I new piece of Photoshop work.
30.11.08
20.11.08
Never better
There's never been a better time
To not feel any better
There's never been any time.
I try to sing
but at every stab of the wire
every slick little cut
I slip and flail.
I wail at the moon through a hole in the roof of a silent room.
Heavy on the shoulders of the dog king.
To not feel any better
There's never been any time.
I try to sing
but at every stab of the wire
every slick little cut
I slip and flail.
I wail at the moon through a hole in the roof of a silent room.
Heavy on the shoulders of the dog king.
15.10.08
17.12.07
Red Skeleton Hordes
Bring it on, red skeleton hordes. With your clattering crimson melodies. I hear you. Amongst the trees, behind me. Rasping wheeze cackles from unholy places. Carrying heavy hammers, facefixers of iron and a cat-o-nine tails. Sending snake spit skyward. I offer bare flesh for your dentigerous maws.
Looking downwards. Toes curled over precipice. The deep ocean below. Shadows hunger. Horizon beckons. Stars a glimmer. Galaxies fuck in the belly of the ever present tempting whore of the unknown. I'm hers.
Looking downwards. Toes curled over precipice. The deep ocean below. Shadows hunger. Horizon beckons. Stars a glimmer. Galaxies fuck in the belly of the ever present tempting whore of the unknown. I'm hers.
26.11.07
Waterfalls.
The blossoming miscreant ascends from the depths of the mire. Child birth and sun death. Two cold stars, bound in beauty, offering endless nebula. She rises. Forcing cuckoo throat painsong from the wettest mouth. Words of wonder, splashing over milk teeth. A little medusa tongue seduction. She breathes. The willing flesh vessel rises. Waterfalls. Time slows. A moments perfection. She closes her eyes.
A ripping foray of ugly entrails scream through the meat and bone. Needle stab trickery. The dull ache of blood loss unfurls. A sad pain spreads forth. The pleads of a pseudo Lycanthrope, splash like vomit. Slapping gore into the Earth. Stains on sheets. Ultimate disappointment. Everything falls. She still breathes.
A ripping foray of ugly entrails scream through the meat and bone. Needle stab trickery. The dull ache of blood loss unfurls. A sad pain spreads forth. The pleads of a pseudo Lycanthrope, splash like vomit. Slapping gore into the Earth. Stains on sheets. Ultimate disappointment. Everything falls. She still breathes.
18.11.07
Pillar.
At first, complete darkness is all that there is. No sound but the wind. A howl with no teeth nor purpose. Hinting that a world does indeed still exist, the song would offer any witness reasurrance. Soon a light appears, giving form to it's surroundings. Painted into place, turbulant heavy clouds twist in the bony grasp of the sky fingers. Tearing slivers through to the moon. Sending blue lasers dancing over the carnage. Curtains part and music plays. A teetering, breathing mass of gore, quivers and squeeks on the stage. Some aspects of the ghastly composition in meat are recognisable as mammalian and hairless. Baby pink skin folds and pustular eye socket glory holes abloom. Animated in a spasmodic ballet, scatter marked with muted mouthes jabbering silent tourettic poetry. Craving the stormy void's return. A confused and desperate air surrounds the tragic creature. Tears mix with shit at it's base while pretty wet lips offer sanctuary to trapdoor spider tongues. Poised in their holes, encircled in yellow vapor. It knows not what it is, or what it should do. It is at once the glorious by-product of all that indulges and the glutinous flesh angel ascended. It exists to enrapture then disappoint. To dangle the whispering lure and seduce the naive, in endless circles through eternity.
10.7.07
When you return.
Outside in the Sunshine.
It's cold, without your touch.
Shivers shatter low in my stomach.
Pining for your eyes, with too many hunger tears aborted.
Over and over.
Yoyo back to me, I'll breathe you in.
Through every pore, into every cell.
Deep within.
Inside the inside of the tiniest idea of me.
I'll hold you.
With a thousand embracing arms.
Protecting you from the dark. Matters.
A tiny turquoise moth adored.
Light in my hands.
Among paper stars.
Forever.
It's cold, without your touch.
Shivers shatter low in my stomach.
