23.5.17

i miss surfing the internet






thanks rich for organising this exhibition in Berlin




off to see the queen for a tunnocks

snail empathy


this ones a submission from Mitch Welch on the perpetual highway. keep on truckin' Mitch!
gracias lau








Thank you Bhanu Kapil
https://thesparklyblogofbhanukapil.blogspot.co.uk/2017/05/some-notes-aftermath-midden-glitter.html
also thank you for this


these were fake cops for a bullshit tv program called ''hard cell' (the news stand announcements are also: fake) there was a fake guy handing out fake newspapers and he wouldnt give me one and it really cheesed me off. the real cops were watching in the background and you could tell they were the real cops because thay looked like hipsters




This is a submission from patrick langley.
this is from Citizen Amy Ball.













18.5.17

Citizen M

walking down mare street
with ipanemea sandals on my feet
splashing sleet in cold drips
fake ripped jeans got real rips
started to vape tried to force quit
deisel and BBQ is the flavours I hit
im the soul patch on your moustache ride
when you let your flat out to sky TV (for a zombie apocolypse shoot)
and youve got nowhere left to hide.
You slip instep with a jack the ripper tour
and get mistook for the guide
phone batt percent is down to four-ish
matcha green smoothie fountain kinda moreish
adult movie on the TV
set the mood lighting to whore-ish
(on the ipad its called 'romantic')
most art nowadays is just semantic
on the back of the handout is a picture of your face as a map
pedantic, bewildered and showing confusion
alienated hurt  continuing cultures chain of abusion
pull down invisible metaphorical fake working class flat-cap's
coarse wool over your eyes
gather harry potter's real dad's magic cloak around your thighs
to disguise yourself as you shadowbox security guards on behalf of guys
in public toilets smoking synthetic natural highs
you left your clip-in top knot at my house last night
and the seven pound desert wines effect wore off at first sight
and in the morning i was moaning that I felt like shite
outsdide the awning of the kidd medieval moorings chalk bright white
the wind blows little bone china single-use clay pan pipes
from mouths that were calling people cunts here 200 years ago
with fouth breath shud be brushed more
and the real gibbet post neck noose yawning merchants foe
ekeing out public death to crushed poor
mostly the same organisation of power
glitter and wetness on the bed
represents an excellent type of shower
freelancing in mordor

10.5.17

animals, sugar, blood

Bhanu Kapil is here and there is going to be something happening at ICA on Thurdsay at 7pm


"Poet Bhanu Kapil presents a reading in the ICA Lower Gallery. The writer will read from humanimal [a project for future children], a hybrid work that takes up notions of coloniality, feral life and control."

Cover image of Bhanu Kapil's humanimal [a project for future children]: Manuel Álvarez Bravo, El Tabaco (The Tobacco), 1932

come along if you feel like seeing it
There was trees up there with broad leaves,  eyes closed or not, and a yellowish blue sky full of midges and crane-flies. Fields with seeding grass and low hills orange covered in bracken.  There were sharp birds on the telegraph poles and thrushes under the hawthorn. Most importantly there was a lane low down, with high sandy banks either side, and in the bank was riven small paths this way and that from nocturnal animals.  Further down the lane, where a loop took it languidly between the bullpen and the yard where the stink of silage was the highest note for a moment the sand had been thrown out of a badgers sett and coloured the lane, veined with rivulets from a blue plastic drainage pipe running from the top field.

That lane led onto a road and the road was mostly quiet enough for me to kneel in the centre of and pry the cracked rubber housing up from the cats-eyes along the centre line and prize the glass lenses out like a pearl collector. When someone came along though the road was fast and it led quickly west and north and twisted its way across the plain past the oil refiner, its towers keeping eye like two fat sentries

I grew too large for the cot and was driven upstairs, into the first floor of a brick cottage with straw in the plaster and barely a stick of furniture.  but that wasn’t the last of it.  In the rough quarters i was confined to upstairs, my mother had laid out a small bed and wash table a chest for my few clothes and some pencils and paper.  This is when i discovered i had a sensibility towards drawing, imagery, the magical skill.  I felt like for some time i would smell herring coming from areas of the room, or a chemical taste.  I also experienced a strong taste of marzipan, similar to the taste of apple pips when crushed and chewed between the teeth. and when that came over me i would take the paper and i would draw.  I drew simply at first, that landscape, larks and night-catchers, that i heard calling, referencing only my imagination the results were fantastical.

