Images, Loves, Books

IMAGES:

FORTY FAT WOMEN IN SPANDEX

A BOY WHO FALLS FROM A GREAT, GREAT HEIGHT

A GIRL LICKING A FROZEN POLE

THE FOXES FOLLOWING YOU HOME

ALL THE BAD SLEEPS PUT TOGETHER

FATHER FIDDLING WITH THE LIGHTS ON THE TREE

MOTHER PRETENDING TO DROWN IN A PUDDLE

SOMEONE WITH BRACES KISSING THE BELLY OF A MODEL WHALE

WIL E COYOTE ON A FAG BREAK WITH TOM THE CAT

TWO BALLET DANCERS IN A SUPERMARKET CAR PARK

LOVES:

TIGERS, LIONS, WOLVES

STARS

SNOW

SMOKE

CARTOONS

VIDEOS

1983-1990

ALICE AND THE CATERPILLAR

YORICK

TATE DONOVAN

BOOKS:

INDEX OF METALS

PHYSICS 11-15

WARHOL AT SUPPER WITH MILO AND DENNIS

GERMAN EXPRESSIONISM: 'THE WHITE IN DARK SPACES'

HEDGEHOG IN THE FOG

THE PERILS OF OBEDIENCE

GRAVITY, [HELD WITH COLD HANDS] TOUCHED LIGHTLY

INTIMACY

GHOSTS

SEXUAL ENCOUNTERS ON INNER CITY ROOFS

CLONAZEPAM

John Cale & Lou Reed- Dream

Cocteau Twins- Blind, Dumb, Deaf

Fever Ray- Coconut

'Confrontation 2' by Gerhard Richter from 'Oktober 18, 1977'. No copyright infringement intended.

Phrases, Fears, Ideas

PHRASES:

CAMERA

RABBIT

KASPER HAUSER

SMITHEREENS

PECTORUS EXCAVATUM

MENTAL ILLNESS

PATTY HEARST

CONSTRUCTION OF MEANING AND IDENTITY

FEARS:

OF NOT BEING LIKED

OF FIRE

OF STARTING

OF HAIR

OF ENDING

OF SKIN

OF KNIVES

OF SEX

OF PRETENCE

OF SPEECH

OF TELEVISION

OF THE DEVIL IN FANTASIA

OF NO REAL MEANING OR IDENTITY

IDEAS:

'I SHOT AND IT JINGLED IN HER THROAT LIKE MONEY.'

'RUSSIAN CHAMBER PLAYS RE-ENACTED BY DRUG ADDICTS'

'THE COINAGE OF 'HOUSE WOLF' FOR DOG/ 'ANTIOBIOTICKED' AS A VERB'

'LEARNING TO SWIM. A MEANINGFUL ACTIVITY IN PROXIMITY TO DEATH/ BIRTH'

'PERFORMANCE ART PIECE WHERE THE ARTIST PUNCHES HIMSELF REPEATEDLY IN THE FACE'

'AN ESSAY ON THE SAD SYMMETRY OF TWINS AND THE CONSEQUENCES FOR THEIR GRAPHS, CHILDHOOD DRAWINGS AND CHEMICAL INTAKE'

Land Of The Loops- Multi-Family Garage Sale

Laurie Anderson- Example 22

John Carpenter- Main Title From Assault On Precinct 13

'Patty Hearst Robbing A Bank on April 15, 1974'. No copyright infringement intended.

Troubled Boys Bounce Like An Ape...

Most rejected shadows, especially him, didn’t really traverse the globe in search of temptations and riches. That was all a fabrication, a justification to himself that he was doing something worthwhile. He had much more fun grumbling to a start, shrugging off scum that, on his skin, appeared to be levitating, at some early afternoon hour In an African brothel. He would wipe his dark, colourless eyes clean and breathe in the stale air that tapped his harem of emotional minor’s depression directly into his veins. The worst they felt the better he felt. Self pity is selfish and productivity falters due to invisible distractions. He could move alongside them without having to give anything away, no ‘good vibes’ or positivity. He could keep those for himself. He thought he was immune but their bitterness wore off on him and the spectresque figure could no longer stand it. He left on his own to spend the rest of his years alone. Maybe he could find himself or someone would come and show him the way. Sit tight. Nothing changed and he just got frustrated. So he went back to the brothel, drank himself stupid and it was the best time of his little translucent life.

