Monday, 21 December 2009
And the world continues spinning in the most peculiar way
As strange and dreamy colours flash in golden silky rays
And echo off like fireworks amidst the midnight sky
Illuminating darkness moving forward in the night
On tangents built in tandem with dreams forgotten thoughts
A cycle ad infinitum that surely never stops
Disguised as skill and vision, or fading hopes and dreams
The path remains unchosen like the leaf's is in the stream
And science moves towards it, but just can't count that far
We're all just possibilities reflection in a star
And shards of brilliant whiteness, the sound of breaking glass
Unfocused from the lens for now, no care or thoughts of past
Sunday, 27 September 2009
I've not written a lengthy speil for a few weeks now, and my brain is swelled with angst and savage self-awareness. Too much shit, too little time. Consequently, I thought it would be beneficial, to both parties, if I were to take a therapeutic stroll along the metaphorical Bay of Splaff. Disregarding the need to set any sort of recognizable scene and enjoying whatever it is that I allow to come careering out into the open with all the grace and vigour of a confused and potentially vicious otter in the last violent throws of some flesh-eating mental derangement (pictured above).
So, first things first, in order to delve into the murky world of random thoughts and still come up smelling of roses and boyhood dreams: Good Music is an absoloutely vital requirement. Nothing of any worth has ever been written in clean silence. Any sort of barely-audible background buzz, however menial, is always a help. Bear in mind, though, that the Big Guns of Navarone only ever fire off at their most spinal-cord shattering awesomeness when the airflow of the room is being actively warped by some obscure Icelandic ambient-Dub. If possible, a set of professional-grade subwoofer's should be placed facing each other, positioned a few feet from your skull, to create an all encompassing and powerful spectral low-end. Tinnitus is a small price to pay for the erotic swell of creativity that can be tapped into if this approach method is adopted in conjunction with the medicinal usage of potent marijuana.
This sort of soul-defining stuff is what everybody should be doing as much as practically possible.
Nobody knows who they are anymore because the world tries to mould us into the same faceless consumers: Listen to these people. Read that. Become this. But whatever you do, don't do this... Banal commonality is the death of the individual, and the foundation upon which submissive apathy is built. And it doesn't get any more commonly banal than the constant stream of rancid horse shit which gets passed out as "entertainment". And as the world is magnetised to their living rooms and the high-definition, piano black, bracket mounted behemoth in the centre of the room; all hopes of revolution are lost. You will remain in the dark about the way the world is unfolding. You will remain unaware of the violent shit-storm being stomped hard into human faces by those who seek only "Freedom and Democracy for all". You will remain engrossed in meaningless TV, soulless ideals, and unnatainable materialism. Comfortably dumb, with just enough mental capacity to not give a conscious fuck. You are already dead...
Ah, and at this moment, at the pinnacle of the discussion, which has seemingly amounted in my apparant confirmation of the death of the beauty of the human spirit, the CD has just shuffled to "Never Seen The Sea" by Gavin Clark. A reminder that not all of us are dead. Thanks again for that tune, as it's proved, once more, to be a soul-saver of profound and gigantic dimensions...
But life it is for living, so now a call to arms
Join with me my brothers and infinity is ours
Bassline driven words delivered with all the timing of a blissfull 4/4 musical mind-fuck. I told you that shit worked well.
Saturday, 26 September 2009
Truly "off the hook".
The only person who seemed to enjoy the DJ's efforts was the child, apparently caked on high-grade MDMA and who appears totally unexpectedly and with the swagger of a seasoned disco biscuit conniseur, mid-gig. Mincing through the dry ice like an eager young male hairdresser.
If you look closely enough you can actually see the gathering brood of Dads, standing behind this little junkie as he spews forth his soul in a chemically induced trance-jive, taking bets on whether he'll grow up to "bat for the other side".....
Also, keep an eye out for the Half Cardigan Wearing Mother / Half Dominatrix Queen Slut @ 0:37.
