Monthly Archives: June 2004

Freedom of Love

My wife with the hair of a wood fire
With the thoughts of heat lightning
With the waist of an hourglass
With the waist of an otter in the teeth of a tiger
My wife with the lips of a cockade and of a bunch of stars of the last magnitude
With the teeth of tracks of white mice on the white earth
With the tongue of rubbed amber and glass
My wife with the tongue of a stabbed host
With the tongue of a doll that opens and closes its eyes
With the tongue of an unbelievable stone
My wife with the eyelashes of strokes of a child’s writing
With brows of the edge of a swallow’s nest
My wife with the brow of slates of a hothouse roof
And of steam on the panes
My wife with shoulders of champagne
And of a fountain with dolphin-heads beneath the ice
My wife with wrists of matches
My wife with fingers of luck and ace of hearts
With fingers of mown hay
My wife with armpits of marten and of beechnut
And of Midsummer Night
Of privet and of an angelfish nest
With arms of seafoam and of riverlocks
And of a mingling of the wheat and the mill
My wife with legs of flares
With the movements of clockwork and despair
My wife with calves of eldertree pith
My wife with feet of initials
With feet of rings of keys and Java sparrows drinking
My wife with a neck of unpearled barley
My wife with a throat of the valley of gold
Of a tryst in the very bed of the torrent
With breasts of night
My wife with breasts of a marine molehill
My wife with breasts of the ruby’s crucible
With breasts of the rose’s spectre beneath the dew
My wife with the belly of an unfolding of the fan of days
With the belly of a gigantic claw
My wife with the back of a bird fleeing vertically
With a back of quicksilver
With a back of light
With a nape of rolled stone and wet chalk
And of the drop of a glass where one has just been drinking
My wife with hips of a skiff
With hips of a chandelier and of arrow-feathers
And of shafts of white peacock plumes
Of an insensible pendulum
My wife with buttocks of sandstone and asbestos
My wife with buttocks of swans’ backs
My wife with buttocks of spring
With the sex of an iris
My wife with the sex of a mining-placer and of a platypus
My wife with a sex of seaweed and ancient sweetmeat
My wife with a sex of mirror
My wife with eyes full of tears
With eyes of purple panoply and of a magnetic needle
My wife with savanna eyes
My wife with eyes of water to he drunk in prison
My wife with eyes of wood always under the axe
My wife with eyes of water-level of level of air earth and fire

Freedom of Love (1931)
Andre Breton

Bizarrely, here’s Brad Pitt performing it on SHOWstudio. The poem is very beautiful, but the way he pronounces buttocks just makes me giggle.

Still think iceberg is beautiful.
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Fringing. Excellent. Just discovered Win by Dave Bowie Band. I recognised it from Beck’s wonderful Debra. Win is one of those songs that seems (to me anyway) to glitter and hang in the air. Museum piece music. Special. It may be the production but it’s something that I can’t put my finger on. I recognise when I hear it.

Win is langorous, dark, seductive. When I listen to it I want to bathe in the music, surround myself in the sound. It makes me take deep breaths as if i’m standing at the edge of a desert precipice and inhaling the sweet air and just buzzing with the goodness of being alive.

Makes me think of Roxy Music album covers. Emerald green jersey wrap dresses, yellow stilettos, open mouths, glossy imperfect skin. Terry Richardson. Grit in abrasions. I have no idea where any of this comes from. I want to roll around on thick white shagpile. Gah.

Country Life

Seeing Beck at Reading 2000 in Midnite Vultures mode wearing a green velvet suit and crooning “Did you ever let a cowboy sit on your lap?” That’s where the seductive link comes from perhaps. Goodness. I just be melting.

Richardson :: Sisley Campaign A really good “romantic” outing with me would include lots of lowbrow fun and high culture.

Example itinery: Afternoon at the zoo, aquarium or museum, a buttonhole stem, drinks in as scaryly upmarket establishment as we can find together, dinner somewhere a little less scary.

Then on to see opera in the cheap seats (or a club to robot dance to electronica), a thick chocolate milkshake for dessert, a trawl around the red light district (no thanks mate, i’m alright for drugs), before a walk by the river and then to bed with a polaroid camera. Digital would do, I suppose.

This is why I like it when Mr Hansen suggests that he pick me up late at night after work with a “lady, step inside my Hyundai” before whisking me up to Glendale for a real good meal. As long as the Hun-dai’s were tricked out, of course. This trash/culture mix is much like myself. I can float between both and enjoy consuming them both.

Bowie to Beck to Richardson to Cowboys to Opera to Porn to Car customising.

