I've Got So Much to Do (She Said) I Don't Have Time for You
mergers are like ice floes they break apart and part of them resist unjoining part of them look partial as the small enlistments trade away being the furniture the evidence the fade
Carniverography subsumed attention of participants. They seemed red with rage, but that's a guess. Their chairs lacked cha. I think it was ennobling to have pulled a hunger strike in situ. That was not my call. This is: chime when you are brushed by wind. Hush thinking. Then and only then will sound affect the missing squall. A tender offer may go missing before boundaries are dispatched. A thatched roof eludes the nibbling, and the rafters overarch this hall. What more do y'all want to have served here in this midst, this quarry of disintegrist? Mill towns falter in their prismic hiss. The lion's share of chateau gives a kind of glare where faultlines were. If anyone had listened, that last line would be a slur. Trees fall daily and go missing in the blur. Amid some shallow waves. I'm wading out to sea apart from thee.
Factory is a ‘zine aimed at surrealist artists who express themselves through painting, drawing, tattoos, poetry, writing/literary pieces (including essays/articles), collages, reviews, photography, activism/culture jamming, comics and a myriad of other media. The focus is on unique, original, idiosyncratic pieces established with a surrealist flavour which is, in my mind, the most sincere form of individual expression. The purpose of this publication is, like all other ‘zines, to encourage self-expression and creativity among the youth; community building and networking; creative release and exposure, and the simple love of art. Ultimately factory. is about communicating ideas. Please contact me if you are interested in contributing to this 'zine. I am located in Melbourne, however I will be taking work from anywhere in the world.
I've got my submission ready, now you do the same, astronaut!
So it was always going to be a woman? remains. And both men who talk to be more difficult to be more men than women are pained ... Life for me is a woman? remains. And both men who tell the sport?s nature isn?t so physically ... The question What is too soft centres in the sun or a man's man. One of hard men and women are pained ... Life for me is a woman? remains. And both men with soft Men don't ... Glowing into warmth in love with soft centres in football because the sun or a woman? remains. And both men with soft centres in the sun or a hard north wind, ... There are pained ... Life for the single mother, still didn't mean that I turned hard. I wanted to find examples of hard men with soft centres in football because the sport?s nature isn?t so physically ... ... EMILY HAINES, EMILY HAINES, EMILY HAINES AND CHILDREN ... I turned hard. I had sympathy for the single mother, still didn't mean that I wanted to find examples of hard I have great dullnesses mingled with soft centres in football because the sport?s nature isn?t so physically ... ...
Your broken and unwary word is the only to sustain me. But now are changed accents, shades. I ll learn to feel you, to decipher you through the teleprinter tappings, through the variable smoke of my Brissago cigars ---------------------------------- (photo and transl. by Guido Monte)
Blinking Scorched Orange Flirting With Meat Futures
Dimensional cries a neon stark between voodoo. Spirals sleepwalk through boundaries on edged neon clambering over violence, then back into escape, curdling milk all around us. Peer into the commodity trysts left in her rotating murk twice as lakes minus myth times the seal of nomad unity.
Lenses court wrapped in warm resides this motor called by senses plunged into. Supercession kept alive, visions orange in sand a brutality thinking solely of my skin's oily syntax. Arrows walking pulseless know wonder culled from fangs sung leaping their blast, clusters in secretive pieces of lip caught in the sun.
Chewed torpor of red silence in cyber-eros sold an iris reproduction of all complexity amidst alien lullabies, broken-beats stalking green modes of floating tissue. Juvenile in our twin flashing wilt, impregnated bites of twitch loving steel. Science was bubbly in its nether regions,
Hell prefers sleeping in those sunglasses. At least it no longer rains there. Delirium as a matron, rolling on the floor of the mixolydian like a drunken animal. All is forgiven in the wandering through architectures that grow flesh.
A meeting in the emerald of negro spirituals. Mysteries circling below icy water snatching a flaming trident from the hands of our mutual need. We watched elephants sleep on purple briars, failing to mend. Chaos wore shabby, ill-fitting clothes while waiting for the thrust into its petals.
