31.12.10
28.12.10
25.12.10
Happy Ho-Ho, Shalom, Namaste, Blessed Be...
Tonight I shall pretend Saturnalia . . . Have a good'n, y'all!
;-)
23.12.10
22.12.10
20.12.10
19.12.10
18.12.10
友達 said...
14 March 2010 05:11
15 March 2010 04:37
16 March 2010 04:48
17 March 2010 05:26
18 March 2010 03:55
19 March 2010 04:45
20 March 2010 04:08
21 March 2010 05:11
23 March 2010 04:22
24 March 2010 04:02
25 March 2010 04:17
26 March 2010 04:05
27 March 2010 03:52
28 March 2010 05:56
人
29 March 2010 06:25
桜花
30 March 2010 06:59
モバゲー 31 March 2010 05:51
スタービーチ
1 April 2010 05:23
モバゲーよりすごい
4 April 2010 06:19
今迄モテたのに最近イマイチな人、
5 April 2010 05:00
皐月賞・競馬予想！各厩舎・調教師から届
6 April 2010 04:59
モバげーとスタビ、異性とのであいを探すなら
7 April 2010 05:09
セフレ掲示板で大人の恋愛をしてみませんか？割り切った
8 April 2010 04:48
出会い said...
10 April 2010 05:20
スタービーチ said...
11 April 2010 06:02
14 December 2010 04:38
18 December 2010 - The Bug Weald Wurlitzer of Promiscuousity (pimple pimple pimple)
15 March 2010 04:37
16 March 2010 04:48
17 March 2010 05:26
18 March 2010 03:55
19 March 2010 04:45
20 March 2010 04:08
21 March 2010 05:11
23 March 2010 04:22
24 March 2010 04:02
25 March 2010 04:17
26 March 2010 04:05
27 March 2010 03:52
28 March 2010 05:56
人
29 March 2010 06:25
桜花
30 March 2010 06:59
モバゲー 31 March 2010 05:51
スタービーチ
1 April 2010 05:23
モバゲーよりすごい
4 April 2010 06:19
今迄モテたのに最近イマイチな人、
5 April 2010 05:00
皐月賞・競馬予想！各厩舎・調教師から届
6 April 2010 04:59
モバげーとスタビ、異性とのであいを探すなら
7 April 2010 05:09
セフレ掲示板で大人の恋愛をしてみませんか？割り切った
8 April 2010 04:48
出会い said...
10 April 2010 05:20
スタービーチ said...
11 April 2010 06:02
14 December 2010 04:38
18 December 2010 - The Bug Weald Wurlitzer of Promiscuousity (pimple pimple pimple)
17.12.10
i get i see it i do.
reason cat has me tongue.
been living, scraping the top of the bristling nerve optic barely...yes i did stunt the music, did not do the drug, always stay fixed on plastic functioning space that don't hold my name.
well see i did fucked up, see. i let me taught braids down, and soons as could be, hands got cold, misery seeped in, every wee thing he did comes rushing in. pitch of laughter it does get high and joy oh elated to transmit the latest obsession complete with fluttering hands like bad birds- oh, yes, oh yes. i'm named Regret.
reason cat has me tongue.
been living, scraping the top of the bristling nerve optic barely...yes i did stunt the music, did not do the drug, always stay fixed on plastic functioning space that don't hold my name.
well see i did fucked up, see. i let me taught braids down, and soons as could be, hands got cold, misery seeped in, every wee thing he did comes rushing in. pitch of laughter it does get high and joy oh elated to transmit the latest obsession complete with fluttering hands like bad birds- oh, yes, oh yes. i'm named Regret.
14.12.10
13.12.10
2nd home
A second home in the country
1. Foliage Peeper.
The Hacket’s (pronounced Hack-ay) a family of usual size and BBC sitcom demographic, were bustling, packing for the trip, the long summer in Umbria with their wealthy Italian (I’m sure (but not going to look it up) Umbria is in Italy?) friends the Drieda Tomatoesy. The Tomatoesy, of political class like the Hacket’s, had a fine villa/Mansion/castle/big house, (delete as appropriate, then claim) and as it happens were also friends of Scott Free.
Lloyd knelt in the undergrowth watching the families puffy red faces glide through the house, smeared in its ample windows, mounting and dismounting the stairs exposed by the open front door. They carried things to the huge, needless (if I crash into you, you die) car, loading cases, fabric, i-tech, things to covet, cover and plug into their bodies. Typical bodies, benign, malignant, tanned, thick dumb lipped, they the carious teeth, wine stained tongue and saliva of governing classes gob. A greased and greasy family of comfortable gears, turning with the aged aroma and putrescent guile of decanted bullshit, fettered to their comfortable cancers and toenails, clipped and residing in the vomit of tradition, politely puking their bile upon the brows of hunt spporters, battered but supple estate workers, and others unknown to them but thankfully easily shiftable, pliable, and generally forelockless from all the tugging of gentry cock gone skiing whilst the next season is set up.