Not W/S:

Hint Mag
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Sigh. Been doing a lot of sighing recently. Not of the erotic variety but of the world-weary, regret-filled sort. It’s early in the morning and I can hear the Fun Lovin’ Criminals drifting across the damp air from the Summer Ball on campus. I used to be very fond of those fellas, and I still harbour some residual affection. Huey and Fast were amongst my first pin ups. Tailoring, good forearms, wifebeaters and that delicious bad-boy swagger. I was powerless.

I'm a sucker for spiky hairWhilst waiting for the kettle to boil I stood out back in my recently rediscovered dressing gown and stared up into the sodium-tinged sky. I listened to The Fun Lovin’ Criminal, fun fair announcements and isolated screams and felt sad. As I stood there waiting for some direction I felt like this is the rest of my life encapsulated in the time it takes for a kettle to boil.

I did not want to go to the Ball and I have never attended any of the bastard things in the last four years. Danni Minogue is really not ever a reason to spend £40. Just tonight, alone on the patio listening to the Crims roll and the guttering crack I felt wistful for the fact I was not under a big top off my tits on wine and screwdrivers. Having difficulty in my heels and feeling less self-conscious about my clingy dress (mind you, I have difficulties enough even when sober in heels). Imagining me and the Monster stained and drunken, stumbling through drifts of discarded plastic pint receptacles before falling over onto the wet grass and copping a feel of each other’s biceps.

I managed to pass my course, in fact do better than pass, much to my continued suprise. So now I go out into the world of long hours for low pay, and feeling dissatisfied with life. Friends came to see my exhibition yesterday and when I said my farewells I couldn’t hug them goodbye. I couldn’t. I didn’t want to cry infront of them. I know we’ll keep in touch through the odd email and coffee meetup but I like them and will miss them. The first bunch of flowers I have ever been given are fading, the lillies ridged and skeltal. Everything is changing like I knew it would but foresight does not make it any easier.

Feel like I’ve blown it. Seeing the routes I expect my life to plan out I know I will never really make such close friends again. Friendship will be like work friendship- I get on with my co-workers, I chat to them, I have as much of a laugh as it is possible to have whilst selling pva glue and pipe cleaners. They ask me to come out to the pub or to the cinema and I decline. Every time. I’m busy, or I don’t fancy it. Same with coursemates and housemates. I will continue to keep myself detached, make excuses, tell lies. Friends I know who’ve moved away lead similar lives- unable or unwilling to make really close new friends, preferring to stick with the old ones, so maybe i’m not so soft-in-the-head afterall. You can hardly expect a friendship forged in the heat of educational survival tactics to compare with one gained in a cubicle or pub.

Significant others are out too. However I think I am just built to love and care, to whatever personal expense. Simple words and gestures have made me grin uncontrollably, reflexively, just as they have made me despair. I’ve not done anything wrong.

Maybe I feel so much regret because I have so much unsaid left within. I’m always worried about how I come across, not wanting to appear the clingy one or the stalker, being kind and generous and leaving myself open to abuse and not being taken seriously. I want to speak out but i’m scared that they’ll leave me. Which they’ll do anyway, so maybe I should unburden myself.

“I was sitting there alone on prom night, in a goddamn rented tuxedo, and my whole life flashed before my eyes. And I realized finally, and for the first time, that I wanted to kill somebody. So I figured since I loved you so much, it’d be a good idea if I didn’t see you anymore.”

“… So I was in the Gulf last year, I was doing this thing anyway. And I came up over this dune, and I saw the ocean… and it was on fire. The whole thing, on fire, and it was beautiful. So I just sat there and watched it, and that’s when I realized there might be a meaning to life, you know, like an organic power that connects all living things, God, Jahwe, I dunno.”

Why have I utilised so many hyphens this evening?

Sky’s getting purple. Off to bed I think. Going to hold Patrick extra close tonight, whispering my usual apologies to him- “Sorry for neglecting you Patrick. You’ll be my friend, won’t you? I know I should give you more hugs. I’m sorry.”
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Operation Stack. I like the name.

“Another important issue to address is when flows through the Channel Tunnel or Dover are disrupted, creating the need to park lorries on the M20 (‘Operation Stack’). Disruptions can be caused by extreme weather conditions, operational problems such as the Eurotunnel fire in 1997, but more often they are caused by French workers going on strike and blockading the French end of the Channel Tunnel and the French ports. This procedure is extremely disruptive to both international and local travellers as sections of the M20 are closed to through traffic to park the lorries heading to Dover and Cheriton, and local roads become highly congested. Alternative parking facilities are required when these incidents occur, but the Government appears reluctant to provide resources to resolve this matter.”

An officer writes:

‘Not a confession, but a story from Kent Police. Don’t publish my name, as they’ll think it was me that did it! I swear it was nothing to do with me!

Kent Police has a contingency plan for all the lorries using the cross-channel ports when the other side are striking. It’s called Op Stack – well known locally. Anyway, it involves Traffic doing a rolling road block on the M-20 and closing it down to a large lorry park between a numebr of junctions. All other traffic is directed off the motorway.