The Arcade Fire - Rebellion (Lies)
Mobb Deep - Up North Trip
Neon Indian - Mind, Drips

I sound like a school book

What's the difference between kissing a boy or a girl? Boys have beards. Otherwise it'd be the same thing. There and back again. Fast at first, but you can't keep the pace up for long, the sinews in your legs cry out for relief, they go strike and your legs stop, no one passes the picket line. A large man in a red jacket shouts for you to go on but your vision has turned hazy as well as your hearing. Like living through a cave, echos and shadows are the only thing you can register. You can't lift your arms and the searing pain in your stomach when you breath in wont go away. You go to lie down but the large man in the red jacket tells you to get on you feet;
"how old are you? you're in your prime"

Koushik - Battle Rhymes For Battle Times
Joy Division - Atmosphere (with soundbite from Control)
Blank Dogs - The Crystal Ladies

Discourse On Mercury And Other Chemicals

My hand whips back on the wax and produces a fat asteroid buzz as I viddy the needle skating and snatches of surface noise sparking and exploding PING! CLANG! FUZZ! like the tiny blips of sci-fi fire in anti-alien arcade games. Should I put on the white-label imported Japananalogue thing? Another burst of video game noise... God, oh, God, my hand is hot, I mean, I can drop anything here and it's fine, it's fine. My hand is made of pixels under this light: a single stuttering bulb is forever overhead. Is that siren on the track or outside? My friends might be kissing pavement or hawking on cars or trying to cop a feel on that thunder-struck tree made out of kitten fur. The sky outside is aching. Look at all that light pollution, all that crackling and crashing in the big, big black clouds. That was a real siren and I can't cut to it now because it's too late and its scream was at the wrong frequency. You know when glass breaks it screams exactly like a siren. I don't dig this one- go, dissolve, cross-fade, switch, sneak that back, cut up... the sky's gone all starry and goldy. My tummy's rumbling: I want some toast but if I go downstairs all that sound will thunder into my face too fast. Probably not toast, probably soup. A nice hot bowl of Jupiter-coloured soup... the TV's sick, it's fuzzing in and out and in out, image up and down and down and down, scanning for signal from different stations. Too many cables! I'm noosed by black spaghetti wires, my headphones making sullen puddles of sulking noise. I correct: a glorious beast of bass shakes his splendid head. Feedback is out, out, out. Woof! All the waves come down over my beaten head. The light in the room is the colour of rust. That girl is asleep. Look, you can see the Lucky Strike target on her tummy getting tight and getting soft. Is she dreaming, am I in it, am I awake? The sky's not like that: it looks like a million bits of black card stuck together, covered in licked silver stars and sequins. The snoozing girl is curled up and a cat oozes over her and slums into a corner and starts darning its black socks with its cold tongue. An ambulance is howling around outside. Bodies coming and going like an airport: everyone X-rayed in the freezing light. Styrofoam snow starts falling. Snow is falling all the time. Someone shouts out in a staticky megaphone voice and everyone goes deaf. I'm OK in here: I'm not as bleary-eyed and broken-tailed as everyone else. I'm an astronaut at the controls, I'm alive, all the sounds, all the data belong to me, I'm awake, like the wolves, like winter, like Superman, Moby Dick... I can come out from the rabbit hole. Bristers, sothers, come up! Curiouser and curiouser, on and on, for we are like angels, for the sky hasn't caved in yet. Next track, next track. Then go to sleep.

1. Delia Derbyshire- The Sea

2. Tangerine Dream- Sequent C

3. Twine- In Through Devices

'Doll' by Ed Ruscha. No copyright infringement intended.

I still dream of Organon.