Wednesday, 22 July 2009
This image is foreign and repulsive. So aesthetically alien in nature that your first reaction should be “Holy-Afro-Jesus!” And yet, my erupting volcanular Subconscious of Probability spews forth, the very instant I lay eyes on it, an aerial view of the fictional McDonalds advertising campaign character "The Hamburgler"; that masked, ground-meat-obsessed convict, albeit now sporting a full hemisphere of visible brain.
I found it immediately very strange that my subconscious should rearrange the beauty of nature into the trans-fat laced carnage that is brought forth by the Devils Own Butcher. How could I possibly fail to miss the minutia of beauty to be found in the evolutionary process, whilst craving the sensation of being served meat by five soulless minimum wage searchers; those who aimed high and fell, and those who never got off the ground at all. My thought processes most definitely flowing in a subliminally-manipulated-since-a-young-age kind of outward ripple...
It takes a while, but I finally reach shore in an almighty tidal wave of realisation.
And that’s why I hate, with a vitriolic fury, McDonalds. And Burger King. And Coke. And Pepsi. And IBM. And Microsoft. And Asda-Wallmart. And Corporate North America. And the Western World generally.
Death to the West.
I’m no bitter Jihadist, nor even mildly acclimatised to the woefully inadequate explanations of organised religion, for my thoughts on this evil empire are based solely on the blatant testicular vice-grip its advertisers keep locked into the population of the so called “Free World” by hungrily encouraging near-rabid levels of consumerism and record-numbers of house repossessions.
The credit system is a cyclical trap, gaining fuel from those it burns by making us feel we need to be hard-working consumers. A viciously rotating hell-fire incinerator first conceived in the twisted wet dream of some degenerate little Nazi. Step in line and wait your turn. Relax. It’s all ok… Then, without even the hint of a warning: WHAMMO! Like an unexpected right-hook straight from the 300 pound animal carcasses strapped to either side of Mike Tyson’s upper torso. You drop to the ground and die of what is later confirmed to be, at the conclusion of a suprisingly brief and definitive autopsy: "instantaneous explosion of the heart". They have you by the balls and you MUST conform. Go directly to jail. Do not pass go, do not collect £200. The advertising cartels have a monopoly on your soul.
The lover of Yoko explained it best when he said: “Our society is run by insane people for insane objectives. I think we're being run by maniacs for maniacal ends and I think I'm liable to be put away as insane for expressing that. That's what's insane about it”
Preach, Johnny Boy, preach!
Turn off the TV, for it is the governmentaly endorsed opiate of our times. Unhook this digital drug from your blackened veins. And remember what it is to think for yourself.
Tuesday, 14 July 2009
Man, that whole living in the middle of nowhere shit sounds amazing. I would genuinely LOVE to be cut off from pop culture for a while. I'm managing to hide from the Dumbness as well as I usually do, but actually being holed up in some yokels farmyard, milking she-goats, in a hideously inbred slipstream of New South Wales, would take some serious beating. Total Isolation. Absolute clarity; pure and unsullied by Big Bother series fifty-seven and the Doom & Terror double act currently playing the News Channels, like a militant-Islamic version of the Broadway classic “Cats”, for a minimum saturation of 27 hours per day. And if they’re not telling you that terrorists plan to gag and rape you, they’re telling you that you’re still fucked because the economy is dropping to its knees to give birth to a cosmic shit-bomb of universal proportions. My precious economy. Fucked like an Amsterdam whore and left sodden and gaping in the corner of an exclusive members-only backstreet dungeon, where the only sounds are the screams of erotic vigour from fat corporate businessmen and forceful Pimps.
Indeed, the blog was a good idea. It means that I can actually look back on some vintage and ageing splaffs. I found the title picture on an old fashioned trawl, I believe the perverted youth of today call it a "Google Search", or something along those debauched lines. So, after taking a fancy to someone else’s artwork, I scrawled the writing in on a bootleg copy of Photo Shop Pro Version 4.2. Meandering Thoughts On A Night Without Stars; a phrase which I believe could also be used as a metaphor for dreaming. An idiom which, if you ascribe to progressive Jungian psychology as much as I do, is always handy if you’re ever physically or spiritually cornered by someone whom you would sooner feltch your own grandfather than actually talk to for any period of time. In these sorts of deeply terminal instances, simply throw the shards of that Universal Fact at the perpetrator and all but the most criminally insane will immediately and abruptly cease with the pseudo-socialising horse-shit. They will then bolt off, like a prowling Hyena will when it’s faced with a large and hungry pride of lions at the latest Caribou Buffet. And not a second too soon. And all of this infinite and deeply buried beauty is wrapped in the same typewriter font as the Hunter Stockton Thompson tattoo situated on my lower spine. I have been known to enjoy the circularity of such truths. And yes, we're still talking graphic design. It was never this fun in Art Class.
