Saturday, July 29, 2006
Like the photo she posed for me the other day. The place was an old abandoned factory. She was in the middle, lying face down, curved around an old oil drum, her ass pointing towards my camera and two of her fingers inside her dry vagina. I chose an aperture small enough to get everything of her in focus, from the tips of her fingernails on her sex to the look of wide-eyed innocence in her eyes. There was no flash or artificial light. The available light came from huge glass windows from either side of her in the distance, diffused and soft. I shot off a few hundred shots as her cunt became progressively wetter.
It was a shot that had been popping up in my dreams and then later seeped into my every conscious thought. I never thought I could actually get the shot in reality. But it happened.
She was doing this only for me. I didn’t ask her. She asked me. Why? I’ve no idea and am not interested in finding out. But that didn’t stop me from speculating. She always had this thing for voyeurs. In fact, that is how I got to know her in the first place. I used to observe her all the time. She lived opposite my house, only a narrow space separating our homes. The line of sight from my bedroom window dropped directly into her bedroom. Each evening, I used to wait for her to come home and go through her characteristic languid yet very erotic process of shedding her clothes one by one. Actually, I found out much later that it was all a show for me. She had realized from the beginning that I was observing her. I still don’t know how. So she would go through the exact same motions, day after day. She derived as much pleasure from it as me, perhaps even more. It helped that her bathroom was attached to the bedroom. Both the observer and the object of observation were influencing each other.
The silence in the vast empty space sounded natural as we did not need to communicate. A short wave of my hand and she would adjust her legs as I wanted them. An eyebrow raised and her eyes would speak the language my heart wanted. Click…click…click…the cameras clacked, capturing her for eternity. A funny thought suddenly flitted through my mind. What if there were a nuclear holocaust and these photos would be all that survived; a last testament for humanity’s existence? I laugh inside myself. How many schools of thought/theories would arise over these pictures in some distant future? I laugh some more.
We took frequent breaks as she couldn’t hold that pose for long. But I think there was another reason. I think she was getting off over the whole setup. So she cooled off a little during the break, sustaining the excitement but not peaking. Later, as if to prove my point, she fingered herself to a violent orgasm, off camera of course.
Friday, July 28, 2006
Thursday, July 27, 2006
and tantric dark
i'm this pressure quivering
with romantic english
cohabitation on most wild shade
foliage of turns into city
shock lot of floor fatigued
of wood mysteries
was my conference glass
in telepathically house hand
and space only voices
several times became too expensive
sound the felt motion
who was movies
and stamped on
by varicose veins
solar in the theory
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
% (salad days turntable)
taking rice beer
beneathe the Indian cigar tree
at 4871 headless woman lane
tree blue bean}
[)(] at doctor psiogey's soiree
we watch a little merknight lover
hover in the aquarium herm
set off aways from the chamber ensemble
and the onion-topped gas tents
held aloft by fire fountains
we watch a little merknight lover
& flip up its faceplate
with a cascade of bubbles
gently proffer its tentacles
to the sleeping countenance
of the tiny anemone-haired medusa
symbols and colors racing
across the surface of its a(r)mor
(oh, you door..)
i waltz with aunt harriet
her eyes as empty
as mustard greens
as empty as mine
cuttling a tree blue bean
the Indian cigar tree
on the tree blue
its fun to watch
naked little barbara and monty
ride the russian wolf-hound
like a pony
their heads wrapped
in turbans of yellow
stares off, a gaze which seems
the reflecting pool
where some odd waterweed
has marred the image
of the empty sky
cuttling a tree blue bean
divan ~the. choice
of consoling maxims:
aphasia. the, undeniable; prodrome,
suggestion) (admitted "nervous affection"
-flute' contemp^ moraine
a wax statue of gennaro magri
has melted on its
perfect paper pedestal
A new note, marked From The Trenches Of The Animal War, appeared last thursday, left blooded on the doorstep with a faint hum of paw and hoof:
"Allhotilities ceased. Piece in ourtimes. The men have becom why we become men and the animauls hav gotten lostin the fray. There is gas of mustad in the air from coolfer supple, way off in timeenspace continues. More help than need but still deadboys allaround."
We don't know how to take this. Geoff's still thinking of heading to the front line - quoting Waugh and Orwell - but the rest of us are waiting for clearer consciences before taking arms against them.
We Salute You Still.
