONTACT DETAILS: first and last name (as you want it published in your byline), phone number, mailing address, email address and the link to your 29Gifts.org profile at the TOP of your email and the story below that.

Submission deadline: November 29, 2008

NOTE: You MUST be a member of the 29Gifts.org site (i.e. have a profile on the site) to be considered for the book.

If you haven't signed up at http://www.29Gifts.org yet, DO IT NOW and start your giving because story submissions for the book are due 11/29/08!


A FEW GUIDELINES TO GIVE YOU THE BEST CHANCE OF BEING SELECTED FOR THE 29 GIFTS BOOK:
1. Write in present, active tense.

2. Use a lot of sensory detail that helps stimulate all five senses.

3. Use conversational tone, as if you are sitting down and telling the story in person to your best friend.

4. Tell the story of the gift(s) you gave, but also communicate how it impacted you. How did you feel about yourself after offering the gift(s)? Did the gift(s) change your perception about something? Did you receive something unexpected in return? Was there an evident impact on the recipient of the gift(s)?

Please direct any submission-related questions to: story@29Gifts.org
*Absolutely NO phone calls please.

-------------------------------

Please share this with anyone who may be interested!

can you delete me from this blogggggggggggggggggggggg

gggggggggggggggggg
g


















ggggggggggggggggggggg








gggggggggggggggg

balls in the background

did you see a painting
of my cock?

it just sits there,
painted.

i thought, holy fuck
that's my cock

and it's just sitting there,
painted.


~lds08

The Blown Fusings

No reason to keep re-animating this excepting I like the (b)idea of keeping it just hovering over the edge of life; like there's a quiver of EEG still draining out the system which cannot yet be detected because the EEG machines aren't sensitive enough.

Like a type of blog consciousness whicb looks smooth and lifeless to the eye but which, at the micro-level is just a little rough and spiky...

Animal Collective - For Reverend Green

THIS SITE HAS BEEN RE-NAMED.

FROM NOW ON IT WILL BE KNOWN as COCAINE JESUS AND HIS AUTOMATON'S (tUChE hIP priEST)

One of the Diddy Men

return

discharge 3

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

not even with a when or an if could the petulant child be placated.
so with a keen blade, and some strong twine, the truculent infant was brought to brook.

comicopera by robert wyatt

this gentleman's latest long playing record is now available. comicopera.

marvellous in 66

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

David Carradine

David Carradine (born John Arthur Carradine on December 8, 1936 in Hollywood, California) is an American actor

The Killing

hey Tuche and Automaton'ers, my new chapbook The Moveable Ones is just out from Transmission Press

The Moveable Ones

my kind of people

Deadman

One of the overlooked but totally GREAT comic book characters of my youth. In the hands of Jack Miller and Neal Adams this was a DC masterpiece.

Poem: Pressing by Bruce Eisner

Pressing

Two people pressing against each other can be a start
can create heat
the cool ocean air surrounding
two people pressing against each other
in the dark
groping for inner
strength surrounding
warm ambiance of skin
two people pressing against each other
to find
what is this spirit that grows stronger
hearts melding
eyes sinking
forever deeper
two people pressing

June, 1983
Santa Cruz, CA
Bruce Eisner's Vision Thing

Amalgmated Society of Watermen Lightermen and Bargemen

Whores

Whores have the ability to share their most private and sensitive body parts with total strangers.
Whores have good senses of humor.
Whores challenge sexual mores.
Whores are playful.
Whores are tough.
Whores have careers based on giving pleasure.
Whores are creative.
Whores are adventurous and dare to live dangerously.
Whores teach people how to be better lovers.
Whores are multi-cultured and multi-gendered.
Whores give excellent advice and help people with their personal problems.
Whores have fun.
Whores wear exciting clothes.
Whores have patience and tolerance for people that other people could never manage to put up with.
Whores make lonely people less lonely.
Whores are independent.
Whores teach people how to have safer sex.
Whores are a tradition.
Whores are hot and hip.
Whores are free spirits.
Whores relieve millions of people of unwanted stress and tension.
Whores heal.
Whores endure in the face of fierce prejudice.
Whores make good money.
Whores always have a job.
Whores are sexy and erotic.
Whores have special talents other people just don't have. Not everyone has what it takes to be a whore.
Whores are interesting people with lots of exciting life stories.
Whores get laid a lot.
Whores help people explore their sexual desires.
Whores explore their own sexual desires.
Whores are not afraid of sex.
Whores hustle.
Whores sparkle.
Whores are entertaining.
Whores have the guts to wear very big wigs.
Whores are not ashamed to be naked.
Whores help the handicapped.
Whores make their own hours.
Whores are rebelling against the absurd, patriarchal, sex-negative laws against their profession and are fighting for the legal right to receive financial compensation for their valuable work.

Poetry by Alexa Chung (popworld)

Study of an Adventurer

The Lost River

Sam found a Lost River
And was immediately disappointed.

'It's just like all the rest,' he said
Colouring his maps.

here she makes a meal of a moment that curses everyone and, as Charlou once said: "Everyone's pink on the inside"


Sam finds Pox and Pox finds Sam

Sam went to Africa
To search for new diseases.

Caught a little pox
From a frog in the jungle,

Drew the rash
With coloured pencils

And plugged himself
With ancient herbs.

'I wonder,'
His mind was wandering,

'If the disease finds us
As much as we find it?'

Sam spent the rest of the year
Looking for a notebook

That was smaller
And more neatly coloured

Than his own.

here she opens her heart a little, making a move towards the blessed regime of poesie with an almost Gericaultian assault on the senses. later, you can read the tears as they run down the page.