You need to get me those lyrics you’ve been writing in-between hammering nails and hammering your cock in zero-pussy aboriginal outback farm communities. “Bring out the lambs Hector”. “But Donald, they’re no ready yet”! “Keech Hector, I’m a ginger-haired horn-bag and I want to split some live flesh. Bring the little fuckers out”… Sweet Afro-Jesus! That last image I just laid on you was probably as low as it’s humanly possible to go within the heavy limitations of the written word. You’ve not resorted to splitting live meat have you? Anyways, I digress. Let’s get back on the tightrope. Ah yes, I may even write a few things down myself, having seen your lyrics, and we could create some sort of cross-Pacific duet: Thom Yorke, Terrence McKenna, Yo La Tenga, Boards of Canada, Bob Dylan, John Lennon, Immortal Technique, The Spirit of Gonzo, Streaming Consciousness, William Melvin Hicks, etc, all wrapped into a tight ball of Scottish Borders folk-emo-sledgehammer-rave. Some may say that’s a very specific genre I'm aiming at, and many brain-dead fuck-mules have already voiced concerns that the niche market simply isn't there. However, I'm confident we could create something to rival an evolved version of The Crankies, or at the bare minimum Dave Benson Phillips, of British terrestrial TV’s “Get Your Own Back”, tripping balls and discovering The Language of Reality on an experienced voyager’s dose of dimethyltryptamine.
In other equally important realms of reality, I'm reading a quality book at the minute. It’s beautiful stuff actually. Entitled "The Alchemist" and penned by a guy called Paulo Coelho. I'd highly recommend you read it, particularly given your current circumstances. Take it all in before you have to once again face day-to-day life, whenever (if ever) that may be, and I guarantee you'll be epically thankful you did. Here, to whet your proverbial whistle, is a pre-read aperitif:
"Tell your heart that the fear of suffering is worse than the suffering itself. And no heart has ever suffered when it goes in search of its dream...When someone makes a decision, he is really diving into a strong current that will carry him to places he had never dreamed of when he first made the decision”.
So, jump in the river, Cleatus. Let’s take a swim.
Some half-mad Brazilian fucker wrote it. I've yet to finish the book, but I'm sure my thoughts on it will be even more elaborate and glowing in their positivity by the time I do. A dark veil has been lifted. Like your solitary confinement, this shit is good for the Soul. And the two in sync would be like getting head from an Angel - wet, sticky, and with zero risk of orally transmitted venereal infections. The sort of promiscuous semi-religious encounter you know, deep in your soul, will never be topped, how ever many sleazy Thai bars and low-rent bordello's you visit in the downward spiral of later years. And when young flesh turns to dust, and dust turns to infinite possibility, all you are left with is an indelibly scorched memory, fractal, rose tinted and smelling vaguely of freshly cut grass and innocence of mind.
The square roof of fuck all happened at the recent wedding of the Son of Denny. It was quite a boring affair actually. They had a band who insisted on playing the Dashing White Sergeant on a scarily regular basis. I thought I was listening to Frankie Mallen’s Caledonian step-cousins at one point. Fiddles, a poorly tuned acoustic guitar, and a guy, who looked like he may have recently been added to the Suns list of “Officially Confirmed Paedophiles”, posing as Bez from a Scottish Highlands incarnation of the Happy Mondays. Merely swapping the drugs for a questionable form of "talent". Indeed, it would be fair to say I didn’t quite dig the beats. I suspect big Denny had more than a hand in the bands appointment. He was moving like you used to at the sweat-soaked peak of a swedged breakdown of drums and synths. Total euphoria and with little care for Monday morning. In passing, let me just confirm I'm not suggesting that the father of the groom was on illicit chemicals, but merely announcing the possibility of such a scenario having occurred, taking into account the evidence, all in an impressively French Detective Poirot style of semi-educated bluff. Denny is a long-time crack whore. There we have it. Case closed.