Sunday, July 23, 2006
words by cocaine jesus
Saturday, July 22, 2006
Friday, July 21, 2006
blunt as belief
where intuiting finds a track
how distant the rotunda
and instant the tundra
can we share this leaf?
a maze abuses us, filo
paper magazine monolith yellow tooth
that~ in the sector
how can truth be ~that?
so terribly blunt (coulombsolitonsilentricularsinexusynergenesysiphuseizureckingonex
where intuiting belief
can we share this leaf?
sorghum lees lets
entangle our elephant lithop toes
the earth is a bulbous old nose, parsnip battleship wad
drippy pill grim age
i hate to say this in the newspaper
ass fucking in mecca mercury mississippian delta 9
canniballinolkalibontic fugue watunnakabbalahaha of Kyoto Weresnake
JMW Turnerhengeyokai, Botswana, and Tyrannosaurus Rex:
"Killing Fascists is itself Fascism," Hair Phantome of the Operand.
Haile Selassie Mango grove, er, rover, O Won't you fall over..
where the beast named 'fog and smoke' climbs
the jibbering 'baby-eating' totempole
made from stellar cartography, data barns, OVULONS,
and I tried but couldn't see past my head
so I drew the head instead
Monday, July 17, 2006
words by cocaine jesus
Sunday, July 16, 2006
Looked in, and hell breaks loose because the wurld is in there and needn't be seen or swept up into the world.
"No one likes it crisp n dry," Jane said, weaving her hair into the fabric of the sofa, attempting a last dash at Ikea understanding.
"There's a message there for all of us. Fuck the flood victims; the Levels have to be levelled. It's a Darwinian thing - or that guy who believed in the inheritance of acquired traits..." Peter paused, unsure of his own knowledge; his meta-memory shot to pieces through years of Yeast infected sauna bashing.
"Lamarck!" yelled Jane, her face a tumble of misjudged sentences. "A standard error of teleology but I commend you for bringing him to bear. Sweet Cones."
Peter tossed a huge red ball into the air and then left the point forever.
Jane squinted one eye at a time, not sure whether she wanted to see the wurld any clearer without another balloon of Nitrous Oxide (creamed into Mr Whippy cans, bought from a skulking Golly in the backends of the Olde Towne) or a Significant Crutch/Crotch to hang her ideas on.
Some fucker called the Cop(se).
Saturday, July 15, 2006
Sheikh Yerwilly, oil magnate and drip feed for geriatrics tycoon, declared his intent to introduce free lysergic acid diethylamide eye drops. His spokesman said it was the intent of all major middle eastern countries to encourage, in anyway possible, a happier and hippier feel to current day driving.
George W Bush was unavailable for comment as he died earlier today but an aide said that the American people should not concern themselves as no one would notice anyway.
Sheikh Yerwilly was said to be distraught at the death of his fried chicken and was sending two of his senior envoys over to pay their respects.
i do not say either.
mum not mom is correct. just ask any southern near london dwelling person and they will tell you WE SPEAK PROPA ENGLISH!
course up in Geordie land.
they don't mummy nor mother nor mum nor mom. they say mam. whereas over in birmingham (no not alabama silly but the real burminGhum) they say ma. down in london they refer to the patriach as the old girl. next time we will talk about scotish english, irish english, welsh english, manchester english, liverpool english, cornish english and london english and also question which insufferable idiot thought it a worthwhile exercise to to invent english english english.
what ever that might be?
IS IT REALLY?
Posted to Buicksinister Foolproof Dram
Delete Comment Cancel Cancel Cancel
what fucking comment? YOU CAN"T DELETE IT. I HAVEN'T MADE IT IN A TEA CUP YET!
where did i put those tablets?
no, not the lemon coloured ones but the pink?
its holy sexshroud
and its wisdom
earthbits are chomping
the faces of my feet
i am no longer human
that is you
when you wordwind
in its glory
my last name
i might as well
where are you now
when i've lost my hands
both in dumpsters
when i snow
i mean well
baby the dynamos are a-humming
there's nothing i'd rather do
than loan them to you
and so in dynamite
my dick too
is kept there
why say what?
this wisconsin sphere
nothing is clear
it's too easy
i mean that i'm
let's play hide
and go seek
our eyes closed
o funny face
o chet baker
o teeth grinding
over the wheelspins of night
amnesia yes bring
Friday, July 14, 2006
Throughout my life, I have seen narrow-shouldered men, without a single exception, committing innumerable stupid acts, brutalizing their fellows and perverting souls by all means. They call the motive for their actions fame.