Underestimating the locals

'Never,' said Sam
'Underestimate the locals.

'You never know
When a pygmy might strike.

'They're unpredictable
And nippy little fellahs.'

One time, Sam got caught
In what he thought was a net.

Turned out to be a hole
With no way out.

'If they eat me,
I'll live forever,' he said,

Feeling optimistic
And starting to hallucinate.

They let him out
And sent him on

With a tattoo of an arse
On the back of his head

Which they found funny.

here is her response to the Jade Goody Celebrity Big Brother debacle - re-released in honour of 'Nigeria' Emily's latest contribution to the racism debate.

Carrier Pigeons

Sam used Carriers
To get his message across

Then some silly bugger
Ate one for supper

Using a fork
In the same way as the locals.

'Goddamit!' said Sam
From his Mexican prison.

'Is no one out there
Afraid of his stomach?'

One pigeon came back
With a message of love

And many best wishes
From all of England.

Sam, it said,
We wish a speedy return.

no one's even sure if she wrote this one and it seems like the names have been changed

Bear Bird Rabbits

Avey Tare & Kiri Brekken - Foetus No Man

A Yousendit She-Loves-To-See-Them-Run-In-The-Fields Production

Handcars

"They walked, lamed to a few bad decions and shanked themselves to the brink of martyrdom"

from The Retracers; an aural history of palour and self-sufficiency

The Hystamine Sessions

Hystamine Sessions: Improvisations on Acoustic and Electric Guitars

Full Therapeutic Benefits for Free.

At myspace.com/politicalfishes

Boy with a blue balloon

I give you my heart

another myth

music=praxis

Political Fishes Coelacanth EP

"In lieu of creativity, there is an undue emphasis on sexuality"

Jay Christian Emerte

'Okay' she said...

As a slight critic of humanity, sending out whorls of doubt wherever I go, I find myself in the awkward, almost transcendental (if I believed those tired yearnings) position of finding real love in amongst the clouds and the dust. I wonder, with the sign of the IUD in the night sky above us, if she might have been a new kind of human, one free from the mouth and the head and the eyes and the sea. I can't bear to ask. Can't bear.



P16.D4 - 'Okay' she said...

A Yousendit Liberating Devastation

Picnic At Hanging Rock

We wanted to take the mountain,
So, like the destiny of the picnic,
On the hanging rock,
We wore our white dresses,
Flicked our hair back,
Tresses surmounted by none in beauty,
We climbed,
Climbed, rotten cucumbers in our bags,
Sweaty and wet,
Flaccid and green.

The sun,
A torture.

Mesmerised by dead doe eyes,
And the hot wrinkled backs of iguana,
We stifled and sank.

Disappearing into the original heat,
The white wheaty grass,
And the light of sun-stroke,
Burning.

Mystery,
Mystery,
Where am I now?
What have I become?

Slightly shorn, white dress translucent,
I am mist,
Morning dust,
Orange rolled back eyes,
Spotted deer being ripped from behind.

They come from all sides,
All sides now.

I am hiding in brush.
White fear-eyes,
Dots of green that hold you,
Do not look for me at hanging rock,
I am swollen;
red dots of blood are my punctum now.

Faust V

"Well, legendary non-releasers King Mong never got they acclaim they deserved and it was just as well because if I'd have got hold of the fuckers I'd have kicked them amongst the balls and no mistake, the arty twats."

Taken From Twiggwitch, Spirit Of The Chestnut Tree: The Fall and Further Fall Of King Mong; Logorhythm Books, Eire.

Faust - Triump-ent
A Yousendit Microzonal Emblematic

"From the Ballad of Reading Gaol" by Oscar Wilde

Yet each man kills the thing he loves
By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!

Over The Rainbow

With just a hare breadth between us - *little Rowan loved to play in the fields* etc - we tried our hands at making bread. Got all yeasty and overexcited. The slapped seconds between the *love* triangles that I'd tried to form in my youth (you, you, not you) and the irregular parallelograms of my middling years, when slack became jaw and hands wrinkled like wormholes, made all the difference: you could feel the time sliding across our skin as the doughdust scattered into the air...

Blixa Bargeld - Over The Rainbow
A Yousendit Nostalgic Gypsy Claim Form

I think it was Pascal, might easily have been one of the lump-eyes from the farm.

Yagga Blues

Nurse With Wound - Yagga Blues
A Yousendit Tetandtoasty Sound Productiiiiion

It's a dope expression that describes yo joy and groove state, being used by Jamaicans.

When you have a hood time, you throw your hands up in the air and scream: "Yagga".

It means that you be agree ta get tha shizznit poppin. It be like a call like sayin': "Let's get it started!"

In some way, it means: " "Fuck y'all bitches want, whoa
I'ma stay poppin shit
Anybody want it? Come see me, what?
Fame.. yagga.." by Foxy Brown (Na Na be like)

Here, she be like that she be goin' to start her shit an' when she said: "Yagga" in tha end of her speach, she warned us she be startin' it.


I'm still urban as fuck, even if this cursed child has turned into a poetry blog.

discharge

artwork by stickleback2

...

discharge

salir des anges avec les jolies visages

discharge

salir des anges avec les jolies visages

Barbara

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

New Forms

Coil - Live At New Forms June 2002

"Earlier incarnations had a tweaked muscle; these let themselves rough it with the sun-dripped, Lottery-funded spazzes at the back - there's a broken aura rapture to this and others like a thousand planed geyser, shovelling moons into the sky..."

I may be paraphrasing a little.

Thira 21

This Time Last Year Wasn't a 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.

the question

"So, tell me, which is your favourite team blog site. Tuche and Automaton or Taking the Brim?"