Moving on now, and although the drug-fuelled highland disco was disheartening, the company was splendid. I was able to ignore Peeps on several different occasions before he actually cornered me. It was reassuring to see he still resembles a well-trained fascist mole, and did indeed, as previously implied, flee like an outranked Hyena when the Universal Truth was fired point-blank at his strangely blue-veined temple.
Another apex of the night was when Reidy treated one-and-all to his version of "Unchained Melody", that much-loved classic from those musical deities Robson & Jerome. This is when we left. I didn't even bother finishing my drink. There was no point. I was already on the cusp of a vicious reaction to this 4-foot Gremlin spewing his lungs out on stage, all the while being acoustically backed by a group of men who were either half-Jacobite/half-Road Sweep or slouched drunk and naked across their own instruments.
So, after much confusion in a surprisingly dark field, I made for the Sporty, or the more contemporarily entitled “Gee-Twae”, where I was greeted at the entrance by Semzie. He requested the entry charge like a battle hardened Troll guarding the only bridge to the middle island of some sleazy little shooting-gallery. And yes, the Sporty is exactly how I remembered it. Gillian Herringshaw perched on the first booth to the left, the same confused die-hards propping up the bar, sweat on the walls, vomit on the floor, and the sickly scent of terminal failure fresh in the air. No hope, no future, and no decent lager on tap. I was back in the place I had known so well throughout the near-constant masturbatory state of my youth, and it had gone to shit quicker than a Hiroshima Dog Pound circa 8:15am, August 6th, 1945. It was a sad state of affairs, but the Enola Gay had long ago passed over this barren wasteland of local uglies and drunks… I’m going to submit that last bit to the Southern Reporter as a review of the local Kelso nightlife. Can you imagine if they actually printed that filth? Ha! What a fucking hoot Thursday’s would be if we had a local press willing to rip at the very fabric of reality with such inherently true and dangerously vivid social assessments.
Having taken as much Britney Spears and watered-down no-brand tequila as I could emotionally handle, we left somewhat promptly, where we made our way to the Guthries abode in order to greet the returning voyagers. Hours were spent necking pints of J.D. and being regaled with stories of Thai mushroom use and the best places to get fucked up on grade-A Peruvian Snow... All in a days work, I thought, as I caressed a fine collection of porcelain figurines Mrs Guthrie must’ve collected over her years as a librarian in a governmentally funded educational establishment. Christ, three long-ish words and I’ve seemingly turned my local high school into an Orwellian nightmare. Doe Or Die...
I ended the night, after a cursory hour or so of mild sleep (not yet in full tonic R.E.M., but tempting Michael Stipe in with a few honey coated Nytol pills), by vomiting at 6am, dead-straight into the family homes newly installed vitreous china Armitage Shanks close-coupled W/C. An appropriate way to end such a night, I'm sure you will agree.
Anyway man, I gotta split, I think there may be a terrorist or a banker at the door and I can't remember which one I'm meant to be scared of the most, so I'll take my chances and fire at both.
Wish Me Luck
P.S. Mind that fucking book...
Wednesday, 1 July 2009
A midweek holiday has allowed me to be both stupidly drunk and beautifully high, simultaneously, at this point in the ambient early evening period of what was meant to be just another grimy Wednesday working for The Man. Thus, it came as quite a shock to be given the day off, fully paid and at very late notice, in order that the office be fumigated after a seeming infestation of wild guinea fowl. Game birds, nonetheless, and worth a tidy fortune if caught live and hand delivered to the nearest high-class butchery. However, the mere thought of stomping down Sauchiehall Street with a screaming black bag trailing behind me, a terrified family of wild birds thrashing around on the wet tarmac, fills me with the grating fear that someone may actually notice this attempted manoeuvre, mid-heist, before challenging me verbally. Of course, it would take someone with a keen sense of concentration and an uncommonly good knowledge of the sounds and noises most closley associated with guinea fowl in order to make such a devestating connection, but these bastards DO exist. Believe me.