Pining for your eyes, with too many hunger tears aborted.
Over and over.
Yoyo back to me, I'll breathe you in.
Through every pore, into every cell.
Deep within.
Inside the inside of the tiniest idea of me.
I'll hold you.
With a thousand embracing arms.
Protecting you from the dark. Matters.
A tiny turquoise moth adored.
Light in my hands.
Among paper stars.
Forever.
24.4.07
Still breathing.
Despite it's blatant burden I've been doing as much as possible in this body:
This year so far, I've been to Paris, I've seen David Lynch's paintings, complete with teeny tiny flies in oily mausoleums, I've been to Amsterdam, I've experienced the concert of a lifetime; Sleepytime Gorilla Museum live in an intimate Jazz venue. I've ascended at 10ft a second in a 77000 cubic foot air balloon. I've had the best birthday ever. With my perfect girl. I'm having a good year, but what was painfully snug, now breaks all the tiniest bones of me. Pressure leads to frustration leads to low ceiling claustrophobia. I'm gonna fucking explode if I don't sort my shit out soon.
This year so far, I've been to Paris, I've seen David Lynch's paintings, complete with teeny tiny flies in oily mausoleums, I've been to Amsterdam, I've experienced the concert of a lifetime; Sleepytime Gorilla Museum live in an intimate Jazz venue. I've ascended at 10ft a second in a 77000 cubic foot air balloon. I've had the best birthday ever. With my perfect girl. I'm having a good year, but what was painfully snug, now breaks all the tiniest bones of me. Pressure leads to frustration leads to low ceiling claustrophobia. I'm gonna fucking explode if I don't sort my shit out soon.
18.1.07
Words.
All the words I know of
are lightyears away from my tongue
to use old words, all used before
would steal from what has begun.
are lightyears away from my tongue
to use old words, all used before
would steal from what has begun.
Excuses excuses...
I've been too damn happy. Cheek aching moon cat smiles abound. Silver teeth and green eyes. Slowly growing more and more familiar with the jealousy of the healthy biped amputee fetishist. Enying the empty and broken. Hopskipjumping through the Summer, I was loved, cherished, complimented and embraced. I still am. I'm the luckiest person in the world. I'm the happiest I've ever been! That's my problem. What with love and countless friends, a great home, good health and a rosier future than ever before, I seem to have cleared up all the mouldy bad karma. Not merely swept under the carpet, but wiped clean off the face of the Earth. How can I complain? I do feel fortunate. However this all left me far too comfortable.
Perpetual comfort isn't normal. We're beasts, just wrapped in paper money, secretly looking for something to cry about. Painting pain and doubt into everything we see. We fool ourselves into thinking that a warm existence is the way it should be. It isn't. We're supposed to be fighting for survival. It's in our blood. Our health is waining as we need it less. Gluttony, the by-product of comfort. Cancer, HIV, liver damage and depression, the results of having too much fun at the expense of our bodies. The pestilent lepers of the free world. Dancing spasmadically until our rotten fingers fly off and slide down the front of our underpriced, undervalued, Ikea wardrobes. Tree corpse in the corner. Those who know they're lacking the lifespark, chase a pathetic endorphine tickle can play sports or even worse, run on a machine in an overpriced gym. But the "entertainment" industry, passive as well as interactive, thrives on our need for gore. The terror tabloids, scream at us every morning! There's that word again. Vicarious. But we're not really in there. Despite eyes lit up like alley lanterns. In the blood dreams we censor, we're elbow deep in the steaming, stinking purple organs of every whimpring victim.
I miss it so... I haven't, nor will ever have enough of that red energy inside for the visceral puzzle work, I crave and once cherished.
I think that's why it happened again. It felt new. She felt like the first. Although, that's 11 now. It's taken 11, for me to start throwing hints out into the etha. IT WAS ME. This is fiction. IT WAS ME!