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

upon a ponce and cosmo

dog brave the lucky post to piddle me right and centre too.

well, you would think that wouldn't you?

stands to reason doesn't it?

i mean no two dogs are the same are they?

are they?

canada has it's own pretty boy pumped up and apples and england, dreaming still of past glories, has its hyper humper and grand vizor, visor, vicER.

but you know and i

know

we don't give a tinkers cuss do we?

fuck 'em all i say.

fuck 'em all.

In the Road

Strange changes of mind have been happening to me recently. It seems like every time I venture out of the door something happens whereby my original plans are thrown out, replaced by new ideas and intentions. I have just sold my car and this has meant that recently I have had to make more use of the local paths and roads to get around.

I had decided to go out into town to get some essentials and when I was there I suddenly made the decision, without any real reasoning, even though I had not yet bought the list of things that I had intended to, that I wanted to make my way back home and not wander around town any longer.

I paced up the road on the way back feeling the rain clouds slowly closing in on me and my wish to get home became ever more urgent. With every step of my boots the gradient of the pathway seemed to increase in steepness, to a point that when I passed the school at half way I had to stop and take a breather.



Sitting on the bench, looking around, I spotted a women spewing out a full bucket of soapy water onto the road surface, its suds trickling on the slopes, her head disappearing as quickly as it had appeared behind the tall walls that formed a part of the roadside. The water made an expressive mark, dribbling across the road.



I felt the urge then, to step out, into the road. For the moment I thought it was all clear.
Once in the middle of the road its flow of bumps and patchworks became more evident. With one ear to the sound of a roaring engine behind me I inspected the river of marks and abrasions lying stiff and dormant at my feet. The earth had moved below the tarmac and a series of ripples had formed. I spotted signs of movement in the different coloured patchworks and recently laid sections of tar. I felt that people had marked out certain areas as if for special consideration, to designate that area or this area for future plans, to further the development of the road surface.



The fluorescent yellow colouring of the grid might have meant that it was only to be used in emergencies, that take place at night time, the pattern of the top attempting to mimic loosely the structuring of the surrounding gravel, muck and stone-inlayed tarmac. Workmen, for their part, had obviously attempted to leave a mark by pressing boots into the recently painted grid before it was dry, in 1995, for time immemorial.



Many variations of shadow and texture made up this lower grey deserted area, marking out a history of incidents and accidents, of gouges and pot holes covered up and pasted over, being continuously re-knitted to form an ever larger and more detailed patchwork.



The scored surface was pressed into to make openings like an advent calendar. Strange puppet heads could appear when lifted up? Some clue perhaps in the top markings, a mystery language to mark out one ductile plate from another. The ground is hard and stubborn under foot yet appears moulded like as if it were made of wet toast or worn leather?

Could there once have been a melting and a pouring, then a spreading all over being topped off topping off with sewn-on plates varying extravagantly in size and dimension?

The molten material had perhaps engulfed everything in its path and descended, as a river of dirt, down the hill. That would explain the apparent chaos of the undulations and the odd bits of clothing still showing through the surface in parts?



The clouds above clustered together and turned a darker shade of grey with the sunlight burning through, glancing off the wet tarmac, welding together the fine pores of the surface that looked, at that moment, quite like the texture of a well done cake just pulled from the oven.



The hill becomes steeper and my slow walk peters to a standstill. My legs are so tired that I feel they are going to drop off at any moment.



Standing there, I close in to inspect the grade A metal that is stamped into the Autumn ground, scraping away the leaves.



They have underground people in New York don't they? I was expecting a figure to pop his head up at any moment and shout a greeting. He had left his folding knife by the doorway, which a stranger might perceive is an insignificant piece of cardboard.

I framed some passing strangers through my lens but then changed my mind.

Glad to get past the worst of the hill. I was now just around the corner from home, looking forward to getting in, all these unnecessary detours had worn me out.



I dumped myself inside and having taken my shoes off and put my aching legs in the bath to soak, I started thinking about getting something to eat.

discharge (stains on the blanket)

Press play and button march

note the protuding ribcage that could pierce flesh.
particles enter timidly and only if guided by sleep.

What we require for the occasion is something special....something extraordinary.
No, no ordinary ass fucking, anal dreams will do.
We must have something worth remembering.....something notable.

Perhaps, a razor-slit clit would be suitable.
Maybe even a slow space docking.

We must think long and hard on this. We must be sure to realize the full potential of the situation.

die die Geschichte schon immer geschrieben haben

Männer, die die Geschichte schon immer geschrieben haben, haben Lysistrata damit verleumden wollen. Tatsachen sind aber eben Tatsachen, und dagegen konnten sie gar nichts. Und Pederastia ist doch Pederastia geblieben. Schluss.Ach, ich freue mich so wahnsinnig sehr, hierher zu kommen!

my penis 1

i have been trying to find my penis. now i know that it is around here someplace. trouble is i cannot for the life of me remember where. normally i know exactly where it is but not today. normally it is kept safe and warm between by curled fingers. it likes it there. warm and tight.
maybe i left it over on another site.
i guess that i had better go and look....

