A Grass Upskirt

'I' is the pronoun; it lay / I lied…
I'm laying lying prostrate-ical
me eye sacks black, looking torpid
and pussy-full as a raccoon's cheek!

Slowly a new one gathers up
bunching its dress hem
and dithers out in steps dizzy
harps plucking on step one and
second step two pitter patter
suddenly lined up slide rule sharp
and through the thick of it
pulling such an unbelievable face! God!

Everyone here is banking on empathy
as a skyscraper high signal shone
to all and any embellishing or
searching for a way out
of the other guests and their mouthing

Suddenly I am one becoming; one now in the knowing group
of celestial black-hole witnesses! All be converted in the act of
seeing true the shape of that saddening vortex,
eating unchecked at the center of a longing, naked cloth
of party dress hem sucking ever inwards,
into them endless shingle pink butter folds

Crying and whipping my neck to hell
is me in the wet head of revery:
all to shambles as the universe spins and scoots its
peach and plush doily knitted under-bridle, hurriedly
overtop the squamous cinnamons of my flushing face;

Dusting briefly above just little me and little mine,
some spilt ice dripping from underneath this here mane of mine
so true and sweeping, each thatch behaving in solidarity, ending at tails
whose tips I believe am become spirit soaked,
drunken so as to match at the me and his mine, all hanging wild like…

Kiss at me then!
Kiss at my souls and sightings of oblivions sought!
For see... it is that 'I' is me in the pronoun! and so me lay / or so mine lied…
all happily ignored; sat out on the 'floor'-izontal as an outcropping
of some shell-body I left fallen; of which I rob any or all motions!

So all and again, it's hence that you sit look-reading,
after these said must be surely now hearing them harps plucking out all as one, in a uniform tone tuned low and sour, sarcastic.
Now heard are they become thus a mimic of me and mine?
Such a one who makes at a kind of imitating of me
and my sloppily felled person;
mocking it's bashful conquest of space
and that flatulent din that accompanies
what 'I' as me and thus, me as mine only culprit must
advertise and inspire?

I am become what we say is the most desolate way, incarnate!
Am I seeing now in some mismatch or miracle
something of what had spoke thus that Zarathustra then?
Or rather some different, separate sneezing of life into creation?
Craning gullibly to gaze up hungrily instead into some other mute finality?
Me here on my back fixed low in note and vantage point?
Kiss at me then,
with a piteous lip balm;
at me and my staring
at this naughty constellation:
Yes, up and over moving is
only the chubby dirty pearl
of some girl-nobody
stepping over me
and mine.

*GASP*

I'm back.

call me fucked.

to come...

Camden Rambles

C'mon, it's just that good

Back

Clogged

Ahoj.

Played two DJ gigs this week here in Prague (BIG MOUTH)

So naturally, I enduce paranoia by watching a film about a DJ gone deaf:

IT'S ALL GONE, PETE TONG
{Michael Dowse, 2005}

(special treat: my father is the Afrika Bambaata of Skype)

Ain't it wonderful?

Juke Joint Jezebel

MORTAL KOMBAT
{Paul W. Scott Anderson, 1995}

just to bring the 90's havoc full circle...

(plus it has that Halcyon+On+On song that's also in Hackers)

Get over here.

(Note: My favorite part of this clip is how casually Sub-Zero saunters down the stairs into the fight...like it's getting the mail or something. Hysterical)

HOLGER CZUKAY

For DC Tung

Collage College Collage

MAYHEN
{Abigail Child, 1989}

(IF VIDEO DOES NOT APPEAR, FOLLOW THIS LINK)

My cousin, Aeros, graduated from the Boston Museum School some years ago. She took a good number of film classes while she was studying various mediums (primarily installation and horticultural art) while she was seeing a film student (and now accomplished artist and professor) Cliff Evans. Many of these fantastic classes were taught by filmmaker Abigail Child, who's work I fell in love with while interning at the Filmmaker's Co-Operative in NYC. Aeros was kind enough to pass along some of the course reader's she had kept from her classes with Abigail, right before I left for Prague.

These readers are comprised of seminal texts from situationists, futurists, sound-theoreticians, marginalized feminists, towering film theorists and post-modern critics, creating a sort of penultimate discourse that is of course fucking painfully tautological, seemingly incongruent, wildly erratic in style, and only culminates in that sort of "french argument" system wherein one must tarry a wide loop before finally reaching an understandable thesis.

But, take my word for it, the loop is undoubtedly well worth it. Jeepers, I would have loved to have taken these classes myself. The same style of argument she uses to assemble her syllabi is what, in my opinion, makes her filmmaking such a brilliant example of cinema as disputation. The complexity of her sprawling structural montage of found-footage is as rich as each of these readers I was lucky to get from my lovely cousin to take with me to Prague...