When my mother was out shopping or at the hairdressers, and later when she was working at the caff. I would open the latch on my door and creep about the creaking little cottage listening to the rats and mice scampering away over the ceiling, to hide in the broad iron drains.  When those rats became too bold, too arrogant in their ways and the cold clustered them in nests tails twisted and tangled together my father would boot the huge copper kettle on the cooker and stagger with it to the attic where he would open the hatch to the roof and sluice the scalding water down the pipes.  My mother would chop at the screaming rodents as they flew knotted in pain and panic out of the drainpipe downstairs with a spade, in the same way she chopped at the carrots on my plate. chop chop with little stabbing motions mechanically. and later how she would chop chop in futility at the partially mashed and  liquidised food she ate in her old age. 

Mind the mind, the memory, the mind forgets, the hand remembers the sheep of the shovel or the grip in the fingers and the invisible prick of the seamstress’ sewing needle.  The wrists wrought under strain and stress, twist to and fro with the tremors of the shuttle back and forth, clack and back and forth echoing for decades in the tinnitus of the ears. The spots the rot the sun leaves and around the eyes goes leather with squinting.

The word of them coming along the lane or as it was the track and the path, for they used existing ways in their push north and west from the soft southern coast up to the border, worse was as they fled, the municipal rug pulled from under their sandled feet, looking like local lads back flipping off the bridge into the dee out of piles of dull dirty armour looking pewtery like trout like fish scales on some giant kitchen floor.  who to tell from who after three hundred years of military occupation, blood spliced and spilt like fruit trees in my granddad’s garden Conovii and Powys never seen the edges of the island not the wash nor the sea.  As for darkness, an age of darkness, the sun still shone, our cows still drew milk and we were alright I reckon.  Crying often about the problems of others, empathetic to a fault. 

25.4.17


(after reading mackenzie wark's review of the most recent Mad Max) in which he observed certain tropes as 'the white desire to be indigenous', anti intellectualism dressed up as a desire for cultural simplicity, and a return to hyper-individualism that reflects neo-conservative values of the travelling family unit, distrustful of strangers etc. the brexit mentality, pop-stream-nihilism seen in the likes of true detective etc. and also in the masculinist narratives such as the revenant, the road etc.  All of which are about 'the chase' or rather the pursuit of desire and in that they might relate directly to Kerouac's version of The Beats. 




When I turn the key in the ignition she starts purring first time, every time. German engineering mate. The idea is that you can just go down the chippy and ask old fucking toenails for a drum of his old frying oil that hes got knocking about in the yard cos hes too fucking lazy and tight arsed to dispose of it in the propper way that the council makes you nowadays and your doing him a favour, and your good to go. sling it on the back and thats you sorted 10 galons of that sludge does about 250 300 k. course if your goin to be doin it like that then you better make sure your checking the filters regularly but if youv got a turbo deisel youd be doin that anyway, not more maintinence than a turbo deisel and about 85 percent cheaper to run. Then youv got to take into account availability. If things go tits up first thing to become sarce probably goin to be deisel cos think about it, the tankers stop coming in and.

Waiting. Its a waiting game, this job. I rememer in my first tour of the badlands, kuwait 1995 10 paras. Waiting. You just learn to empty your mind out, think about the time passing, iv never been very good at that, not thinking, always going over something, chattering away in my head like a fucking talk show host I am most of the time. Rtalk about hering voies, its like a fucking trade fair for chat show hosts in my head after half an hour of waiting. Anyway, thats what I was saying, id learnt to play the waiting game out there in the sand, an old sargeant of mine was on the gun and I was watching him, through the monoular scope lying down on a old yellow sleeping matt. We were up on a rooftop watching a building and then some kids ad some children came out and one of them was carrying a klashnikov and so I clicked the safety off the rifle and I had him in my sights and it was a top secret mission, we were behind eney lines and wed got gold sovereigns sewn into our combats and cyanide pills and all that. Special Air Service. I had abeard back then, wiry I was, not like I am now, with all this sitting on me arse for thousands of miles. Probabaly end up with bowel cancer at this rate. I was fast like a whip then, got by on thin air, once I spent 8 months in Northern ireland, bandit country on an Op that wasnt even logged official, holed up in an old midden eating nothing but raw potatoes and multivits and thin air.

Bathroom lights on now, 21:00 hours. Windows opend a crack, shower going on probably, to let out the stream. Noted. Your average person showers for about 10 – 12 minutes, that gives a potential window of opportunity. But I do nothing. I sit and I wait. Light goes off aporximately 15 minutes later. Long shower. Somebody was feeling real dirty tonight. Hall light goes on, see a figure at the door fractured through the frosted glass. Bad idea having a glass front door. You want something think solid. Realll wood preferably not UPVC. Smoething that when the jackboot comes down on it, its goin to hold for a couple of seconds. Valuable seconds, which to the experienced can be lifesaving. Probably locking the door for the night. 21:45 noted. That means the back entrance is unattended, do the math. The targets like a sitting duck in there. I inch the truck out from the patch of shadow that ive parked in. Theres a blacked out streeghtlight, now thats nothing to do with me, but if I was running a real surveilance opp on this street id have a couple of the laps taken out just to lover the visibility.