She's in the trees, she's coming. Kate, her soft voice, with its slight dulling of sibilants. Dancing to the beat of the drums in her black velvet leotard and a black semi-transparent cloth draped over her face. Bobbing, weaving, thrusting round a double bass. Her crimped hair blasted back by the fan as she runs her hands down her pale shapely breasts. Sexual thoughts arise from the sensual world, her most feminine and fuckable album. She is my Babooshka, My little army dreamer. Don't pan out from that extreme close up of her face, stay there, savor her typically Edwardian features. Kate Bush sends me letters, signed with a kiss. I receive them with a strange delight. Add them to the collage of her in my room. I'd like to tie her up, leave her suspended in Gaffa, then watch. I'd make her go up a couple of octaves. Her deep blue eye shadow exposing the whites of her eyes and the blood red lipstick, my one dream, she's my one and only master. Only she could turn novel into song. That feeling of sticky love inside expanding in my stomach and spurring through my tear ducts making my brain melt through my eyes. My messy and sworded infatuation consuming me quietly and while I sleep she dances softly in my head, whispering in my ear, "You've always been a coward".

Kate Bush - Hounds Of Love
Kate Bush - Cloudbusting
Kate Bush - Babooshka
Kate Bush - Suspended In Gaffa
Kate Bush - Running Up That Hill
Kate Bush - Wuthering Heights (Live Session Version)
Kate Bush - Army Dreamers

Files removed.

Public Service Television

1. The artist sits in her studio and stares crosseyed at the camera. The television is experiencing medium-level signal interference, meaning the weatherman is suffering and morphing into a well-bred dog that pulls drowsy children from house fires. The weatherman's problems continue until a skinhead assistant jabs the aerial with a plastic fork. The weatherman is covered in patchy, neon bruises. The artist produces a sheet of smoke. 'That's a trick I'm learning to do'. Another shot is set up.

2. 'My wisdom tooth was impacted. Well, you know how long they make you wait for an appointment nowadays- I was in bloody agony for about three days. I got in there drunk- this was on the Wednesday- it took an hour to pull the thing out. It was like a rock. It had five roots! It looked like a hand. (Displays fingers) I only just got back on solids and them painkillers made no fucking difference.'

3. 'The lack of funding we have is the problem, you know? It doesn't matter what choices I might make as a person if the state can't support them monetarily, and then I am failing the service users and-'

'I hear what you're saying, I hear what you're saying.'

4. A sign-language translator motions furiously in a small box in a black margin at the left axis of the screen:

ONE: An exit strategy?

[Counter-shot]

TWO: Can I... can I just-

THREE: Is anyone watching?

[Wide-shot]

ONE: I didn't like the way symbolism was played with.

TWO: A beach in winter at night is just a metaphor. A covering on a blank canvas.

ONE: Yes, nothing to say.

[Close-up]

TWO: I think- I think.

[Counter-shot]

ONE: It failed.

THREE: Gradually.

1. David Byrne- Tree (Today Is An Important Occasion)

2. Fridge- Cutup Piano And Xylophone

3. Steve Reich- Triple Quartet Duet

4. David Lynch- Ghost Of Love

Cold Harbor. June 3rd. I Am Dead.

A child winds up his clockwork toy. Twisting his fingers round the brass butterfly key and rotating it clockwise causing the cogs and bolts to wake up, flex their arms and legs then creep into motion. He has stains down his shirt, and dirt in his hair. Cross-legged he finishes winding and lets it do. The Toy whizzes and pops. It swirls and cartwheels. Hypnotizing him for a second then boring him. He returns with his father's hammer. He smashes it.
Olaibi - Eisa



Jump into the Orient. Where masked women twirl and shake round you commanding your attention, and your love. Desire boiling your insides and rushing through you like a virus or a fever. Delirium takes over as she slips and slides through the close night air. The sequins that hang from her scarfs sparkle in your eyes. She takes hold of your arm and pludges you into a world of lava lamps and satin sheets where her bronze body is your only god. Rhythm is your only companion, and no one is your enemy.
Omar Khorshid And His Magic Guitar - Raqsed El Fada



And now for something darker. To satisfy your taste. A world of cut glass highways and desert sands mark the road to Calgary. You'll never get there, not with that attitude. The world is vast and bleak, that repeative synsthezed base line echos in the chasms and valleys and the drones of a thousand dissapointed souls cry out for you to join them. The past is forgotten, the present is resented. That headache you've had won't go away, and all you want to do is sleep yourself into a coma.
Oneohtrix Point Never - Laser to Laser