Anyway, I’m shooting off on tangents here about things I hadn’t previously even considered putting to paper, so I will try to get straight to the point. Ah, the point. The glistening apex at the very tip of a custom-made steel lance, forged from fresh Hawaii magma flows and the cool blood of rare Marine Iguanas. Jesus. Wild and unnatural skewed tangents. Get it together. Is it possible to overdose on Afghani hasish and Red Bull? Christ. Composure is the key here. Walk the line. Deep breaths....
Ah, back on track. I today received your correspondence, and have listened to the enclosed compiltion album; the reminiscently entitled “Destroying the Lizard - Revisited”. I would like to suggest, at this point, that the very first time you hear a song you love, a shudder reverberates along ones spinal cord and it feels as if you’ve known it all your life - because music is so deeply entrenched in the soul, and the soul, as any experienced voyager will recollect, is eternal.... And there are a number of such infinite-sounds on this album. I don't think that such heady levels of praise are conjured up all too often in the world we now find ourselves in, even from this natural born optimist, so accept it like a hungry merekat would a fat young ant larvae.
I’m genuinely struggling to focus on the screen now and my neck seems to spasming gently, almost hypnotically in its convulsions, like the blurred on-set of a mild and pleasurable stroke. This may be serious.
On that potentially brutal note, I’ll leave you with the following short passage which successfully portrays my general thoughts toward the album in six words:
Jefferson Airplane. Today. Blew my mind.
And below, laid-out with almost military precision, a fine selection of phrases which convey more of a story, in six well placed words, than most world-class novelists could manage in a War & Peace-esque epic:
- Yesterday always comes too soon
- For sale: baby shoes, never worn *
Adios for now Scud-Rug,
* Hemmingway said the one about the shoes. I don’t want to take undeserved credit, and I always feel referencing ones work does wonders for the academic glue of the piece as a whole. By the way, I don’t think the baby died. I prefer to think the parents merely made a fuck-up in their shoe size expectations. Nothing darker than a simple miscalculation.
Saturday, 27 June 2009
Man, I’m slowly going insane here. The heat is comparable to that found in an Asian sweatshop during the depths of an economic depression and, from the Turkish sauna which is now my office, I can actually see the wispy waves of summer haze rising from the tarmac into the near-molten air. There’s a 2 foot high fan in the corner of this intolerably hot room, brought in by the fat grease ball off to my right. He hasn’t got a car and actually carried this metallic monstrosity under his arm for the entirety of his 20 minute bus journey today. He has it jammed in high gear and it's making a whining noise which reminds me of the slaughter of a young pig. It’s mocking me; casually rotating so that the outer edge of my right ear senses a refreshing residual of luxuriant air current, before twisting its silver head back round and providing an invigorating rush of cool o-zone dead in the face of its owner.
The aggression is growing now. I hate the man. For no other reason than his face looks cool and sweat free. We call him “The Sasquatch”, chiefly due to his ominous build and impressive accumulation of body hair. He looks as if he could pull the head clean off a Jack Russell Terrier without so much as a second thought. He’d probably even be able to force himself to eat the carcass whilst the blood was still running warm. A dangerous man, however cool his core temperature remains. Best not upset him.
I can literally feel the sweat pooling around my testicles, like a warm salty bath. This can’t be healthy. At the very least, my sperm count must be decreasing by the second. Thank Christ I never plan to have children. This heat is truly stunning. The smog of the city centre can only help trap the noxious greenhouse gasses and magnify the radiant glare from that vicious yellow beast.
Fuck it, I’m heading out.... On days like these, in a place like this, the sun is too strong and too rare to ignore for any length of time. I will, at the very least, bathe my right arm in the Glasgow sunshine whilst speeding down the motorway and mulling over more important matters. All the while further cultivating the legendary truckers tan. Lobster red and just enough mole coverage to trigger thoughts of skin cancer. Let the good times roll....