Perpetual comfort isn't normal. We're beasts, just wrapped in paper money, secretly looking for something to cry about. Painting pain and doubt into everything we see. We fool ourselves into thinking that a warm existence is the way it should be. It isn't. We're supposed to be fighting for survival. It's in our blood. Our health is waining as we need it less. Gluttony, the by-product of comfort. Cancer, HIV, liver damage and depression, the results of having too much fun at the expense of our bodies. The pestilent lepers of the free world. Dancing spasmadically until our rotten fingers fly off and slide down the front of our underpriced, undervalued, Ikea wardrobes. Tree corpse in the corner. Those who know they're lacking the lifespark, chase a pathetic endorphine tickle can play sports or even worse, run on a machine in an overpriced gym. But the "entertainment" industry, passive as well as interactive, thrives on our need for gore. The terror tabloids, scream at us every morning! There's that word again. Vicarious. But we're not really in there. Despite eyes lit up like alley lanterns. In the blood dreams we censor, we're elbow deep in the steaming, stinking purple organs of every whimpring victim.
I miss it so... I haven't, nor will ever have enough of that red energy inside for the visceral puzzle work, I crave and once cherished.
I think that's why it happened again. It felt new. She felt like the first. Although, that's 11 now. It's taken 11, for me to start throwing hints out into the etha. IT WAS ME. This is fiction. IT WAS ME!
9.12.06
BOX (working title)
Anatomy of a Hyperealistic VJ movie.
> Arkaos software will allow me to play movie scenes along to music. A live visual performance...with a loose narrative. Basically allowing us to create a live but lengthy music video collage, to be projected onto the back of the Geo-Dome.
>
> BOX
> [working title]
>
> To be played via Arkaos software on a laptop.
>
Basic premise; Digital camcorder clips, made to look like a real Snuff film. Akin to (and inspired by) "Happy Slapping" videos or the controversial videos of Iraqi prisoners being tortured and ridiculed by U.S troops. A tongue in cheek look at the how modern technology allows us to record, share and witness concrete evidence our own disgrace. Our disregard for fellow humans.
> 1. First scene. Introduction. To last about 10mins max. Out in street, from the perspective of an amature cameraman walking down road, lit by street lights. Not too shaky, but blatenty hand held camera. Novice with new camera. Our cameraman is a sick fukk! This will become apparent very quickly. Maybe testing the camera on stuff. Peeping on a girl getting changed through a bedroom window?? Filming street lights. Following random people (use REAL people in recognisable Peterborough street at night) cars, shops, roadkill, underpass, graffiti (spray some of our own stencils for subliminal advertising of other projects!) etc etc.
>
> 2. Starts following innocent bystander. Man walking at night. Just a normal dude. In headphones. Camera man speeds up, lifts hand to reveal a pistol. Cameraman hits dude with the handle of the gun. Knocking him out. Man collapses. Camera turns off. Black screen for a few seconds.
>
> 3. Next scene. We're in a garage of some sort. Old brick walls. Very dirty. Bad lighting. Camera is on and recording as it's being fixed to a tripod. As it clicks into place, it turns to reveal our victim, kneeling on floor, wearing just jeans, hugging knees. Shivering. Wearing a cardboard box on his head, with a smily face sprayed on it in black. Blood trickle, stained on his neck, down to his collarbone. He's injured under the box. Bruised a bit. Soiled jeans. Not happy.
>
> 4. Camera man still has gun or other weapon of some sort. You can see his hand, pointing at the prisoner, on the right of the screen (First person shooter computer game stylee). The weapon is used to communicate to the viewer that the kidnapper is telling the prisoner to do stuff. Ushering and waving it around. Even though the prisoner is blind, inside his box mask, he responds by doing as he is ordered. The movie is silent (obviously), no words are heard. But it's obvious what is being asked of him...and that it's aggressive. He ushers the prisoner up onto his feet.