Thursday, July 13, 2006
i love the stuff that transience did/does on
and i wanted to take that initial idea and mutate it into something darker.
i also love with a passion beyond reason everything that doriandra smith does on her genius site pica
why do i love doriandra so?
i once asked if she cared whether or not she got any comments?
her reply was all i needed
"not one rats ass"
and so i plotted with doriandra and i begged and pleaded and together we laid the bones down for our monster
imagine, if you will, the sound of mark e smith's the fall meets can meets doriandra's own EXP (you should listen) and comes out with a lick of the cocteau twins
THE DARK ANGELS had purpose and form and we multiplied
and then my good friend stickleback2
our adopted motto is the one our queen gave us
do we care?
"NOT ONE RATS ASS"
visit the dark angels on discharge
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
Falling Into A Loop Where Twin Winged Serpents Exit Its Nose, The Noise Romance of the Four Domains.
among the fitness instructors whose tidepools of yogic incorporation had made their
initial public offering eons ago in the agon of spinal flowering. Human birdcages are
very likely to have gogo-girls inside their hollow glass teeth, for as "shag" is a 16th
century term for the Romanization of desire among the infidels of geological bacteriogenesis,
so too, is it, the fond dew of moltem kilims, the spherical ivory nodules hollowed by
lacy azure patterned tongues, where miniature tables and chairs might be anchored
to a heaving floor, such as these, Minotaur Thérèse, horned energy enframing the arc, the appendix
of dead end roads whose lashes leer through the mandibles of soap-bubble gargoyles
whose frigidarius of liquid Persia signals an animatronic Shedu with the head of de Sade,
that glowering Hungarian minstrel who shook his wig-rattle on the 6 o'clock news, that
Dawn of the Dead "Wilmot," that "Willen-wyrd," and woolen wyrm whose svelt catastropaean
enlivened the hoar of courtly çabots whose cauteleusements metheused in the entheogentrification
of the sovereign overshrouding's "A night of rain overshrouds the skein." Such is the sex
of much marble in the history of turning turn-coat coating the Terns whose breathless eyrie
was eerily lured by beclogging Clogdogdoses duly forwarding their deuterium delirium
through the conduits of the mala bestia, who as the bear-whelp of Jonson's "Silent Woman"
wept, a curiously Simian outline of jewels was deposited in the earth-bound pleats where
Tituba broadly enacted the Ergotism of the Yeatsian gyre, drawing the wry countenance of counting
whose clay-slipped ruminants were beggared by the lolling tongues of Claviceps' minions,
those purpurean onions whose castles like a filo-dough of philia must ever flake earthward
towards the humm and hush of Huntington's chora, that Cao Cao emperor poet who wrote
Though the Tortoise Lives Long the Black Noddy soars overheed.
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
Enter your email address retail outlet, warehouse or storage unit, there's lots to be had in Multifuel Stoves and password to login to your Commercial Commence
Chelmsford and the secret is knowing where to search here and we'll point in the direction of the best premises for your here also business with these find commercial Mutilated loaves
This could be the only chance that you will never get. 'Like making love to a vampire with a monkey on your knee'.
ever wonder why?
ever think at all?
nah, no need is there? just limp along with a belly full of piss and a head full of shit.
you my son are the future and the past and the present.
and you know what?
you are as good as it gets.
words by cocaine jesus
Monday, July 10, 2006
More recovered lyrics, slightly shop-soiled from the inimitable King Mong corporation. Thanks to Mssrs Lewis, Garberdine and Blown for their kind cooperation in getting the value rights and opportunity issues that allowed An Idiot's Guide access to their vaults; you guys dot the 'i's and cross 't's like no one else:
At the reunion,
Old faces met new bodies
And milled expectantly
As they pulled off the speeches
And searched for their places.
Philip could remember Jo and Alice and Pete
But not himself.
Nothing could jog his memory
Not even the photos of him in the bath-tub
With Jo between his legs.
Jo remembered Philip
But not Pete
Who claimed that he and her
Had lost themselves in music
And consummated wisely.
Alice knew both Phil and Pete
But not Jo
Since she'd sunk her teeth
Into those two guys
On more than one occasion.