Provection Into Testament's Brave Logick

Archita's dove we
to jack for Tresseta's tailwind
the habule
incessile
infortibitible
and nosomane ambrosia
of Heliconian nymphs to
spectabundal audysseus es
too ward )_(&_(*_&*)&
by tu thro pune {putput}
ba - boon
as of a coincidence
of angles, angels which inhabit
the Apophreniac climacteries
transparent lichtenthorns broadcasting
a rococo genome of bull-nosed ray
each plodding, toucose varbletete
succour'd in unknowing pleem
tongue the lee medium menain
meaning all shroud of interlocking memory
THRUST OUTWARD
the innocent sky of mind unfold
stripped of castled shackled rookeries
the smooth colorless ire become
some purer blood
of machinic doves not wrought
or failing
impossible breaking
a dew of turning
and yet not abolish
the forehead's gem (commedia
the cluster plash of serpent
as laser leaps
to empty
current vertue burthen
elucubrations on the solid solemn turmoil
of this deare old isle
precious innermass
what cargo shall pass we
no garrison known
they are all addresses
settling to pub
or fluent terms regained

Replace

All of the words that have been lost. I want them to come back somehow. I want to fill up the space, the lack, the want of it.

I want to feel the presence of what went before and I want to hold onto that lack and use it as a force. A Marathon. Really, if you could only understand that story for one moment.

Only, it is not a story. It is an everchanging idea. A meandering stream. A coconut shy of words. A fairground merrygoround flared horse nostril affair for me.

I wanted to come back and taste of all the words that were here before. To smell of them, touch of them, grow them, build them up, match them, rehabilitate them, give them medication. Just to, you know, perk them up again. Perk it all up again.

You can never escape the rubber mark of where it once was. Where the pieces went. Fitting it all back together once more. Filling in the missing spaces. Another kind of CLOZE. I remember it all so well. All of it stuck in my head like a clot of brainswell. Lush and verdant. Under the lanes of broken legs. My memories that lie in those bloody clots. Like the made-up songs.

Just wait for it. Wait for it to come and it will come. I assure you of that. It will come, like an Aladdin box. The treasure will surely come and fill me with pearls.

discharge

discharge

Fanny by candlelight

i couldn't help but notice, as i passed by your door, that certain items of clothing seem to have varnished themselves to your walls. is that a real mohair jumper from harrods or is it a fake?

words by cocaine jesus

Several Hours

In a stress position. Several hours can seem as a release. It can focus the mind. All is not lost.

Head and face against concrete. Sacking breath and hessian lips.

Two more seconds and it could all be over.

The knees. They are the first to tell of it.

Speak to me of beauty,
And I shall tell you of the smell of hood.

Speak to me of beauty,
And I shall talk to you of muffled screams.

Speak to me of beauty,
And I shall uncannily lift you.

With rope.
With energy.
Without the use of arms.

simple john

simple john

simpleton

keep you snake skin boots on

in the cold and in the wet

then dry them by the tv set

or if you must when slick with soil

put them with the pots that boil

but careful be when near a flame

that leather boots supple remain

for some tin mines heat can blister

be they boots of miss or mister.

all words copyright of cocaine jesus

discharge (that enigmatic breath porcelain skull)

"he loves him and he dreams him
he smiled him into kisses, so
he bent blind between him
for him all night to whimper
then joining seperate spines"

Porcelain Skull see's things that have never been.
his tongue is morning mist.
his eyes are from a distant place.
he tastes of cork.
.
.
.
speak to the dark angels

Double Bating @The Samaritans

‘This...boy. He’s changing colour. I know he is. It’s just...It’s really bad.’

‘Changing colour? I don’t understand what you mean.’

‘You’re not supposed to understand!’

‘Would you like to help me understand? I’m listening. Would you like to tell me your name?’

The guy calmed down again. He paused for a long time. ‘Greg. Call me Greg. Greg. It sounds funny said out loud. The tone. Greg.’

‘Tell me what you’re worrying about Greg.’

‘I hate it when they change colour. It makes me do bad things. Things I don’t want to do. You understand, don’t you? You understand?’

‘I’m trying to. Yes. I think so.’



‘Don’t think he’s dead. It’s just that he’s about to turn blue. I can tell this just by looking. He seemed okay, really, he’s here, sleeping and he seemed okay. I thought I might have grown to love him. I did love him. Just a few minutes ago he was red and he was lovely but now... Now he’s turning blue and I can’t let that happen.’

‘He’s turning blue.’

‘Not yet but I can sense it. He’ll be blue by morning but by then it’ll be too late. I can’t see him returning. He said he liked my flat. He said he wants his just like this. I gave him the name of the guy who did this place. We laughed a lot at the name. The guy’s called Randy. The designer, not the boy. I guess he must be only eighteen or nineteen. He’s at College, I think, he said he’s studying Medieval history. The guy who’d here, that is, not the designer. the designer must be forty if he’s a day. He has the loveliest grey eyes. This guy, Paul... He’s got lovely lovely eyes.’

‘How do you feel right now?’

‘I feel like I’m ten years old....NO, I’m joking. He’s lovely. I think I could love him, even his name. Paul. It’s a name of Saints. It’s a name you ought to have above the fireplace.’

I thought about this for a few beats. ‘What do you want to talk about?’




Michael Nyman - Mozart

discharge (beautiful raven in dark places)

"And another part of your soul is placed in ink.
Yet you fight again to stand
With dreams of fullfillment and love and trust,
Yet part of you always wonders...
Always questions."

Raven arrives with a hubris of black feathers

and a pestilence of petticoats.
She is the colour of night.
She is the stuff of cobwebs.
Her words are of the pulse
and the heart beat.
She tastes of chrome.

