Orgasm [2]


Orgasm [1]


suRRism w/o d00[E]rrors

untitled piece - circa 2k9


Lady Roach said: I told you so...


Kafka Grand Mere :

¿Sa va bien?

Don't blame on me!
you never listen to me!
You should wipe your ass
you dirty little scum...

You and your father never learn
how to please me...

Shut up and give my medication.
is over there in my dresser
is the elixir vase

glup... glup... glup...

I started to feel strange...

I think you gave me the wrong one
oh my
this one was for killing bugs!

Are trying to kill me
your little bastard?

Mix Media by C.L.DeMedeiros



Another Kind of Winter

a moment's stillness [image: across the water]


CONVERT Horse to cache,

checkerboard east into casement,

to arrangement offering,


Fun actor of worse CONDITIONS,


The Director incarnated me.


Around Corners

"Hi Ho Silver!"





«A fiery horse with the speed of light, a cloud of dust and a hearty "Hi Ho Silver!" The Lone Ranger rides again!»

cubic letter to aaron...


send me the poems, please


An-yer wall confestgues

Free youthful see loured, and yowl minimal,
ion seems wit-ll yurt, Androids valor soul.

Feathers above

Blinded repition C minus Archive Heart

You do not have to see a representative to receive

Dear Mother, Oh Mother, From womb 'till the pillow struggle



Thursday, January 29, 2009


cabbage white



Dot dot effing dot


Discards - aka Pans Throne

New Yorkers

Girls on Film




Jackson Pollock, January 28, 1912– August 11, 1956


It's not you...It's me...


The first child, whose school-name was Witness, had burrowed a small pouch beneath his tongue where he could hide mouth-taken objects from us -- at first! We were impressed with this bit of cleverness, and Annabelle told him upon promise of being made King of All Children he would be our sentry. He told us of a special skill, he could excrete a thick velvet syrup from his spleen into his hands, which he slowly pulled apart to form a web, and by holding the web above the heads of sleeping children the mass would congeal to form shapes which gave portent of their dreams. It became a simple matter to find which children were loyal to our cause, which were weak of spirit but could be coerced, and which were unbreakable and had to be made example. For the last children, we swapped their eyes, so the vision of one would be transmitted through the air to the brain of another, and so they were confused and made sick, staggering around the classroom trying to find a way back to the appropriate locus of vision. After public derision and a laughable game of duck duck felon these children were collected by the ghuls Every, Always and Never and taken to the far place, where they would prepare meals of the dead for the tribe of skineaters until they developed a taste for the meat themselves, cast off from the god who would remove the tracking device along the crystalline antenna of the spine and be forever bent over and gibbering. Was this overly cruel? Perhaps, and Annabelle and I had moments of remorse, but it has to be remembered these were difficult times, and we made the best decisions possible to us and moved on, and certainly the children kept talk of insurrection well hidden from that moment on.



with no cure for observation. .take the next five minutes from
me. .someone had said it sharply and it made him angry
.it looks like eyes had pinned him down. with no intention of
offending time. it does not know what he had in his hand at the
time to spill the sun on her dress. why the colour had not
reacted sharply enough. .to stop targets from reaching.
.when even targets have tempers. you casually offend time.
and the heirachy of dreams. yeah, that's it. a comforting rhythm.


today it let the emptiness of chaos consume me.
the twelve shades of my personality flew past like
a slideshow of the desert. From a birds eye view
it let the compass discover what the darkness held
in him. Inhabited by seventeen past lives and a score of
the city it had hardly lived in. dancing in this
oppurtunity sung the clock at regular occurances.
.intervals of light. .intervals of fire. .a star shaped
telepathy, patient. what feels good when you know
the screams of violence. .the direction beauty takes
by the voice of conspiracy. .above all the interference.
it beleives to an extent the shape of some voices. .
at the same time, being guilty as you were of having
your hands full. .politely to you who can time travell.
with skin so suseptable to obstruction. .having invented
frequencies. the authority of a shadow.|||_||| sometimes
building a castle of words. .in this locked challenge.
.best of all he said, it climbed out of a conversation.
on the side of hatred. .delivering smiles. .trying to be
anything but beautiful. .that's even if you believe in the
next five minutes. .stillness on the bridge of time to
follow music into perversion. .stealing memories from
my palm. .there have been emotions waiting for me
lit by candles as long as in one moment the wind can
shatter my muse. let the last voice of chaos consume me.

Discharge traffic report

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frail tho i am

rings of fire



Tuesday, January 27, 2009

Kangaroo Court

Now plays drums for Question Time

item #4141

What to write here? Hate filling these things out. Well, I can say that I've found a very supportive friend. In return for my guidance she gives me protection. She is my gift, and I still welcome her here. I'm looking to make friends, I suppose. Please don't generalise with me, though. I wish to develop this side of my personality - particularly those parts of my nature which intrigue me. Please remember I am a human being. I might be courteous but I am also intelligent. I respond well as I'll show you if you mail me. Be realistic, however, please; I'm no stranger than you are. I will share intimate details with you but it might take time.

