Somebody stole my black moleskin jacket with the punk badges.
I was walking forward behind the housing estate in a provincial lowland culdesac of a suburban post-industrial townlet.
Here were the features of the townlet: grannies in granny flats being onlookers. Patches of council-shorn grass. Rain-wet roads, grey tarmac. An empty white sky. Council-built semi-detacheds from the '30s look so unbecoming in a brief late summer rain....
Opening her drawers softly so the girl in the next room doesn't hear. It's the big chest of drawers, with the long, heavy drawers, overstuffed with garments. The housebreaker....
This girl, what is she like? Has an ex and a son, of whom she is very fond. Wears what I consider to be too much make-up, an awful mask of make-up. In general, vulgar, and not slightly, not forgivably. Face is not too pretty, looks haggard and weary before her time, also her thought and ways of expressing herself are coarse, which is reflected in her face, her over-eager appearance. Going through her facebook pictures you see it; an eagerness to please.
Obviously, too, her coarseness is allied with a short temper and a protectiveness towards her wean.
I was told she contacted one or two of the prettier boys in the art school and offered them liasions. I can well believe it, but, of course, it is hearsay. She added me as a friend, but I was never offered anything myself. I didn't find her particularly attractive.
Thursday 13 October 2011
Friday 7 October 2011
Eden
My girlfriend is called Eden. Short, about 18. Nice covering of flesh. Her mother was white Scottish, her father a black man from the West Indies. Black hair that could've been curled. Like the half-Indian girl that lived up the street, short and fleshy, in a tight top.
Eden is uncertain and despondent. She was born when the sun was in the sign of Pisces. She has a disorder of the thyroid gland which can render her confused, her attention span is very short.
Mostly silent, crossed arms, a lack of confidence. Coffee-coloured inclining to brown, a fringe of neatly-curled hair, a tight top. Her full breasts stretch the fabric, a white brastrap cutting into the soft flesh of her shoulder can now and then be glimpsed.
Perhaps the sun was in the sign of Aquarius when she was born. She is sometimes cold. Tight-lipped, hard to tell what she's thinking. But when once I teased her about this inscrutability, she said, without a smile, "I'm quite straightforward".
The expression on her face: expectant, insecure. She doesn't talk much.
We get on the bus. Long bus journeys through grey countrysides. Monotonous drone of the engine. She is silent most a the way, lookin out the window.
Eden is uncertain and despondent. She was born when the sun was in the sign of Pisces. She has a disorder of the thyroid gland which can render her confused, her attention span is very short.
Mostly silent, crossed arms, a lack of confidence. Coffee-coloured inclining to brown, a fringe of neatly-curled hair, a tight top. Her full breasts stretch the fabric, a white brastrap cutting into the soft flesh of her shoulder can now and then be glimpsed.
Perhaps the sun was in the sign of Aquarius when she was born. She is sometimes cold. Tight-lipped, hard to tell what she's thinking. But when once I teased her about this inscrutability, she said, without a smile, "I'm quite straightforward".
The expression on her face: expectant, insecure. She doesn't talk much.
We get on the bus. Long bus journeys through grey countrysides. Monotonous drone of the engine. She is silent most a the way, lookin out the window.
Thursday 6 October 2011
Lycurgus of Sparta
Slow, lone, unbeknownst to me,
New forms of eternity
Being born.
Lycurgus of Sparta.
a bullethole in each knuckle
a wolverine
a straight line.
Four drums.
Flesh & bone.
Street demonstrations.
Six Thirty. The Spaniards.
"I can't imagine him ragin' at anybody."
Seventeen thousand albinos in Tanzania.
"They've gone berserk in Detroit".
There's always more. Jes' turn on the news.
New forms of eternity
Being born.
Lycurgus of Sparta.
a bullethole in each knuckle
a wolverine
a straight line.
Four drums.
Flesh & bone.
Street demonstrations.
Six Thirty. The Spaniards.
"I can't imagine him ragin' at anybody."
Seventeen thousand albinos in Tanzania.
"They've gone berserk in Detroit".
There's always more. Jes' turn on the news.