.
.
.
speak tothe dark angels

The Tarik Batu of Sumba

This eye, this mien, mein. It’s hyle a speakling from a brook-lang. That Cili padi membrane that thought me felicitous things, tangs, forgettable stains, a signal of sundered business. I don’t want to be a flagellate, even to the onion of a hod-leagued bugle. I, Richard Spruce, with Pan Hu in my jade lantern mouth parts. Disassemble this phantasm in the flavor of our startled dog-milking shedus (Svapaka-shedu). I remaindered my tricks and what they carnapshush'd. Even spadix aren’t free-living. Our life against the midnight lawns: poor Philip Quarll on the Isla de Memoriales. I’m walking through this wail of hair to confront my senate of chortling amoebic cineastes, my careless Yonas who once smelled Kamboja weapon worship.

going underground

I took the meaning from his lips as though a water diviner scratching in the raw earth.
Dry and crusty but irrefutable in the light of the statements that preceded and followed.
I knew, as the morning broke the day like yolk spilling from an egg, that the shit was gonna hit the fan. And when it did it would sure as hell fly my way.
Dog bones and tired old newspapers littered the gutter whilst the rain whipped down and the wind blew a callous calling note.
How the hell did he always get to be so right?
Insight?
Intuition?
Maybe just being in the right place at the wrong time was his secret. If so, then it was a secret I did not want to get to know better. I mean, there are some girls who will do a man a favour but you wouldn’t take them home to meet your parents would you?
The sun rose a little higher as if to escape from the filth that mankind pumped out and sent its way. Almost as though it knew that humanity was a dire contagion that might spread and eclipses its glorious glow.
Fat chance.
We can’t even get back to the moon without blowing up a continent.
How the hell had he been so right?
I took the papers and shoved them into my brief case and then I shuffled off to find the tube.
There is always safety in numbers I thought.


" Horror underground
London Underground train crashed at Moorgate station, killing 43 and injuring many more.
The train, arriving from Drayton Park, was packed with commuters when it overshot the platform and ploughed into a dead-end tunnel.

The intense heat and twisted wreckage meant the last passenger was not rescued until late in the evening."




words by cocaine jesus

discharge (that handsome mammal killer luca)

killer luca is an artist.
killer luca loves snails.
killer luca painted "two men fucking".
killer luca tastes of ozone.

Killer Luca's ART

.
.
.
speak to the dark angels

Lapis Lazuli

I am abdicating my role as King,
The fading blue,
Of my lapis lazuli,
Is a sign of time passing.

It is only rare that I am azure now.

Only when you polish the,
Edges of my silicate,
Am I simply pure and rare.
Vases, bowls, bottles and beads,
Are envious,
As I give in to time.
For I am only semi-precious to you now.

Not as I once was,
Opaque and pure.

I once passed through Afghanistan,
And onto here,
Only to be torn from your neck in rage.

Now only Lares and Penates,
Can see me home.

I have no general reality,
And emeralds hold me in scorn,
In their Elysian fields,
Arguing me away,
In their casuistry,
Although the amethyst,
Holds me in much,
Higher esteem.

Not so,
Transparent.

As I recede into the night,
I feel I am more precious.

I argue away,
Ambiguous words,
Taunting my secret life,
I am having an affair with the air,
Only tiny breaths,
Know my secret blue.

My expressions,
Linear style.
Grates against the,
Cantos and oratorios,
Of my heart.

I long to let it all flood out,
My life with words,
In a menstrual flow,
But I hide where it is safe.
In mere whimsy.

Tomorrow,
I shall push back the shards,
Of my tomb,
Rip out sequoia,
Leaving great gouts and gashes,
Of language in my hands.

I shall be a great sperm whale,
Amongst spears.
Crashing, reeling and hooting,
Out my last song.

I have given such,
Un-ending kindness,
All of myself is gone,
Under control and clasps,
The great head of my core,
Is about to erupt.
Be ready for my furnace.

My rhombic sulphur will choke you.

In my purest form,
I am a shattering star.

Even

Even in the morning,
Even after that,
The smiles are still fake.

You know,
Even the fake smiles,
Are fake now.

Trickery,
Mockery,
Lies,
Even the faked, fake smiles are fake!

Next of Resolve, Mati

http://www.phaneronoemikon.org/images/matikno.jpg


mate with obsolete forms of meat
mate' mate'
bleeding from leech bytes matico

cerealurgy lumpen gland gasses dog starcosm fists
the hand-carved melon vagina looking for a prize

16 tiny figurines with glass stingers barbed with forked tongues

tiki gleeky intergrowth in galena which forms sick
Widmanstätten-like structures

glossarianing the matross
composition of fireworks and cartridges

baboon bombinate
sima, utrum chimera in vacuo
bombinans possit come

vainly or fantastically conce
n traited
chimneying and furnacing the

ge, yclepit Chimera Gyas
with felloun fard furth b
is a holocephalian

one of the devils best boys
of Beasts and Men Made up of p
of the Rosie Crosse, Their Cha
ydra's, and Chimera's dire
dulge every chimera in politics,
every frenzy in r

metaphorol
I'm getting a certain amount of light
on the central figures in the problem—what
journalists like to call
the protagonists is ambiguity
between this sense and sense

abducted
accepted
acorn
active
ad libitum
advocation
advowson
affected
affiche
affiliate

Fortune's Fool,
The Air-Drawn picture of

April cometh
two sets of forked fingers
middle fingers on inner eyebrows
index fingers to the ends
thumbs cupping chin

the rest

a knotty desymmetree

escape to europe (ghosts on the margin 5 - series one)

Sleight of Hand

“It is just sleight of hand.” She said.
The cards snipped like scissors.
Clip
Clip
Clip
“It gets them every time” she smiled.
The sharp practise of a card hustler with well oiled wrists and nimble fingers had an allure that he found irresistible.
They sat around the coffee table in his hotel room.
She dealt the cards and he poured the drinks.
The clock chimed eight thirty.
“I need the toilet.” She said, giggling.
“Through there, on your right.”
She scooped her self up and moved out of sight.
He took a phial from his pocket and poured it into her glass stirring it quickly with a bic pen.
She came back into the room adjusting her skirt with quick hands and smiling at him.
“Said I wouldn’t be long didn’t I?”
“Drink up.” he said pushing the glass toward her.
“It is just sleight of hand.”
The minutes passed with a watchful eye.
The minutes fogged with a cloying tacky taste.
Memories shattered into broken pieces.
Carpet.
Glass.
Underwear.
Sliding.
Slip, slip slipping.
Fractured moments through a Vaseline smeared looking glass.
When he awoke his wallet and watch and credit cards had gone, as had his mobile phone.
All that remained was a playing card.
A joker.
Written on the card…
It is just sleight of hand.