Pete thought he knew Phil and Jo
But not Alice
Who claimed patrimony
Off him anyway
And showed him the marks.
Phil remembered the first time
That Jo had broke a limb
But forgot that he slammed the door
As she tried to kick.
Jo remembered how
One man drove her to distraction
But forgot that his name was Pete
And shunned him accordingly.
Alice still smiled at Pete and Phil
Remembering the cucumbers
But couldn't place Jo
Who'd gone to the grocers.
Pete loved Jo
Could name her toes
But Forgot all about Alice
Who'd paid for his holiday.
The four sat, quite still
Not sure how to make it work.
Pete had a word and Jo had a slap.
Phil jumped in,
Forgetting his glass jaw,
And somehow Alice got tied up
In a debate with Pete over
Phil rubbed his chin
And threw a glass at Pete
Who'd forgotten how to duck,
Or so it seemed.
Alice remembered dimly
Something about Jo
And demanded with vigour
And on the spot fine.
Someone with a hat
And half an ear missing
Got fussed and bothered
And needed to wade;
Came over to pull them apart
But then forgot what he was doing
And sat down and cried.
'Lincoln! Don't cry!' they all yelled out.
And fell about laughing
As the band kicked in.
It's never quite the same without the maps of harpsichordonics or the patent flugel shorn echoes (or, yeah, the massed banks of Casio FZ1s and SK5s) but you can more or less get the idea, especially if you sing them to yourself in a dark tunnel while listening to something like Thierry Ghorgeth's Rapturous Apples in B Minor through earmonitors at maximum volume.
Sunday, July 09, 2006
...and then caught up by a faint fluttering across the surface of the skin or the way she touches her hand up to her nose, barely perceptible, a movement of such childlike simplicity that for a brief second he almost walks out of there, ashamed at what he might have to do... Then, as the tiny birds get released and each one strains at the silk trails, he steps back to watch her turn herself again into art, the littlebirds pulling in all directions while she, blindfolded and forcing herself into evermore beautiful configurations, succeeds only in wrapping the silk tighter and tighter...
Two unfortunates, locked in a death embrace in the back of a truck, the canvas drapped over their shoulders like a set dressing, both half dressed with faces half-full of rage and disbelief, both sets of hands still gripping around the throats, still heaving the air from the dead lungs and caught in a terrible stasis like a missed L-Dopa injection...
Some Yoyo Stuff by Anton Corbijn, with Don Van Vliet, feat. David Lynch
DivX format, 12:34 min., 84 Mb
Saturday, July 08, 2006
It began with a simple hunting accident (chasing headrolls down the hill etc, wiping scum off the childrens' dresses) and ended up in something altogether more sinister related to fussy eating and the forced emancipation programme.
Later, as Mikey switched on the particle accelerator, Sam wanted to eat his own fingers but was put off by the lack of sauce and hygienic assurances which she could not reasaonably be said to hold...
We ended up.
Or send your submissions
by conventional mail with
a check or money order.
Promise of Light Publications
Bimonthly Poetry Competition
PO Box 81, Milton, KY 40045
The winning author will receive a $10.00 cash prize.
Each winning poem will be published on the web site, and all
poems will be automatically entered into the editors possible-publication pile.
Deadline for the first competition is August 21, 2006.
Friday, July 07, 2006
Thursday, July 06, 2006
"...became something that Ernst had to discuss, endlessly, obsessively; if only because the last one he met, some woman with an amusingly alliterative name that forced laughs across the continent, later got torn into pieces by thousands of starving birds, fastened to her flesh with tiny iron hooks and close-woven silk thread, all to the sound of a massed choir of Bulgarians, drawn in from the County Stops and argued to be the finest singing voices for many thousands of miles..."
hissing of flaming logs
cracking and whining
huge white blocks
horses declined past two
that lie there so cold
plumage and ever
and the wind which bloweth
summons unanswered invitations
the soft voice rolls
beside the street
suddenly was the moon
a shining cut
and nothing moves
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
well, this is very confusing...
the new Tuche And Automaton is back after this one got swallowed by The Wail but now I guess I need to get all the people from the old one to come over to this one or vice versa or keep both going as Evil Twins...
Yes, I think I'll keep both going...
If you've been invited to both then excellent... if you've been invited to just one and want to be invited to the other then email me and I'll send out the invites...
"there's a badness about the eyes to both theses dames and yours looks like a dead horse..."
Itself rarely evocative...