I go in through the open door, drop my bag next to the dog bowl. Dog? I think quizically. Kevin is that you? she shouts from the bedroom. Im going over to see mum and dad Just come up here for a minute kevin Love would you?

Kevin is that you? Shit, fucking leggo all over the laminate flooring. Foiled by a kids toy. Real nice. Evening love, just getting a glass of water then ill be up. Want owt?

I was a sad bastard. Looking back at myself I an embarrassed I have to say,

Its not easy. My past being what it is. When ive got time to wait and think its hard not to go back over those early years. Ive got trish now and the kids. Kid. Youve probably feel like youve gheard this before but, im not a sappy bugger. Im a hard man, I was 19 when I first gunned down an IRA provo in south armagh. And I didnt even think twice about it. kill a man to stay alive came naturally to me. Call it instinct. Call it training. I think of it as my calling. Im a killing machine. But when I see that little bastards sappy face I go warm and fuzzy inside. A little mini version of e and trish. Was watching this Program the other night before I kipped down and this turkish gangster said Nothngs just about business, you see everything I do, I do for my family. And if anyone threatens me they threaten my family, do you understand. I thought to myself, Thats exactly how I feel and I made a mental note of it. Trish and that kid, theyre my world, my everything I dont know what id do without them. Its for the best that they dont know what I do for a living. For their prtection. The world I live in is no place for them.

I was a kid in the sixties but I didnt have any truck with all of that. I was a straight. A square. I didnt have any summers of love, let me tell you. I didnt have any love full stop mate. I never knew my real mum and dad. Biological parents as If theres any other kind. Disgusts me now ive got the kid I realise how much of a cunt youv got to be to leave your baby on the hospital steps. 1959. Guys hospital. Stuffed in a fucking harrods shopping bag, the irony of it. Ive made it my lifes work t track them down. Ive got a filing cabinet in the garage full of dossiers about potential leads. Mostlyfucking red herring to be honest. I have had a couple of court orders to leave certain folk alone. Restraining orders and that. Certain Targets. Make me laugh, Im used to operating in legal grey areas, you could say, deniable opreations. They only know I was watching them because I chose to reveal myself.

22.4.17







13.4.17

you know your not 100% when you got to the shop for a jacket potato and come home with an underripe mango

12.4.17

And there's just time for a couple of bits of trviva: Kelly supports Leeds United, his star sign is Gemini, and if the story of Stereophonics was going to be made into a film, he'd like to be played by Johnny Depp.
"If I lived to be 1000 years old I would never see the appeal of Chris Moyles.

Used to torture me daily with his wank show. It’s all part of the dumbing down process. Radio 1 expertly avoid any real art or culture and what better philistine than a morbidly obese sexist beer swilling football fan to help cement the nations Ignorance. This is why you would never hear any Rage against the Machine or Pearl jam or real bands, but there was never a shortage of Britney Spears and Justin Timberlake. They argue that is there demographic but it’s merely part of the dumbing down process. The UK wants retards and it gets them. In abundance.

The man is so vile I would have to look really hard to find a more wretched human being. The BBC managed it tho. Boycott the TV licence. Don’t pay for this dog shit. Chris fucking Moyles The one show Six O’clock propaganda. Don’t buy Fiona Bruce a new pair of shoes to lie to you about world events. Fuck them all. Operation yewtree shows the BBC for what they truly are. Sick fucking weirdo rich elitist scum bags with a corporate agenda who help sexually abuse kids. Total Cunts and Moyles was their poster boy.

Says it all.

Nominated by: Steve"
have a niiice day

The most hot-headed member of the band, Kelly is well known for his temper. He's no stranger to spats with bands - he's called Radiohead's Thom Yorke a "miserable twat", and described Muse's Matt Bellamy as being "up his own arse".

Luckily, now he's said to have calmed down. "Kelly used to be an absolute nightmare," Stuart told us back in 2002. "There was a time when he'd come off the road and he couldn't get that hectic feeling out of his head, he'd want to be here, there and everywhere. But now, he's moved up to London, he's got a new girlfriend - I think he's chilled out a hell of a lot."

29.3.17


cheers AB 

25.3.17

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