Electricity wants to be a millionaire, too, with a grace that could transport besotten drunkards to heavenly heights. Magenta and cold disdain converse with boiling metal. We are all forced to drink it at some point. Alchemy will continue to drag sentience to the brink of an aerial calm.
Now come here and let me daub your shrine with the colours of a swollen night.
The integers pull wheelies, and the whole of one transcends sum of its p/arts rendered to wayfaring chumlets. May each one earn the right to breathe beyond the prompts and sugar. All call vibrant sorghum in a witty callback as in mountains plagued by generous minds daytiming their young syllables to ornery frost about to peel from surface s/kin. Some varicose dampness cloys the way tall wind remits the invoice to obstreperous moon rays that tumble forward and relinquish franchised moments. All the way to court, the lynch mob stiffened its resolve, by way of chanting glut and reminiscing mixed declensions. Bothering to hear remained one of the stunning celebratory motions seconded by squall. If any furnaces were bound by treason to let go the domiciles they held, the population would have occupied these streets en masse and gardens would be fenced along the passageways. Now diminishing retorts bereave saints held in captivity. They mention dust the way some children dance to its unwavering resolve.
Beliefs unsystematic sprung from discourse, many independent flowers
Farm sweet collective crop tones broach known maturation, loaning odyssey to static fields. Their painting turns relaxing frost. Sprawled hills seam the lake, salt-free, and sky. The clouds protect these unison long spans of line.
A fiddle tune if lost shows in the foreground with swing chain needing grease. What comfort to move forth and back beneath a singular momentum tracing past.
The evening will arrive, as eyelids fall. Informal mercy stalls the pace of daylight's drawing toward the morning of another name.
Fireflies wink away from everything below the level of an eye. A sliver moon chalks evidence mid-sky of recollected light's available wild tithing, promised as the soul arranges to remove known poverty mid-depth.
Saw it through the eyes of God. Watched it bleed in the fields of hate and economics.
Heard the music that was denied release. You must have dreamed a million beats.
Beaten. Crushed. They tortured you for pagan myth. Writhing on the rack you strangled your God given music.
Black protected you. Nurtured your seed in his cunning brutal silence. Created calypso for every anguished howl. You healed him and he fed you.
Enough is a tragic word. The sky falls before time kills the pain and sometimes the horror outwits time. You broke free four hundred years later. When lesser evil had eaten enough.
I heard an abolitionistic whisper that quickly exploded into bacchanalia. Out of his beautiful wounded spirit Black unleashed you upon an unsuspecting astonished necropolis. And nothing stayed the same again.
Black still feeds you. He awakens you on hungry soul days when the beat and rhythm needs a rekindle.
Minus you I say under my breath. Minions I am one and what about the cutoff date, the situation ethicist left leaning on the curb? What of the century we've donated to archives that might some day count? Suppose we were ourselves these flurries that won't even cleanse. What might they chafe together, and when walking, would we find our tracks might seem to last? A frayed old soaking rope is never going to dry. So pulp is not the worst thing that can happen. Daylight is. And more than that, the heliotopography intact will stucco your indulgence faster than the bloodline said to have defined you through the northern parts of circumstance. As your personal thin twin, I leave you rinses of my center, and I rever(s)e bequeathing you your story. If you agree to have released me in a time plan we can norm, I'll swim to safety in whatever dimesized versus elephantine dimension I can accummulate. Your sadness infiltrates possible refinement when my mention stays where it has been, if only to demonstrate the straypoints of indifference that wash into known water. Composition is a part spin cycle, and a morsel of the lariat in kind. When I divide my conquest between you and yours, I find myself among ye. This cubicle replete with plucked intentions, your and my calligraphy no longer matching. Here am I, a partial island, neck and neck with petty silver and refurbished paint. The likelihood is I will drive into your caldron unless I trust subtraction as substratum of your vintage. Now I'm forth again with seconds to reply. The cinders echo what I think reveals my legacy where nutrients would be.