On one occasion, a particular constable was sitting in their car when they piped up on the county radio, “I’M BORED.” A number of minutes went past with no further comment and the same constable stated ont he county system again, “I’M BORED.” More time passed and a third time, the constable, by now sitting in his car for a considerable length of time, piped up on the county system, “I’M BORED.”

At this the duty inspector in the Force Control Room got on the radio, “THIS IS THE DUTY INSPECTOR. LAST CALLER IDENTIFY YOURSELF.” A pause was considered and the constable replied, “I SAID I WAS BORED NOT FUCKING STUPID.”‘
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Love Hater

Orlando Bloom an item with Ol’ Dirty Bastard. Honest.

I Like It Raw: A Love Story
I Like It Raw 2: Raw Like Sushi
I Like It Raw 3: The Passion Of Elijah Wood
I Like It Raw 4: Big Poppa Can You Hear Me?
I Like It Raw 5: Operation Shuttlecock
I Like It Raw 6: Spice Girl Mind Trick
I Like It Raw 7: Elvish Blood, English Heart
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Hooray. An aspirational product and

Hooray. An aspirational product and investment purchase rolled into one. Kitten-Kit (they’re based in Essex, heh) make the Kitten Pole– a portable pole-dance, erm, pole. When in about five years time I can afford to live in something slightly bigger than a single room it would go in the opposite corner from the punchbag.

They will even flog you a fake smoke detector to hide away the ceiling socket that the pole plugs into. Hmm. I wonder if they sell cover-ups for wall plates? Mind you, these shackles would look really quite nice screwed into the bedposts. Aspirational and investment Part Two: Kadett//Car Double buckle leather wrist restraints. Delightful. I even like the furry ones- I suppose they would be more comfortable, although all their products look very well made.

Ingredients: Ropes and Karabiners- not for climbing. A whip- not for dressage. A blindfold- not to help with beauty sleep. Then there’s the small matter of finding someone to experiment on (who is willing return the favour). Aspirational indeed.

Cobra Whips (beautiful but bit too scary for my liking)
Quality Control
Tickleberry (crazy male chastity devices)
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Art. Honest.

See! Laugh! Be confused!

Finalist Exhibition 2004

Edited for linkage 2007
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Whilst waiting for the bus

Whilst waiting for the bus today I watched two small girls sitting on the pavement outside the large insurance company building that backs onto the road. They looked to be about 8 and 10, dressed in short frilled skirts and denim. A woman- their Mother? yelled at them to get up. The bus was coming but she did not mention that. They had to get up off the dirty floor because “We have to go home to the sofa and you don’t know who pissed there”
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drunk monky moon

We're off to Button Moon... Lord. I get a bit of alcomohol in my system and I think I am worth something in a non-intellegence-based way. Dare I say it, I look vaguely attractive. At least I am attracted to my narcissistic self. Masturbation is sex with someone you love, after all. I really should invest in a digital camera and webcam to take photographic evidence of my messyness. Just need the money.

The moon is very beautiful tonight; full and pale buttermilk yellow. I have resisted the urge to text someone to tell them that “the moon looks like a Macro Babybel.” I’m obviously becoming more mature in my old age. Posting on the internet is much better. Yeah. Optimum child-bearing years are nearly upon me. Reaching the age when I am considered past it for job opportunies is approaching. Woo. I should drink more often.We followed Mr. Spoon...

Am I alone in thinking that Button Moon was somehow depressing? Can’t put my finger on how exactly but it seemed very wistful and sad.

Rance is not anyone I imagined. I thought he got faaar too much traffic from the start. Given that I have no comments on my site I know how blogging goes. Not that I am living any sort of interesting, celebrity lifestyle but it seemed odd. The self-promotion of Invader From Pluto has worked. I shouldn’t care, but a part of me feels a little sad about it all. I kept telling myself that it was not who I was thinking but it’s like reading fiction- I got a picture of the character in my head and couldn’t shake it. I wonder if the site will be updated?

The City of Brotherly Love asks you to “Get your history straight and your lifestyle gay“… Fantastic, interesting and cool advertising.

My Mum can eat an entire tube in one sitting “Full moon. Half moon. Total eclipse.”

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“A Westword reporter who wrote

“A Westword reporter who wrote a cover story confessing to temporarily planning the murder of a man he says raped him in 1978 was arrested over the weekend on suspicion of felony stalking.”
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“This time last year

“This time last year I was plotting to kill a man. I was going to walk up to him, reintroduce myself and then blow his balls off. I was going to watch him writhe like a poisoned cockroach for a few seconds, then kick him onto his stomach and put three bullets in the back of his head.”

Denver Westword | Stalking the Bogeyman
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