For those willing to put in the time…………..HELLO FROM SIMONE x

comment / document

couch over pomp

Delivered into an heightened state / a mantra repeating / naked trees in mud / opaque sky / skinny limbed / starved / pale / ribs rush under skin / corrugated / broken now / a buttock apron / anus / he lies animated / her blade slides under the skin / makes a cut as though passing through taut plastic / things shiny and wet spill out / I separate from myself and feel that sensation in my head / not quite right / she is naked and daubed / and painted in mud / I imagine a chair for her to sit in / it is wooden / bare / worn and hard / planted in the mud of the field / bad thunk lifts off my head / I lay it in her lap / feel her fur on the back of my neck / looking up at myself sightless // my heightened self collapses in the HMV / I follow a lost opportunity and balk at a chance / slumbering into ennui / into petite historical routs and a retrieval of instances / puking into an ill-formed beard / carrying a broken bike I’d fucked into the curb / where rats run and her hair is scraped back / powerful and tarnished / conjuring spittle in her mouth / witch baptism / I have name and wash in shiny and wet things / and reattach to something of me / seeing stars twinkle along the membranes of a hollowed torso / echoes / a voice limbers within the container / and from behind / and from her mouth / summons me to lay down within / to curl up / to be sewn into my old form…

it should be becoming lucid that squatting on the veranda and shrieking will not suffice any longer and it matters not that you find my ill fitting trousers unsuitable- such petulance must not be tolerated any more such that it collides with the all consuming habits that define this existence and cannot be denied for although you may find it arcane, the harvesting of plump insects produces power of a quiet nature when brewed into paste for applying to my privates. now get out of my way-i will not be denied.


Possessed by his shadow



Same Old Story

Nothing New

horseman of GROT



Hand held image weapon projecting, then ejecting slides. Sound-byte, photo-op broken, media guerrilla stealing light, the event / becoming the news. Visual inserts / images splatter across face of politician (fired from image weapon) in order to steal/disrupt the virtual event, i.e. the political surface is interrupted. In breaking this continuity an event is formed. This new event however, in order to be successful must be incongruous, of no contiguous value lest it become recorded / neutralized as a part of the narrative structure / the banal spectacle of the everyday.
For the record, I had to visit a new system this morning. Control of the older one became neither equivalent to nor the domain of another day. Yes, I'm inducing; yes, I'm popping out. I'm just richer than you are, that's all. For example, I went into a house and heard a remark, after which I decided that my mission was finally complete. I've surely reduced wonderment to a trail of coupons, vouchers, and comparisons, so much so that I can be ever-minimal. Whatever happens, I have to stay a bit shaky, a bit serviced, even frugal. I seldom think about money, probably because I have so much of it. You, in contrast, continually shell out, and you have no replacement. How sad is that? I'm sure my arrangements, all done in private, sound like a wonderful place to advertise or exchange. But they are logically beyond you and always will be.

Just thoughts.




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Pock Bile (excerpt)

Ink stumbles across paper like a slightly watered spider, in fits of spunktuation, immobile limbs and loops. Skin shrinkwrapped, veins visible and pulsing on surface waxy. Crying out for a shiny needle to suck in, to consume, to gobble on its point. Could a junky get through such a small window? An example to the fat and literal masses wobbling down the aisle. The food aisle. Taking the dear little ones up the chocolate aisle. Bellies precede them. Them, the lumpen consumertariat. Dreams sucked off into the mire of Chinese plastic. Sticky slugs of joy, gloop onto pale skin, reddened in harsh sunlight of abroad. Knickers ride mounds, Golgotha. Ride up into the sweaty crevice of a foreboding succulency, painfully gripping the things we are about to buy. Clutching a new desire, a new promise.

More rotten landscapes, piles of processed earth, rock, hillocks of linen. Bleached rags of plastic splutter in the trees lining the tarmac. In the distance clammy mountains reinvent themselves as cancers. Blinding, paralysing hunks of malignant tissue stretching out fine tendrils to throttle lungs, liver and lobes. Frontal. Full. Corporeal alien submarine burrowing into thought and motor competency. Words fall thick and slurred but barely escape the dribbling maw.

The metallic teeth of the Technician scratch at gangrenous arms. Pick at slight finger meat of the victim whilst browsing low res images of the urinal gunk holes of East Yorkshire in the magazine Fecal Seepage. A producer of clothed porn. Wrapped opaquely on the top shelf. In the alleyway next to the newsagents’ feral dogs crap information.

EoS Done - Title Pending (Carrion Claim?)

Poured forth, rushed and rapid flight
Last heard or seen
Sky fruit failing
Simple differentiation
Window open
Window closed…

in progress - EoS 2

in progress - EoS 1



man of scrote

irrational numbers

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