Lloyd laid down in foliaceous summer ferns, at the edge, in the shadows of the boundary of trees, that hid the Hacket’s house from the busy road of ready-to-murder proles and their off white vans and filthy packages. Heil Hitler boomed in the beatbox sun and sweat rolled sweetly down Lloyds spine. There was a smell of spunk and he recoiled into dream, into predator wealth, soft and looking through the stalks shaking his scene of soon to be gone white marble edifices shot through with exploded capillaries and corpulent pores. They shifted orf, joining the prole traffic, headed for the airport (simile alert!) like a bunch of cunts in a car.
The cooling late summer sun sparkled in the canopy of gently shifting leaves. They breathed for him, lung-ed it for him, the noise of the Hacket’s car sunk away, a taint of its engine breath lingered in his nostrils. It would soon be his beast of times, but, just a little longer, a lengthy linger in the verdant borders of heightened self, of promise and fresh excitement.
Some time later Lloyd retrieved himself, rose up and headed for the outer surfaces of the house. He hoped there would be no alarm system. But he need not have hoped, for the writer had defused the circuits of paranoia. Had sent moths to cover the motion sensors, so that they would be numb, dumb and blind. Had sent rats to disable the alarm wiring with gnawing nervous tensions.
2. Enter Here, all Who Fear.
Lloyd jogged up to the matured red brick house and pressed himself star shape against it, licking a brick, tonguing the mortar. He flipped himself round and dramatically crept, like a expressionist hitman, arms splayed to the tips of fingers. Reaching a window he caressed the thick white paint of the frame and peered in, hands curved about his eyes to make clearer the contents, the aspirational magazine world within, his breath misting on the pane. He squeaked a finger through the hot frost on the window and licked his lips.
3. Inside.
Once inside Lloyd did a lot of wee wee and poo poo damage to the surfaces and upholstery, he also spunked in a secret shoe in a hidden room dedicated to the blue Medusa.
4. Diminishing.
Upon exit of the fancy brick scumloaf, Lloyd found a fuse and detonated all Angry Brigade style… The End…
1. Foliage Peeper.
The Hacket’s (pronounced Hack-ay) a family of usual size and BBC sitcom demographic, were bustling, packing for the trip, the long summer in Umbria with their wealthy Italian (I’m sure (but not going to look it up) Umbria is in Italy?) friends the Drieda Tomatoesy. The Tomatoesy, of political class like the Hacket’s, had a fine villa/Mansion/castle/big house, (delete as appropriate, then claim) and as it happens were also friends of Scott Free.
Lloyd knelt in the undergrowth watching the families puffy red faces glide through the house, smeared in its ample windows, mounting and dismounting the stairs exposed by the open front door. They carried things to the huge, needless (if I crash into you, you die) car, loading cases, fabric, i-tech, things to covet, cover and plug into their bodies. Typical bodies, benign, malignant, tanned, thick dumb lipped, they the carious teeth, wine stained tongue and saliva of governing classes gob. A greased and greasy family of comfortable gears, turning with the aged aroma and putrescent guile of decanted bullshit, fettered to their comfortable cancers and toenails, clipped and residing in the vomit of tradition, politely puking their bile upon the brows of hunt spporters, battered but supple estate workers, and others unknown to them but thankfully easily shiftable, pliable, and generally forelockless from all the tugging of gentry cock gone skiing whilst the next season is set up.
Lloyd laid down in foliaceous summer ferns, at the edge, in the shadows of the boundary of trees, that hid the Hacket’s house from the busy road of ready-to-murder proles and their off white vans and filthy packages. Heil Hitler boomed in the beatbox sun and sweat rolled sweetly down Lloyds spine. There was a smell of spunk and he recoiled into dream, into predator wealth, soft and looking through the stalks shaking his scene of soon to be gone white marble edifices shot through with exploded capillaries and corpulent pores. They shifted orf, joining the prole traffic, headed for the airport (simile alert!) like a bunch of cunts in a car.
The cooling late summer sun sparkled in the canopy of gently shifting leaves. They breathed for him, lung-ed it for him, the noise of the Hacket’s car sunk away, a taint of its engine breath lingered in his nostrils. It would soon be his beast of times, but, just a little longer, a lengthy linger in the verdant borders of heightened self, of promise and fresh excitement.
Some time later Lloyd retrieved himself, rose up and headed for the outer surfaces of the house. He hoped there would be no alarm system. But he need not have hoped, for the writer had defused the circuits of paranoia. Had sent moths to cover the motion sensors, so that they would be numb, dumb and blind. Had sent rats to disable the alarm wiring with gnawing nervous tensions.
2. Enter Here, all Who Fear.
Lloyd jogged up to the matured red brick house and pressed himself star shape against it, licking a brick, tonguing the mortar. He flipped himself round and dramatically crept, like a expressionist hitman, arms splayed to the tips of fingers. Reaching a window he caressed the thick white paint of the frame and peered in, hands curved about his eyes to make clearer the contents, the aspirational magazine world within, his breath misting on the pane. He squeaked a finger through the hot frost on the window and licked his lips.
3. Inside.
Once inside Lloyd did a lot of wee wee and poo poo damage to the surfaces and upholstery, he also spunked in a secret shoe in a hidden room dedicated to the blue Medusa.
4. Diminishing.
Upon exit of the fancy brick scumloaf, Lloyd found a fuse and detonated all Angry Brigade style… The End…
11.12.10
10.12.10
7.12.10
4.12.10
3.12.10
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.
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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.