Music For Recluses (A Blank Voice On All Machines)

a) 'Just being alive is so much work at something you don't always want to do.' Warhol

b) 'The point of my career is perhaps how little I achieved.' Barthelme

c) 'Fame is incomprehension; perhaps the very worst kind.' Borges

d) 'I wish I was not here... Life without him is a grave to me.' Goethe

e) 'It is not I who became addicted but my body.' Cocteau

f) 'People in my country die emotionally at twenty one.' Cassavetes

g) 'Really, words are voices in thin strips. Words wound in wires. Bars of connection.' Gass

1. AFX- Untitled

2. Bochum Welt- GTE

3. Slint- For Dinner...

Siblings

House is silent apart from the buzz of panel shows on the television and canned laughter. I creep downstairs. Doing my best to tip toe through the tension, that hangs like strings with bells on, tied to every supermarket-bought art print and worthless holiday souvenir. Today was Tesla's birthday, Bowie played him in that film where there are two Bales, if only. Sister is asleep, exhausted from all the fake tears and pseudo-hysteria, now still in her bed of foul language. As I showered, thoughts of what I would had said to her scuttled through my mind, but then became refined and thorny. I rehearsed the words as the scalding water washed over my shaggy head and salty brown back. I always take my showers under thermogenic waters, I like the itchy sensation the heat gives your skin and how it hurts when you breathe. I practised the words over and over, adding facial expression, hand motions. I'll never say them. They stay locked behind the shower curtain. My limbs are heavy.

I warmed up the leftover pasta and pesto from last night's attempt at dinner. I ate in the dark. The gentle clatter of teeth on metal being my only company. Plunge don't paddle, Penny used to say. I don't like to swim, not since two summers past. I went and got a pad and began an illegible scrawl across the page. A messy trail of thought, neatness is for the Autistic and the Japanese. Scathing look from father, he'd rather I play more contact sports. "Got to get out into the working world",

"Got To Stand On Your Own Two Feet"

Charles Mingus - Meditations
Coltrane Motion - The Year Without A Summer
Yes - Owner Of A Lonely Heart

I Am In Detention Today Because

I was hungover in homeroom. I puked all over that anorexic girl's wooly mammoth jumper and had to drag myself to the bathroom. I had a smoke afterward, dropped the butt in the cistern and had some sleepy, sloppy thoughts about Molly Ringwald. My pining echoed in the weird, outdoorsy acoustics of the bathroom and the hollow reverberations of the fittings and the silver taps and the smooth curve of the sink sounded like her voice. I had to leave Physics too when I got aroused by a Venn diagram that reminded me of Molly's breasts and how she applies lipstick with them in The Breakfast Club when she's stoned. I wish I could smoke a number and watch Tron. Someone blew my candles out. I'm stuck. There must be some mistake, an error... I don't think I'm meant to be in here.

1. The Smiths- Please, Please, Please, Let Me Get What I Want [File Removed]

2. Kate Bush- This Woman's Work

3. Ciccone Youth- Into The Groove(y)

4. Wendy Carlos- Theme From Tron

Photo taken from 'The Breakfast Club' (John Hughes) 1986. No copyright infringement intended.

So Blind You Can See Right Through Me

I stood there, naked. They didn't even notice. A tricklet of piss crept down my leg and rested on my ankle. My self-adulation swelled and popped. She stood there, a moonlight silhouette laughing. I could hear my hair grow as the thoughts in my head stumbled and tripped. She still stood there, a moonlight silhouette laughing. She was a beautiful mess. The muscles in my legs and arms cramped then relaxed, then cramped again sending me into fits of jolts and convulsions. Trees danced the polka in the distance as the moon held hands with the clouds as they raped the sky. She caught ablaze and it ended me. Filled with absinthian disdain. She was gone and it was final.

Lucky Dragons - Open Melody

The Urxed - Gardening After Dark

Goodnight, Missing Postman

'I ask that all in our room fall, supplicant to our lost king, our missing postman. Can you transform your skulls, slipping off colourful masks, hiding sloppy and rotting forms of luxury and small hours of youth and yawning months of failing, slumping, growing old and adopt contortions of mourning? Calmly and slowly: cry, sob and wail (and synonyms).

