Graceful pretenses,
The castle parapet wrapped in a hematite ring.
Chain me down, devil,
Right where the pyrite is sitting.
Plastic and gold, alas, my love!
Together we shall enter the empty vessel;
Where once rose smoke,
Now sit only ashes.
You are the only beauty in this hollow cavern,
Cavity,
Convex illusion.
We would have a fire,
But the matches have run dry.
30.8.10
29.8.10
27.8.10
25.8.10
24.8.10
23.8.10
22.8.10
the pre-apocalypse post-apocalyptic society
Somalia, the pre-apocalypse post-apocalyptic society:
Self help manuals.
Erotic decongestants.
Deviant malaise.
Studded eyepatches.
Olfactory terrorism.
A bisected nostril.
Self help manuals.
Erotic decongestants.
Deviant malaise.
Studded eyepatches.
Olfactory terrorism.
A bisected nostril.
21.8.10
20.8.10
19.8.10
18.8.10
Pyrite
I.
Baser emotions are blasphemy,
Rutting animals racing through the dark.
II.
Freedom is an illusion fed us by the old.
"Trust me," she said. "I've been around a time
Or six."
Either you are a whore
Or a deluded fool.
III.
It reminds me of a church,
And, lo! The windows are of finest glass:
Red of guilt,
Blue of guile,
Green of bitterness,
Yellow of death.
Is it any wonder?
IV.
"Trust me,"
I whispered back mockingly.
"I know just where to cut."
V.
Sometime during the night an angel landed on the roof,
Feathered wings brushing innocent dreams
Barely dancing across the starry sky.
In the morning, well-
VI.
Royalty has finally found us!
Clad in purple splendor, my lord,
You have ridden in to save us!
Burn the witch!
BURN HER!
VII.
Baser emotions are blasphemy
VIII.
Trust me when I tell you,
There was a story aching to be told.
One angel fell into the night,
One lost soul found the light.
One church was burned for wicked ways,
One whore found salvation from a blade.
One girl was saved,
One lord paid,
One story was lost, but found its way.
IX.
In the morning, the sun merely rose.
"Such a pity!"
"Such a shame!"
"So young!"
Walk not the streets when the church is watching.
Walk not the streets when the preacher is coming.
X.
So surely must one thing end
For another to
BEGIN
Baser emotions are blasphemy,
Rutting animals racing through the dark.
II.
Freedom is an illusion fed us by the old.
"Trust me," she said. "I've been around a time
Or six."
Either you are a whore
Or a deluded fool.
III.
It reminds me of a church,
And, lo! The windows are of finest glass:
Red of guilt,
Blue of guile,
Green of bitterness,
Yellow of death.
Is it any wonder?
IV.
"Trust me,"
I whispered back mockingly.
"I know just where to cut."
V.
Sometime during the night an angel landed on the roof,
Feathered wings brushing innocent dreams
Barely dancing across the starry sky.
In the morning, well-
VI.
Royalty has finally found us!
Clad in purple splendor, my lord,
You have ridden in to save us!
Burn the witch!
BURN HER!
VII.
Baser emotions are blasphemy
VIII.
Trust me when I tell you,
There was a story aching to be told.
One angel fell into the night,
One lost soul found the light.
One church was burned for wicked ways,
One whore found salvation from a blade.
One girl was saved,
One lord paid,
One story was lost, but found its way.
IX.
In the morning, the sun merely rose.
"Such a pity!"
"Such a shame!"
"So young!"
Walk not the streets when the church is watching.
Walk not the streets when the preacher is coming.
X.
So surely must one thing end
For another to
BEGIN
17.8.10
-
Wondering inches away
picking away
the insatiably doubles up,
tension beckons
A fray like a snaking ash
is sucking me winding
the shame
stirring
the blame
and passing me the net, curl on up
fizzled
pity.
Holding the bones
the pain
creeps on up,
cramped
mind
stubby
cold
toes
awakened
whispers,
stubbed off in the
same tray, same day
stuffed in the coffin all day,
left coughing in the room,
smothering away, picking away
a distant darkened memo
a sweeper for my mind
splattered on the floor.