Day of Glow

I would want to uncover you in order to find out the very truth of what is inside you.

I shall climb into your mouth and get sucked down into your lung-depths.
I shall rip out tiny sheaths of gut-fronds.
I shall take up conversations with the salivary amylase of spit.

I want all the nasty parts.
I want all the blood of you.

All that entrails entail. I am prepared to go through lower duodenum ways just to find you. And only you. And only you.

discharge (the ever gorgeous doriandra smith)

"mummy offers a choice, "be wrecked by the distance insued or lulled by the clamor of well dressed thieves posing as those practicing empathy." this child (am i) will resort to what is comfortable and customary- picking&pecking&plucking with sharp steel tools at what lies silently under skin so thin like fragile leaves with blue veins pulsing arrogantly"

this is the gorgeous doriandra smith

.
with two albums to her credit.
an american artist with an ever creative heart.
mother.
daughter.
fury.
her skin tastes of orange peel.
.
.
.
speak to the dark angels

Hoca Beni Yek Kendini Yak - Google Video

Hoca Beni Yek Kendini Yak - Google Video

Wooster Collective: Float

Wooster Collective: Float

Through Eros to Thanatos

Thorough investigations into the error of our ways found the following fault-detox error:

1. Her skin was not white enough when he met her.
2. Her face did not fit the white-horse style that he expected of her.
3. She was not funny enough.
4. One of her calf muscles resembled a banana, which was off-putting. Or, so she thought.
5. One of her milk glands was showing.

All in all, she was a disappointment.

Off she trotted, into the Shire-horse streets. Cloppety clop. She would hang around Soho Square. Under that little Tudor Home of one.

Inside, there is a chair made of Oak. She creeps inside to observe a game of Euchre. Two steady hands enfold her. Ah, I've found you....ah.

1. Your skin is white enough, so white it smears like clotted cream.
2. You are riding the tangled mane of a mare.
3. You are in wonderful humour.
4. Your calf muscle is delicate and tastes of pear. Or, so he said.
5. Mmmm. Lovely. Lovely. Surely lovely, my, my, my...

All in all, she was a joyful find.

Different perceptions create endless possibilities.

Global Ambergris Importer Dubai-UAE

Global Ambergris Importer Dubai-UAE

hot wax melting sediments of sin (ghosts on the margin 4- series one)

(M=2%+9)

metal hibernates to a fluxus of migrating mulags that are driven,
or so i am told,
toward a velocity of motile evolution like that sullen sudden sodden feeling of dried fish



words by cocaine jesus

Feral House | Titles | Kulchur | Seven Addictions and Five Professions of Anita Berber

Feral House | Titles | Kulchur | Seven Addictions and Five Professions of Anita Berber

Shaman Kidney Stones

"...might also have been the last, as far as any of us were concerned but then at Hinton St George there was a house entirely in Green Screen, like the movies, yeah? So that soon you went in there then every step could've been your own version of the abyss or a submarine landing or a Jamelia Bond pillow cushion design - remember her? excellent somatosensory awareness and depth perception for a one-eyed girl - which gave the impression, with the right amount of Renideer Piss Moonshine, brewed from Shaman kidney stones and horn, could set your entrails right into the midst; I'm talking pure poetry, made glad with tidings but tempered with the edge of the grasslands into an altogether less urban setting. You'll laugh but, back then, we really believed that the world wasn't ending at all but beginning. I know, I know... but you beloeved it too Esther, I can see it written in your eyes."

From: An Altercation With ReadyMoons: sheeping and shopping in mid 21st Century Somerset by Augustine Williams. Heristag Books Ltd. Oslo.

Fursaxa - Ursa Minor

gentle hurried backdoor man
tooling inner masturbation
fucks a plenty in the head
none so pretty as to come

9,500-year-old decorated skulls found in Syria - Yahoo! News

9,500-year-old decorated skulls found in Syria - Yahoo! News

Engineering Knowledge in the Age of the Semantic Web

Marta is playing an Argentinian
tango on the piano. Wanda and Piero
are dancing.


Endonasal Endoscopic Skull Base Surgery takes place
atop the Bird of Paradise Metatheater whose benefactorial
product of all positive integers is less than or equal to
Enrico Dandolo's Byzantine squinches and pendentives,
which seen as ancient, powerful beings following a reaction,
become an intrinsic part of Enrico Cavacchioli, whose languor,
structured as a burattini e i baracca took the non-obvious form
of a succession of corbeled stalactites liquifying over a folle
rosetta of roe, bucking the metabolismos of stoic stoikheiona,
the lambent lament which pongs between immortality and farce.