>
> 5. The largest section of the movie is the prisoner being ridiculed and misused by the kidnapper. This scene will lend itself perfectly to the Arkaos software and a projector. The prisoner will be forced to dance at gun point. We'll see lot's of recognisable dance moves. Break dancing, robot dancing, moon walk, se xy groin thrusts...as well as animal impressions. It'll be tragic and dark, but people will laugh. This is the point of the film, in a sense. If people laugh at this poor guy being misused, (espeicially if it's done well enough to almost convince the viewer of it's authenticity) then, are they as evil as the anonymous kidnapper? Are we all potentially capable of disassociating ourselves from the pain others feel and hurting, merely for amusement. Could we all become terrorists, war criminals or street thugs when influenced by desensitising experiences? WHY are people so interested in death and killing? Why do all our newspapers and TV programs focus on the tragic? Why do we laugh when a child falls on it's face!? :) Many different dances will be recorded, and triggered live onstage by me via a laptop. Not many visual effects (if any) will be used, to keep it looking amateur and real. But Arkaos will allow me to trigger the dancing in time with the music being played. We'll hopefully build a large collection of dance moves and have a whole rack of triggers on the PC to keep it> entertaining for long enough. I'll essentially be the digital puppeteer of an on-screen version of myself.
>
> 6. At one point, the kidnapper will walk over to the reluctant dancer and spin the box round. He'll spray a sad face on it, kick him in the stomach and we'll see the paint drip down from one eye. 8-(
>
> 7. ALTERNATIVE ENDINGS. Both can be recorded and a decision will be made on the night (somehow) as to which end scene will be shown. If I'm correct, the audience will choose the DEATH SCENE, which will confirm just how sick we all inherently are!
Final Scene - 1. The end scene will be the victim walking away, down the same street he was attacked on, still half naked with his hands tied to his back and the box (complete with reverse facing smiling face) still gaffa taped to his neck. He's not really injured. But he's not going to be happy...he walks at an angle The camera man turns and spots a girl, walking down the street, away from him, into a darkened urban area...fade to black. End.
Final Scene - 2. Still in the garage, the kidnapper comes into view, with a blunt weapon, and bludgeons the victim to death, crushing the box, and his head with it. Cut to BLACK. End.
>
> ----
>
> What we need.
>
> CAMERA: Preferably a nice digital camera with a hard drive, or at least the option to upload straight from the camera onto a good PC.
> ACTORS: Victim. Kidnapper. Girl at window. Girl in street. Might play victim myself!?
> EDITTING SOFTWARE: To cut up the footage into lots of bitesize loops for Arkaos.
> GUN: A realistic looking toy handgun.
> STENCILS: For subtle (but relevant, local or topical) graffiti in opening scene on the street.
Fingers crossed.
> Arkaos software will allow me to play movie scenes along to music. A live visual performance...with a loose narrative. Basically allowing us to create a live but lengthy music video collage, to be projected onto the back of the Geo-Dome.
>
> BOX
> [working title]
>
> To be played via Arkaos software on a laptop.
>
Basic premise; Digital camcorder clips, made to look like a real Snuff film. Akin to (and inspired by) "Happy Slapping" videos or the controversial videos of Iraqi prisoners being tortured and ridiculed by U.S troops. A tongue in cheek look at the how modern technology allows us to record, share and witness concrete evidence our own disgrace. Our disregard for fellow humans.
> 1. First scene. Introduction. To last about 10mins max. Out in street, from the perspective of an amature cameraman walking down road, lit by street lights. Not too shaky, but blatenty hand held camera. Novice with new camera. Our cameraman is a sick fukk! This will become apparent very quickly. Maybe testing the camera on stuff. Peeping on a girl getting changed through a bedroom window?? Filming street lights. Following random people (use REAL people in recognisable Peterborough street at night) cars, shops, roadkill, underpass, graffiti (spray some of our own stencils for subliminal advertising of other projects!) etc etc.
>
> 2. Starts following innocent bystander. Man walking at night. Just a normal dude. In headphones. Camera man speeds up, lifts hand to reveal a pistol. Cameraman hits dude with the handle of the gun. Knocking him out. Man collapses. Camera turns off. Black screen for a few seconds.
>
> 3. Next scene. We're in a garage of some sort. Old brick walls. Very dirty. Bad lighting. Camera is on and recording as it's being fixed to a tripod. As it clicks into place, it turns to reveal our victim, kneeling on floor, wearing just jeans, hugging knees. Shivering. Wearing a cardboard box on his head, with a smily face sprayed on it in black. Blood trickle, stained on his neck, down to his collarbone. He's injured under the box. Bruised a bit. Soiled jeans. Not happy.
