that's the thing about charisma...

always find significance in the obscene. watching the sun rise over orange-tinged hyde park at 6.30 this morning was a timpani. removing the constraints of notions of routine and productivity are the most exquisite remedies to challange the physical and phychological interactions with the transient organism of society which evolves (if always and only in the abstract) around such imagined structure to justify it.

fire in my bones

"In the depths of the winter I finally learned that there lay in me an unconquerable summer"

A.C. 1953.

classic

i'm on a horse

Zombie Ghost Train

still as great as the first time i saw them at the annandale in year 9 :( RIP

scavengers

"Auschwitz begins when people look at them and say 'they're only animals'." -
ADORNO

and

a poem

work

corrupt arctic chills through warm putty,
wobbling to an oceanic swirl and temporal rhythm-
a grim polka in quarter-time.
Eight hours and, at dusk,
the most correct; most ultimate solution
falls on deaf ears of the mediocre.

witness the skeletal ghosts of
fishes on the walls, night humans in night vision-
topsy-turvy and jetlagged days.
Flurescent glare is nuclear,
daybreak marks a rewakening; return to the street
to seize but an hour of streaming halflight.

plans

juan lifted the dusty cracked leather lid of his maroon and gold trimmed suitcase, replaced the items he had removed and slammed his palms down on the latch twice, waiting for snap of the latch to reassure him that all his earthly possesions were again safe. he heaved the box on the bus-stop storage stand and stepped back, flexing the cramps from his knuckles and catching a bead of sweat which gathered at his temple. he noticed only one other person on the platform this late on a monday evening. the dense argentinian humidity kept most indoors fighting for sleep on cardboard mattresses, relighting mosquito candles and rocking hysterical infants crazy with flies infesting their soft foreheads.

juan jerked his head in a stiff and unassuming acknowledgment of the filthy younger girl who sat on the electricity box at the far end of the platform, dangling her thongs off two dust-caked bigtoes. the one remaining lamp on the platform illuminated her hair a damp amber tinge. the light streaming above her was swarming with the frantic murmer of a thousand psychotic skeletal figures, each desperate to glow flurescent in the dull light which framed her head like a giant aztec crown.

her head was perfectly upright, staring with grim absence from her throne and across the bus depot to the parallell train tracks. the swing of her pathetic dangling thongs disrupted the harmony of her fixated stare and the above chaos which the light attracted frustrated juan until he could no longer observe the girl without feeling surges of frustration gather on his forehead.

with shoulders tensed in disgust at the dire magesty of the bewitched girl, juan stood impatiently before an ancient flaked royal green steam train which had snaked painfully to a halt and now sat like a giant mutant slug, heaving grotesquely-catching its breath with each scream of steam-oxygen seeping in and out of its soft warm pores. juans concentration was finally broken and he fell into a musty vinal seat, popping springs etching into his lower back. with his life packed carefully into the storage space above his head, juan allowed his eyes to slip helplessly into a desperate unconscious as perspiration from the seats previous occupant sipped into thin denim jeans. through flickering eyelids, the passing platofrm blurred into the past and a bitter farewell was uttered to the effegy on the electricity-box throne and the town which juan had been escaping since the day he was spat into the world.

a girl can dream

http://retrodoll.tumblr.com, thank-you.

allllll the lovers

Dacha

less YouTube, more writin'!

but this is gold...

Sassy

this girl is damn good.

he messes with my emotions.

Vincent Gallo on Politics

jeremy | MySpace Video

something implacable

"If what we call a desert is a place without a soul in which the sky alone is king, then Oran awaits it's prophets. All around and above the town the brutal nature of Africa is, infact, resplendent in it's most burning glory. It splits open the ill-chosen decor which men have laid apon it, utters its violent cries between each house and over all the housetops. If you go up to one of te roads running up to the Santa Cruz, what you see first are all the scattered and brightly coloured blocks of Oran, but as soon as you go a little higher, the jagged cliffs surrounding the plateau seem to be crouching in the sea like red beasts. From higher still, great whirlpools of sun and wind swirl over the untidy town, blowing and battering through it as it lies scattered in confusion over all four corners of the rocky landscape. You see the clash between the magnificent anarchy of men and the permanence of an unchanging sea. This gives the road along the mountain-side an overwhelming scent of life."

Albert Camus.