Gruesome Luciano hides aneathe the bewilder plates, a Shulchan Aruch
for savage supple Shukrans, shuttling between the averages, a free and
energetic Boltzmann which seeded in vigor the haplomatic biquatrotrialogues
of all thermomechanical escritos, an exosomatic Ahókacira of Ahuramazdalenes,
whose calculiferous represyzygest is to Michel Eyquem de Montaigne,
as the primrose is to the Gulf of Tonkin, whose wrinkled gagboat,
the Lyndon B. Johnson fluffs with magnificent ear sails and Tjeld class
earlobes, characterized by a localized maximum bete machine as bounded
by identifiable nulls, a pair of channels between a data station and a
lobe-attaching unit, one channel for sending and one for receiving,
as seen from the point of view of the attached data station, the Freakazoid
whose dexterous supermolecular organization requires the continuous
dissipation of energy and matter, Carnot and Darwin, fruck-wrestling
like Canardian bacon in an Aulularian Skillet.

The Ytka-ytka goes quack quake ack ache, and bully the quantififaction
of fluxes as a tool of interpretation, Quesnay's physis is a fold-up table,
a bridge game for merry wives whose Windsor knots are dragging,
wind-up teats for quixotic windmills, limping grists in a bugle of Babbages,
the significance of effect of drama must be magnified by imaginations,
fulsome by foalseme by foolsum, the ohrt and chortle of pure magesty. . .

The Empire of the Crow

and the dark angels held a party to celebrate the dawning of the empire of the crow and to the party each of them brought a gift...

doriandra a cactus with a prickly skin and the scent of decadence

cocaine jesus a bottle labelled provocation

inkblot a bruised heart wrapped in razor wire

stickleback2, elegant celluloid

raven a cloth wrapped in menstrual blood that contains dark secrets

porcelain skull a mirror of skewed perspectives

killer luca, promiscuity in flesh with blush red lips

having delivered to you their exacting gifts it would be rude not to accept them would it not?

.
.
.
visit the dark angels

Where is my love?
Where is my courage?
Where is my yearning?
Where is my beauty?
Where is my rainbow?
Where is my secret?
Where is my rapture?
Where is my passion?

Why not me?

melting plastic chair (ghosts on the margin 3 - series one)

Idiot Blogger as Idiot Art

listen, you inefficent piece of software...I AM A MEMBER OF WRITERS AGAINST TERRORISM and therefore i am able to put on that site just what the hell i like.
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ozymandiazthey say that the pen is mightier than the sword. not sure i buy that. words can hurt and inflame and possibly make a point but can they make people change?well the bible and the koran are nothing but a set of words written down by men and revered by 54% of the worlds population so maybe words can make a difference. --Posted by Cocaine Jesus to Writers Against Terrorism at 9/27/2006 01:44:41 PM
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ozymandiaz>>>they say that the pen is mightier than the sword. not sure i buy that. words can hurt and inflame and possibly make a point but can they make people change?well the bible and the koran are nothing but a set of words written down by men and revered by 54% of the worlds population so maybe words can make a difference. --Posted by Cocaine Jesus to Writers Against Terrorism at 9/27/2006 01:44:41 PM

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i am not. i think ALL organised religion is to the detriment of mankind even though there are many good people who follow their faiths in a positive fashion. --Posted by Cocaine Jesus to Writers Against Terrorism at 9/26/2006 02:05:32 PM
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i am not. i think ALL organised religion is to the detriment of mankind even though there are many good people who follow their faiths in a positive fashion. --Posted by Cocaine Jesus to Writers Against Terrorism at 9/26/2006 02:05:32 PM
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in a nutshell organised relgion sucks. not always the followers of any particular faith but the office that controls that faith. for example the papal offices with their homophobic and sexist bias. also the higher offices of islam which, as far as i can see is so alike to christianity that they could be the same faith, is also sexist and homophobic. the trouble with ALL such extreme faiths is that all it takes is for one lunatic to get into power and BABOOM... all hell breaks loose. imagine, for example, if o Bush, or one of his supporters, took the catholic/christian creed to its final and fatalistic finale of armagedon. mankind destroyed and the christ returns. there are some out there who long for that day. all it would take is for them to pre-empt if with a few well aimed missiles. --Posted by Cocaine Jesus to Writers Against Terrorism at 9/26/2006 02:11:50 PM
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Date: Tue, 26 Sep 2006 01:41:50 -0700 (PDT)
in a nutshell organised relgion sucks. not always the followers of any particular faith but the office that controls that faith. for example the papal offices with their homophobic and sexist bias. also the higher offices of islam which, as far as i can see is so alike to christianity that they could be the same faith, is also sexist and homophobic. the trouble with ALL such extreme faiths is that all it takes is for one lunatic to get into power and BABOOM... all hell breaks loose. imagine, for example, if o Bush, or one of his supporters, took the catholic/christian creed to its final and fatalistic finale of armagedon. mankind destroyed and the christ returns. there are some out there who long for that day. all it would take is for them to pre-empt if with a few well aimed missiles. --Posted by Cocaine Jesus to Writers Against Terrorism at 9/26/2006 02:11:50 PM

melancholia's tremulous dreadlocks issue 5

The fifth issue of melancholia's tremulous dreadlocks is online now, featuring work by:

Amy King - Ana Bozicevic-Bowling - Brian Howe - Brian Lucas - Craig Perez - Danielle Pafunda - Jana Putrle Srdic - Janet Holmes - Jill Jones - Jen Hofer - Lisa Fishman - Elisa Gabbert - Novica Tadic - Bruce Covey - TA Noonan

Art by C.E. Laine and Ira Joel Haber

melancholia's tremulous dreadlocks is an online bi-weekly journal of poetry and curious bits, co-edited by Andrew Lundwall and Francois Luong.

http://mtd.celaine.com/

Ageless Industrial Chillum Cello Bathroom Siva

after Stan Apps' _Hurt By Rumors_



~"unconditional reality"~

means

~"just wiggle the handle"~


1.