Thoughts, eyes both dilated
passive. pleasured in brew.
Lick my wounds,
my brains out as soon
as we get situated.
An hour left on the clock and
her eyes on the door.
he gets-sin
and
wonders
about the drifting
in
her
eyes.
picking away
the insatiably doubles up,
tension beckons
A fray like a snaking ash
is sucking me winding
the shame
stirring
the blame
and passing me the net, curl on up
fizzled
pity.
Holding the bones
the pain
creeps on up,
cramped
mind
stubby
cold
toes
awakened
whispers,
stubbed off in the
same tray, same day
stuffed in the coffin all day,
left coughing in the room,
smothering away, picking away
a distant darkened memo
a sweeper for my mind
splattered on the floor.
Thoughts, eyes both dilated
passive. pleasured in brew.
Lick my wounds,
my brains out as soon
as we get situated.
An hour left on the clock and
her eyes on the door.
he gets-sin
and
wonders
about the drifting
in
her
eyes.
13.8.10
12.8.10
9.8.10
On an adventure with my captain.....o captain,
ravenous/ acute psychotropic blur of caving in
those who worked with youth.
"The Nazis believe that Jesus was largely inspired by a trip to India."
fear is going bald.
I have sprayed them with white paint
for land justice!!
Today is a bucketful of mixed messages ...
How grateful I am ..
"Yes, Pastor, If only I could sleep once again"
can't face another week of this.
extraordinary will-power and discipline
i was a virgin until i was 43...hey, it happens... *cringe*
join No-nukes you don't need to understand Chinese to be amazed by this.
true romanticism is a sham
getting some dual action relief..
always avant garde--(though the missionaries apparently haven't caught on yet)
What's the Moon in? "astounding plasticity"
Sometimes you just have to scrap all that love and peace shit for a day
A souvenir for the weekend.
i can/t handle THIS..i can/t handle THAT..i go home:(
it's either THIS or THAT ... i don't think there's any third option...
those who worked with youth.
"The Nazis believe that Jesus was largely inspired by a trip to India."
fear is going bald.
I have sprayed them with white paint
for land justice!!
Today is a bucketful of mixed messages ...
How grateful I am ..
"Yes, Pastor, If only I could sleep once again"
can't face another week of this.
extraordinary will-power and discipline
i was a virgin until i was 43...hey, it happens... *cringe*
join No-nukes you don't need to understand Chinese to be amazed by this.
true romanticism is a sham
getting some dual action relief..
always avant garde--(though the missionaries apparently haven't caught on yet)
What's the Moon in? "astounding plasticity"
Sometimes you just have to scrap all that love and peace shit for a day
A souvenir for the weekend.
i can/t handle THIS..i can/t handle THAT..i go home:(
it's either THIS or THAT ... i don't think there's any third option...
7.8.10
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Is discharge Dada? No, it is not. Influenced by and with a similar attitude to, but not Dada..
Is discharge Fluxus?
No, it is not.
Influenced by and with a similar attitude to, but not Fluxus.
Is discharge art for intellectuals? No, discharge is for anyone and everyone who appreciates creativity in all its myriad forms. Be it static visual, audio or moving image; the written word or the deconstructed, non-linear form. The spoken word and noise.
All creativity is the springboard for discharge. It highjack’s a multitude of genres and disciplines and transposes them onto the internet. discharge is electronically transmitted art, be it via blog, myspace or whatever format possible, it can also be produced and seen in classic formats.
The discharge Chapbook. The discharge Building by Parts book. discharge has no rules. All contributors to discharge are responsible adults. discharge has no leaders although it has an elected body of rotating editors who oversee rather than dictate the flow of the group.
The aim of discharge is to profile creative people and to do away with the pretension of the art world.
Everyday people creating art everyday to an exceptional quality.
Art by barrow boys and girls.
discharge is international.