My Utopia
All the neds will be given AK-47's, and formed up into a regular army. They will be absolutely bombarded with the most extreme anarchist propaganda, getting them all fired up to exterminate the bourgeoisie. They will march on London to commence the class war, slaughtering anyone who looks rich, or looks as though they might one day think of being rich. Bodies of hedge fund managers and investment bankers will litter the floor of the stock exchange. Politicians will be ritually bludgeoned in tune to the finale of the 1812 overture, their bodies used to fertilise the fields. When the last capitalist has been hung by the guts of the last politician, a new Golden Age will dawn on earth, a New Spring heralding once and for all the death of the winter of hierarchy and obedience. At the stroke of midnight, a non-stop party will commence, which will last until the sun burns itself out, or until mankind finally exhausts itself from drunkenness, lust, and joy.
A Good Time Will Be Had By All.
SUPPORT the two-party system: The Party Party and the All-Night Party.
(and I'm a "moderate")
A Good Time Will Be Had By All.
SUPPORT the two-party system: The Party Party and the All-Night Party.
(and I'm a "moderate")
Saturday 1 October 2011
Big Black
An early morn. The backdrop grey sky. A steamengine whistle. A cement wall. The back of a fence.
The complex pictureplay of faces flickering by. Some of the men have Nosferatu faces.
The piles of records, vinyl mostly, lurking there in spindly rows, so full of vacant promise and really so shiny and beautiful. Reworkings of shiny accelerated tape, wound over on messy spools but catalogued gladly by in the stereo compartments and shiny rows nicely. Piles of CD stacked neatly there too, these carefully-wrought, divinely produced products with their glorious florid packaging and serious workmanship.
The workmanship of vinyl records is especially beautiful, an actual sizeable slab of human ingenuity more lovely than the techno egghead meanness of tiny, grumpy CDs. A shiny, broad LP cover, and a broad, proud disc especially of, say coloured vinyl thin and grooved nicely and with weird messages probably scratched in the vinyl. Ah the beautiful clutter of bleak speakers and smooth audio equipment and your noble LPs all grouped in their collective silence and brotherhood, clustering their vivid, multifarious spines!
Drop a slab of vinyl on that carefully balanced, artfully constructed timetable. Remember Big Black, think how much Robert loved them and had the big nameless glossy poster on his wall. Think of that divine Albini twiddling his knobs in some forsaken studio long ago, creating these weird Big Black albums, all the dark buzz of feedback and unique crunch and interchange of guitars dangerously presumptuous and thundering, but never being clichéd or becoming such a hideous thing as metal.
At first there's the darkness and psychosis of danger and gritting teeth and furious voices on the record, Albini's voice which always sounds pure in anger, "Songs about Fucking" you see in rows of LPs in obscure record shops, with the manga guy on the front sweating and straining in pain or ecstasy. The anonymity and dread seriousness of Big Black, black shiny vinyl laying recumbent on the turntable. The grimness of thin t-shirts and serious eighties noise in their grim expressions. Hissing madness of rumbustious songs, guitars so straining and wheezing that they break forth into psychotic rage, but restrained like the matchless thundering of the drums, always imbued with darkness rattling as the vocals get higher and more clean-throated in pure noise. A slow, sinister cover of "The Model" buzzing out with mean vocals and raw guitar parts instead of clean Kraftwerk keyboards. More dark underground beats and eighties drumming, flash and booming, industrial darkness and facelessness. Wheezing, bursting, bombastic guitars, the bass stands out meanly as if played by someone especially pissed off and isolated, minimal battering of drums. Screaming vocals. Big Black are better than Husker Du or the Pixies for me....
The complex pictureplay of faces flickering by. Some of the men have Nosferatu faces.
The piles of records, vinyl mostly, lurking there in spindly rows, so full of vacant promise and really so shiny and beautiful. Reworkings of shiny accelerated tape, wound over on messy spools but catalogued gladly by in the stereo compartments and shiny rows nicely. Piles of CD stacked neatly there too, these carefully-wrought, divinely produced products with their glorious florid packaging and serious workmanship.
The workmanship of vinyl records is especially beautiful, an actual sizeable slab of human ingenuity more lovely than the techno egghead meanness of tiny, grumpy CDs. A shiny, broad LP cover, and a broad, proud disc especially of, say coloured vinyl thin and grooved nicely and with weird messages probably scratched in the vinyl. Ah the beautiful clutter of bleak speakers and smooth audio equipment and your noble LPs all grouped in their collective silence and brotherhood, clustering their vivid, multifarious spines!