The Prajipatis are eating Casesar salad.
This is what they said:

O Saints of
Industrial Bathrooms who
move like Rishi Cattle in the Mind
of Siva

mu mu mu (goes the Sacred Bathroom Traffic)

Siva just sitting
loading the Chillum
listening to the Cello of the Ageless Clouds
of his Bluest Skintones

in my Chest is an Industrial Bathroom Universe
my Breath is the Everlasting Popstar
of Pure Destruction

Rish Bathroom Cattle are Bluest Tidy Bowl
when the Cello Toilets Flush
the Face of Siva, a Pseudo-Siva
who is just band stickers

Thai Muslim Pellets eating Popstars
in Industrial Bathroom Rishis


2.

The Snake of Siva
is a city whose industrial bathrooms
play Spike Jones
because of Muslim Generals
are eaten by Popstar Rishi Cattle

No Daddy No!
the infant Krishna
is floating in my toilet!

Jim Morrison is a lost little girl
in the Industrial Bathroom Labyrinth
of Siva's Chillum of Blue Skintones

for now we will call her General Alice
in Muslim Bathroomland

You're lost little girl
in the stampede of Rishi cattle

smoke the Chillumcommode
little girl
and breathe the rishi pellets
eating popstar bathroom cellos

there's a mulch of dead communists
for a halo toilet ring
in your industrial bathroom mind
Siva

take another hit
sweet chillum Siva

Saivite fascists have beautiful
facial tattoos
they have death's head lingams
on their spicy epaulet tonsil pallettes


3.

this is the sound of industrial toilet cellos
this is the sound of Alice whose head is muslim hookah pillar
full of cattle rishi generals

Sri Siva's firm yet gentle Chillum guidance
will stimulate your powers of industrial bathroom

The "total access" club is offering FREE programs,
deep discounts, and VIP treatment
to eternal destruction

This anger came out in the form of an energy
from Siva's third eye which is used as a surveillance
camera in industrial popstar bathrooms

to combine complementary qualities in a single ambiguous figure
is really a political expression
of Insane Grotesque Wisdom
the lead singer of Muslim Rishi Cattle

who gargles with poison meat genius
in his posh 3rd world industrial bathroom lingam

before connecting his chillum
to the internet is
Generally Siva
just sitting
loading the chillum
listening to the cello of the ageless clouds
of his bluest skintones

in the industrial cellobowl
one can see the arduous journey of the chelaturd
on its way to the dark ashrama
of Muslim Hookahs

meglomania (ghosts on the margin 2 -series one) a sudden burp

meglomania (ghosts on the margin 2 -series one)

Never Forget

I went panopticamping last weekend. I thought about sleeping in a tent, but ultimately stayed in a panopticabin. Good times were had, though panopticabbage was not. I thought about it actually, and you either panoptican or panoptican't have a good time camping. There is no middle ground. After I returned home, I panopticalled my buddy Gus. He panopticartwheeled at the mention of the enjoyable time I had. That's a pretty ridiculous thing to do though, so I hung up the phone and hailed a panopticab (standard procedure). I told the driver, "Take me to the panopicaca!" He complied and I was there. But I forgot why I was there and decided I'd rather go back home and watch some panopticable. But before I could get back in the yellow panopticadillac... well, it left. At this point, with no reason for being here and no ride home, the only thing I could think to do was drugs. So I did drugs. It made me all panoticaddywhompus. Plus, I had already shot up some panopticaffeiene. Tomorrow, I will declare my night a bad one. But right now, it kicks some major panopticake.

sHE tO BuTTeR mE

i asked her to butter me
but she wouldn't responD
i tolD her she could liCk me clean
and i woUld use my wand
but she just wasn't ready
for A boat ride by the sea
so i gaVe her cigar muncHies
and bruised HEr young teepee.



words by cocaine jesus

tadpiyed

you see it could be like this but then again maybe forever is just a tad ambitious.
the hair from her head fell like a steeplejack freefalling down a chimney stack. the railway lines crossed her flesh like a dream tattoo.
vaseline fresh and squeaky clean.
she couldn't deny it and he wouldn't confide in me enough to fake a plastic card full of certain amounts of hokum.
but i knew a man who shouldn't but would if asked hard enough and i had a certain amount of resolve that would go neatly soft into green glass bottles.
so i guess, conversations run in circles and this one was going nowhere.


wprds and drpstod by cocaine jesus HHHH

holy moly

Siobhan Donaghy's Transitional Phrasing

Later, in an odd calibration intended as a rebuke but softened by doe-eyed expressionism, Siobhan fought off all the EMI suitors and opened up a new can of wurms.

"Girl dun gut" etc only, this time, the faint embryonic clothes-horse that followed her dutifully (face like a scorched child) spoke up:

"I'll live for longer if you love me."

And this changed her mind for the split-second they needed to sow more weeds into the fillers and start spiking the ballads with off-centre pall-bearing Greek hype.

Siobhan thought longer.

"They'll make a whine out of all of you," they heard her say as she skipped a beat onto the conference table and then belted out her new demixture.

"I... heard something that didn't sound... right," mumbled one of them, his face already greasy from smearing £50 notes across his cheeks and eyes.

She spotted the flaw, managed it. Breaths caught a little; tuberculosis temporarily tickled it's way through the room and down the halls, getting in the throats of one of the T-girls, specially brought in to fend off the Haters and The Hives.

Siobhan held firm, refused to cave and went immediately into the Scorpion Attack Position, awaiting orders from above.

Allhellbrokeloose.

Siobhan Donaghy - Ghosts

A Yousssendit Sssurproduction via Zeon