>
> 4. Camera man still has gun or other weapon of some sort. You can see his hand, pointing at the prisoner, on the right of the screen (First person shooter computer game stylee). The weapon is used to communicate to the viewer that the kidnapper is telling the prisoner to do stuff. Ushering and waving it around. Even though the prisoner is blind, inside his box mask, he responds by doing as he is ordered. The movie is silent (obviously), no words are heard. But it's obvious what is being asked of him...and that it's aggressive. He ushers the prisoner up onto his feet.
>
> 5. The largest section of the movie is the prisoner being ridiculed and misused by the kidnapper. This scene will lend itself perfectly to the Arkaos software and a projector. The prisoner will be forced to dance at gun point. We'll see lot's of recognisable dance moves. Break dancing, robot dancing, moon walk, se xy groin thrusts...as well as animal impressions. It'll be tragic and dark, but people will laugh. This is the point of the film, in a sense. If people laugh at this poor guy being misused, (espeicially if it's done well enough to almost convince the viewer of it's authenticity) then, are they as evil as the anonymous kidnapper? Are we all potentially capable of disassociating ourselves from the pain others feel and hurting, merely for amusement. Could we all become terrorists, war criminals or street thugs when influenced by desensitising experiences? WHY are people so interested in death and killing? Why do all our newspapers and TV programs focus on the tragic? Why do we laugh when a child falls on it's face!? :) Many different dances will be recorded, and triggered live onstage by me via a laptop. Not many visual effects (if any) will be used, to keep it looking amateur and real. But Arkaos will allow me to trigger the dancing in time with the music being played. We'll hopefully build a large collection of dance moves and have a whole rack of triggers on the PC to keep it> entertaining for long enough. I'll essentially be the digital puppeteer of an on-screen version of myself.
>
> 6. At one point, the kidnapper will walk over to the reluctant dancer and spin the box round. He'll spray a sad face on it, kick him in the stomach and we'll see the paint drip down from one eye. 8-(
>
> 7. ALTERNATIVE ENDINGS. Both can be recorded and a decision will be made on the night (somehow) as to which end scene will be shown. If I'm correct, the audience will choose the DEATH SCENE, which will confirm just how sick we all inherently are!
Final Scene - 1. The end scene will be the victim walking away, down the same street he was attacked on, still half naked with his hands tied to his back and the box (complete with reverse facing smiling face) still gaffa taped to his neck. He's not really injured. But he's not going to be happy...he walks at an angle The camera man turns and spots a girl, walking down the street, away from him, into a darkened urban area...fade to black. End.
Final Scene - 2. Still in the garage, the kidnapper comes into view, with a blunt weapon, and bludgeons the victim to death, crushing the box, and his head with it. Cut to BLACK. End.
>
> ----
>
> What we need.
>
> CAMERA: Preferably a nice digital camera with a hard drive, or at least the option to upload straight from the camera onto a good PC.
> ACTORS: Victim. Kidnapper. Girl at window. Girl in street. Might play victim myself!?
> EDITTING SOFTWARE: To cut up the footage into lots of bitesize loops for Arkaos.
> GUN: A realistic looking toy handgun.
> STENCILS: For subtle (but relevant, local or topical) graffiti in opening scene on the street.
Fingers crossed.
12.11.06
1.11.06
31.10.06
Samhain
Some of Sophie's photos of our Halloween Party. Which was legendary! :)
Marcus and the Mason (Garudas)
My Pumpkin
130 More photos can be seen on www.lomohomes.com/phia237
Marcus and the Mason (Garudas)
My Pumpkin
130 More photos can be seen on www.lomohomes.com/phia237
29.10.06
Hangtime
It's cliff top, wind tunnel, precipice, hangtime, as always. I'm footclad in heavy timeboots, which won't cease this indecent swelling. Hard barnacles on the belly of the Kraken. I'm swaying above the gaping maw of forever. Below in the oily darkness, the terror toothed tapeworm of time, can scream and wheeze it's sordid song as loud and long and bloody as it pleases. For, hanging on for dear life next to me, my girl is smiling through into me and splashes my skull, with her good tears.
26.10.06
Spew.