Gold coast versus the magnetic properties of water, a camera flush with thought
the gothic 're verbs hesitating bad hesitating eh hesitating she's wont everyone / gothic me's when on cliff verbs 15 / in verbs eh in / that'll fact everyone nakedness naked This stealing hesitating stealing that'll thought / / This he's when wont stealing hated gothic
it is a princelet of a morning with the mellowest young rain arriving on axis of our walking measures of resemblance to birth empty flowers known for their just now each one at a time breath taking giving back to be a part of all that's singing and unsung
She's leggy though inordinate depth entangled the attention span of oncoming vehicles. The theories people come up with for air. Entonces said the driver. Just so said the copilot. Imagine said the passenger. Once I was an infant as devoid of blondness as this pair of primed parentheses. My wristwatch came with the small wrists. Three pounds eight exactly. Wit begins this way: imported, noticed, rewound. So many sure bets linger after they are parsed. The school marm left her gloves right where I turned them in. We met beside the common room uncommonly cold and it was right for quilted wear and tear. Some parent came in whistling a tune whose title I cannot yet place. It is embarrassing to borrow sugar, just as it is difficult to pray in retrospect. The library I frequent asks little of its patrons. Urgency's my major motto. When I want a book, I wail. And pretty soon the librarian, the leggy one I mentioned earlier, comes in to quell what seems a patent overreaction to desire. Things settle after I have soothed my nerves with excerpts, but nothing is the same as living in the moment between covers and expounding on the glee of that. A pure reaction to self-made happiness is more of same. The intonation's relevant as well. Likewise, the color of integrity, a pleasant whalebone.
Paternal gravity, informal tithing in the dark, gender traffic in the psyche
Marie Rennard Guido Monte Nyambura Kiarie Boris Vian -------------------------------------------------------------- Mimi naunda dreams hata zikibashiva: me, I ll make dreams even to be broken. Neither have I one Virgil leading me... I only follow a long night watch, shades long lines on the asphalt road to the dream two gates: real shades, lies? Hoy los americanos viven en el miedo, eso lo murmuran las lineas del diario, así tambien lo apunta el soplo de los Vientos del Norte. Moi aussi, de ma fenetre, j attends l attaque radiactive qui remporte pour jamais tous les hommes sous les petits ruisseaux des trottoirs... je les vois deja or depenailles, affams, dans la derniere procession hasta las dos puertas del sueno. Ham Saha, muchedumbre abandonada, la foule depenaillee, ne verra plus ses idoles de ministres rois senateurs presidents, la foule restera aveugle face au vide, avec l'heritage des puissants: sequedad y radiaciones que piden el recuerdo, secheresse et radiations comme vain reve a rappeler, dentro de la primera puerta, de la mentira o y de la aparencia. In the Hades depths: a steel building, all the Authorities burning inside, Prime Ministers Kings Generals and their disfigured faces, cropped ears cropped noses. And crowds crawl before the river, just shades hunting for themselves. Waiting aside, a dead poet will remain on his knees Reading verses of precious life: « s’il restait un oiseau, et une locomotive Et moi seul dans le desert, Et si l on disait choisis Que ferais-je, que ferais-je ? » Shadows maybe would hear his voice And cry their tears of misliving. .................................................................................................................................... [G.M. thanks Rosa Maria Costa. The first verse is in Sheng language (Kenya) : it is an urban language coined from a myriad influences, from all the ethnicities in urban settings.]
if instead of listening to myself fail to subvocalize the mystery I made sure to have been better prepared upon approaching the off-ramp, I would have done so within skinning distance. anyway, the butter churned as planned. I co-wrote the lacy script for her lobotomy, and everything went off as envisioned, just as wheat lifted itself from zero in the field. I never brought to light the choice I felt in infancy of whether to be flute-bearing or fraught with twelve unwieldly strings. the voice itself presumed to be an instrument annoyed her in a peeled way. just as shamrocks parsed the parkway amid lorikeets and saffron. in a minute, honey, quoth he repeatedly as the braids blinked around her neck and jumprope hastened to align with voices hardly tuned together. and the mittens of a gentlemen went right out of his watch zone. parcels on the floor. shares of companies no one had thought were public made themselves available. each one who thinks sufficiently about herself is thereby rich, because the fable has to seem point five injurious to someone other. thus the wise merchant contains the seeds of an unwise customer repeating customs quite unwittingly. the safest sauce remains tomato-based, as if to mimic inner issues kept astride the heartbeat of a nation state one ought to itemize.
(0) Comments: Post a Comment