Drop a slab of vinyl on that carefully balanced, artfully constructed timetable. Remember Big Black, think how much Robert loved them and had the big nameless glossy poster on his wall. Think of that divine Albini twiddling his knobs in some forsaken studio long ago, creating these weird Big Black albums, all the dark buzz of feedback and unique crunch and interchange of guitars dangerously presumptuous and thundering, but never being clichéd or becoming such a hideous thing as metal.
At first there's the darkness and psychosis of danger and gritting teeth and furious voices on the record, Albini's voice which always sounds pure in anger, "Songs about Fucking" you see in rows of LPs in obscure record shops, with the manga guy on the front sweating and straining in pain or ecstasy. The anonymity and dread seriousness of Big Black, black shiny vinyl laying recumbent on the turntable. The grimness of thin t-shirts and serious eighties noise in their grim expressions. Hissing madness of rumbustious songs, guitars so straining and wheezing that they break forth into psychotic rage, but restrained like the matchless thundering of the drums, always imbued with darkness rattling as the vocals get higher and more clean-throated in pure noise. A slow, sinister cover of "The Model" buzzing out with mean vocals and raw guitar parts instead of clean Kraftwerk keyboards. More dark underground beats and eighties drumming, flash and booming, industrial darkness and facelessness. Wheezing, bursting, bombastic guitars, the bass stands out meanly as if played by someone especially pissed off and isolated, minimal battering of drums. Screaming vocals. Big Black are better than Husker Du or the Pixies for me....
Corner Shop
There are certain corner shops and grocery stores, little backwater dives located on secluded streets, that even in the lengths of afternoon seem dark and gloomy, as if they were located underground, and only a glimmer of light were allowed through.
In one such shop, on one such afternoon, M traipsed to and fro, pretending to be interested in the scant merchandise on offer. The interior of this little shop was murky-brown and bare, with a floor-covering smooth and swept-clean. Against one wall was a cheap-looking wire rack on which various newspapers and magazines were arranged, and by the door leading into the inner sanctum of the building was a chipped, shoddy counter on which were scattered a few scraps of paper. The place was empty of staff and of customers, besides M.
He wandered around, coughing embarassedly, waiting, puzzling at the bare pasteboard walls, the sense of desolation and even despair which seemed to inhabit the place. It seemed for all the world as though the shop had been cleared of all but its most worthless stock, and even of its internal decorations, so that the only advertisement posters that remained were of the quietest and most modest kind.
The proprietors of the shop were a rotund, homely family of Asians, who M had seen before stepping out onto the shop-floor among the crowded,neatly-piled boxes of stock, the solid-bodied mother, perpetually grinning and head-scarfed, purple-swathed in a neat sari with a diaphanous veil. Yet behind it all, somewhere, M felt as always the great gloom of such families, an inexplicable gloom related to headscarves, moustachio'd fathers with white-glaring eyes, coins scraped bitterly across counters, lamentations in Urdu, mangy newspapers full of swishy characters in the back alley. This family worked quietly, arose at dawn to gather in the papers, sort out the rack with its load of brightly-coloured magazines, creaking across floorboards, mumbling their sorrows to one another.
In one such shop, on one such afternoon, M traipsed to and fro, pretending to be interested in the scant merchandise on offer. The interior of this little shop was murky-brown and bare, with a floor-covering smooth and swept-clean. Against one wall was a cheap-looking wire rack on which various newspapers and magazines were arranged, and by the door leading into the inner sanctum of the building was a chipped, shoddy counter on which were scattered a few scraps of paper. The place was empty of staff and of customers, besides M.
He wandered around, coughing embarassedly, waiting, puzzling at the bare pasteboard walls, the sense of desolation and even despair which seemed to inhabit the place. It seemed for all the world as though the shop had been cleared of all but its most worthless stock, and even of its internal decorations, so that the only advertisement posters that remained were of the quietest and most modest kind.
The proprietors of the shop were a rotund, homely family of Asians, who M had seen before stepping out onto the shop-floor among the crowded,neatly-piled boxes of stock, the solid-bodied mother, perpetually grinning and head-scarfed, purple-swathed in a neat sari with a diaphanous veil. Yet behind it all, somewhere, M felt as always the great gloom of such families, an inexplicable gloom related to headscarves, moustachio'd fathers with white-glaring eyes, coins scraped bitterly across counters, lamentations in Urdu, mangy newspapers full of swishy characters in the back alley. This family worked quietly, arose at dawn to gather in the papers, sort out the rack with its load of brightly-coloured magazines, creaking across floorboards, mumbling their sorrows to one another.
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