Sometimes I just have to break up the day with a short stream of consiousness mess. A galavanting colossas of jabbawocky funboy (glazed and varnished deep into it's stinking heart), wordness and rhyme time. Don't search for meaning. Only the Behemoth knows. And only it's very own chunky knees are allowed to shiver quiver in anticipation of the falling skies and eyeball lullaby's. Over in the East, where the Taliban play hopscotch under pink canvas bungalow rooftops, the music sounds like nothing else. Ever. And every silken oilbird feather, spins on it's swivel-joint axis, allowing helicopteraptor shenanigans...which block out this Turquoise sungod bigface! I'm desperately spewing Vom-art out into the etha, a poorman's talentless gargle acid splash, right up the dirty walls of my boring shrinking prison cell universe. My feet swell, unused and bruised and used. My brain, is a pancake crapattack. I sleep now...
23.10.06
The Jewel
Way way off, so far away that they seem to shatter through the oxygen blue reality, razor cut silver flecks of distant travellers, zip past in the stratosphere. It is close to silent in my shiny new glass sarcophagus. Smells like a new car. Whatever that means!? Just the soft looping music of the Skysuit sleepmode tickles my ear drums. Held in place, between the teeth of titanium vice mouthes. I'm fastened into the latest, greatest Skysuit model, the Jewel. It's both a retrobeast, modelled on a classic car from 1999 or some shit, and a one man flying machine for both sides of the Ozone layer. Complete with no less than three lazerail clasps, a genuine Compact Disc player and an old school oak interior. A Duel Mode, a relatively new concept in personal transport as it embraces the potential of all the disused roads, down on Terra Firma. Making for a cheaper ride. However, it proper chafes! I didn't upgrade to the flexy skin upholstery. I'll have bed sores before touchdown.
Sending the right thought patterns into the machine's matrix, triggers the Humdrive into action. Within seconds the Satnav knows which bay, street, province, city, country, planet I'm on. I guess that means the M.A.N know's where I am aswell. Can he see my skinny middle finger? Probably. Fukk him. I set the 90's rave compilation to Velocity Sensitive, allowing the tempo of the music to adjust based on the speed of my ship and I ascend and join the rat race above the clouds. Again.
Sending the right thought patterns into the machine's matrix, triggers the Humdrive into action. Within seconds the Satnav knows which bay, street, province, city, country, planet I'm on. I guess that means the M.A.N know's where I am aswell. Can he see my skinny middle finger? Probably. Fukk him. I set the 90's rave compilation to Velocity Sensitive, allowing the tempo of the music to adjust based on the speed of my ship and I ascend and join the rat race above the clouds. Again.
18.10.06
This, bird in a cage, frustration...
While the slowly sinking orange lantern sun
the heavy roaring furnace eye
screams beams of burning energy
into everything
painting aurulent light onto
a kaleidoscope of barking fingers
dripping amber sap lenses
and these all consuming angry bars of steel
This, bird in a cage, frustration
swaying under jitter spinning autumn leaf cacophony
slams and smashes me
angrily in the spinning October winds of change.
Swift and silent air gliding abandonment
and the liberating freedom of our cloud shapes
beckon with curling smokey hands
dirty palms hidden in the skin of a glossy white
clown glove facade
however, for now, it seems
barely permeating these translucent barriers between us
must suffice
so with tragic clatter-tongue love songs
crackling waves of radiation
fragile intangible dreamtime worlds
and binary kisses
I find you
the heavy roaring furnace eye
screams beams of burning energy
into everything
painting aurulent light onto
a kaleidoscope of barking fingers
dripping amber sap lenses
and these all consuming angry bars of steel
This, bird in a cage, frustration
swaying under jitter spinning autumn leaf cacophony
slams and smashes me
angrily in the spinning October winds of change.
Swift and silent air gliding abandonment
and the liberating freedom of our cloud shapes
beckon with curling smokey hands
dirty palms hidden in the skin of a glossy white
clown glove facade
however, for now, it seems
barely permeating these translucent barriers between us
must suffice
so with tragic clatter-tongue love songs
crackling waves of radiation
fragile intangible dreamtime worlds
and binary kisses
I find you
16.10.06
14.10.06
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