All post is now lost in a labyrinth or burning in thick woods. I ask that you do not try to talk right away but shush. Ruins of car by hospital. I ask for no flash photography. No attacks, bangs, blasts. No man to climb our buildings and jump. You fall. You hit a roof. It hurts.

Goodnight, missing postman, sir. A man of poor construction.

A lot of rain turning first to fog... soon much snow.

Out, out, transmission out.'

1. PiL- Radio 4

2. William Basinski- Variation IV

3. Mogwai- Punk Rock

Dance Till You Are Dead

Heads will roll. My eyes crystallized, I was seeing through a kaleidoscope. The speakers bounced and reverberated. The light bleached my skin and it peeled off. My bones broke and shattered. I wasn't numb, I felt everything. I watched him cry like a baby. I took off my shoes, my toes curled back onto themselves and my nails grew and snapped, the jagged edges jutting at my insteps. It all started when I lost my mother. My teeth shattered and my gums bled, it hurt when I spoke, so I shouted. This mutilation turned me into a masterpiece, an Adonis of the grotesque. Don't fight the power. Let it wash over you like acid and burn away your non-conformity. Let it ram its penis down your throat and choke you till you like it. Fuck you, I hate you all.

Arch M - 21st Union

Animal Collective - Daily Routine (Phaseone remix)

Re-word, Sentence, Page 54

‘But any need in a street, the warrens through which the very aim chances, resulted in lengthy sensuous confusions.’ More are saying that of the year but Victorian cathedrals that once transcended on any doubt or shadow, of a simple builder’s paraphrase of a god, arose, long ago, bent in smoke and fright. The improvisation of moments in time could not own any cruel direction, but it’s not actual, so it’s out, not in, of network. What belts, not from leather, were, long ago, about in forests? What be of intentions for whatever. Now of the flies, flowing back toward industrial excrement and to windowless, gothic states, drive existence from god’s zenith, fashioning some to-be suitable, apical locus and approaching rats climb the brick, shrugging, but in a derangement, as they escape mercy of –

David Bowie - I'm Afraid Of Americans

Michael Jackson - Billie Jean (Home Demo 1981)

Salem - Skullcrush

Crash And Burn

Don't go out. It'd be better to stay at home. Pretend to be asleep. Summer Hibernation. The Heat does you no good. Sun is not good for the soul. Sitting on you're own muttering under your breath to a bubblegum synthesizers. Take me back to prison, put me back into my cell. I don't like the freedom, i can't take it. Self-loathing is such an unattractive quality yet it remains a unavoidable one. Melt into a ductile metal like liquid ice cream floating around the bowl when you leave it out. The sun crawls back into its lunar hovel and strange prickly heat pinches at your skin. You pull on some crisp new clothes which soon dampen and heavy from your sweat. It's close. You find yourself sitting under Christmas tree lights crunching your third lolly-pop while drugged pensioners stumble around demanding house music, there wrinkled necks raised towards the sky, "We Own The Night". They jeer and squawk at you as you try to explain that there's no vodka in your lemonade. The situation holds no lucidity as you curl up and die. You crash through the night back into the day a charred frame of your former self. No phoenix rises from this fire. Your eyes melt back into your forehead. At least now your feeling something as you pick at your wounds. Look in the mirror and you see someone else. He hates his life. He is you, and you are dead.

Pandora's Box - It's All Coming Back To Me Now
Bow Wow Wow - I Want Candy
ABBA - Dancing Queen
Edwyn Collins - A Girl Like You
Bruce Springsteen & The E Street Band - Born To Run

Omelette and Tennis and Chores...

Small men in suits have stolen your time and driven you far from comfort in a haze of old indie, the worst kind of hip-hop and drum and bass. They lead you round farm towns with gab and diesel charm. The sun is closer to the earth than ever but you still can't see it. Of course there's no benefit or winner and only the office god can see why these 'beings of an alternate breed' don't go home at the end of the day, cheap hair wax dripping down their faces and sweat patches bigger than their egos, and hang themselves with the nearest snakeskin belt or pair of braces. Moisture seeps through your skin under your cheap trousers and borrowed tie and you still can't even glimpse the culprit. There's no way. Return to square one. Ultimate year long procrastination.

Animal Collective - Chores
Beastie Boys - Shadrach
Abecedarians - Benway's Carnival