colossal impact














candidate


a proud tradition.

george bush.

and W.

arnie the immigrant.

the ku klux klan.

scientologists.

the pta.

the empire.

john howard.

9 and 13.

basildon.

followers of budget enterprises.

the north south divide.

game shows and reality tv.

simon cowell.

the X fucking factor.

flannels.

MTV.

budgies.

cock fighting and badger baiting.

blasphemy.

free local newspapers.

nationalism.

rap rock.

raw eggs.

bunk ups behind the bike sheds.

oblivion.

eternity.

the M25.





too pataphysically null: singed thumb a gaze over sleep of bluejeans, your groove exhonerated, empty of whitening trills. our future cranks through the tactcial fold of tongue present in the moment, reduced versions left to simmer in new ways. all ceremony, pomp, glittery humiliation as tangled whooshes upon my wings, the small implicit for free. a frying shirt talks of bones, delicate ragas nuance less than their clanging striations, parsed straight out of praxis to spin holons opening in night's waft. song of an elongated pool, garbage in armed struggle to think our cracked stitches into a memesis of sweat, geodesic sometimes but always grinning steamed smears of bitter vulva and cash.
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Words at bottom
and now here by Inconsequential...

Last seen at sea
voracious owl wiping beak
on pea green keel
coughing bolus
of glove fur and bell
of which that piggy wig had none
had none
had none
of which that piggy wig had none.

I

ran
out
of
time.








Must sleep.

Then I told them





um so I have a crush on formatted text, so i just `took pictures` of my story. hope this works ... if not i'll be a dick and fill the page with banter in text form.

looks like you can download them if you care, or just go here

The Hell of Aesthetics

It's hard, heavy, the beloved in my stomach, this spiral conch
dripping with the familiar tumult. Our bodies to sing meat, bone, fluid tendrils.
Our carpet lost in the cosmos like mating animals behind our science,
leading us into young mouths and eyelids.

To live is to pillar apart, to die is to trill the fountain,
that promise of density.

And sometimes the second paradigm actually works.

Dark locks biting down hard on my ribs, divining every convulsion not peeled.

Another euphoria, another squeak from ourselves.

It's too late. This smashed syntax at its most vulnerable squeezes a phalanx of impossible rythms from the sky. Brilliant talismans between legs televised for a panacea, erased there on ten hours of solvents, emancipated by numb beauty, it's all too real for either of us. The flash ranging from the indelible to the cruel, unfair and malicious,

Dada still spews meteors as the orange abstract
laughs its strange laughter.

Thanks to Surrealist Gesture for allowing me to cross-text some of his stunning work!
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memory loss




































































































you've got curdling blood 'tween your teeth
in a room stuffed with stuffed animals
your crown cuts your forehead
hung from the ankles
skin torn off
prostitute's murder as seen through the sapphire body of destruction
her sex with a focus on injury
Eyes Wide Open
cutting power eyelashes stagnant spent somber and ecstasy
Apollo kid defeated contestant
simply little blood 'horizons of trophies
you are blood-curdling tween the animal's teeth
stuffed stuffed
your crown cut the amount hung from the ankle
skin is ripped off by
leisure days, the long lost prostitutes are seen through the wooden wall
the body is destroyed
eye opens wide
0.039 Methylenedioxymethamphetamine opium smoke and the long lost
murder seen through a gape in the translucent body
injuries focused on her wide horizon is set inwards slitting
dismal and spent ecstasy stasis

skin torn







[.ShellClassInfo]
InfoTip=@Shell32.dll,-12688
IconFile=%SystemRoot%\system32\mydocs.dll
IconIndex=-101






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Tuesday, November 27, 2007

item #4191
LOL yes, due to quasi-wisdom, and its weak and severalising spectres, of economy and empty cool, silence is fool-golden only. Thus-wise, cryer you are, you will keep ticking to its cranks and levers. Meanwhile, do not live any of our messages, just in case. Indeed, be more insistent. For instance, consider acts and facts that picture responders by implication rather than by association. Grow up; and for heavens sake, keep re-sending your details. Each mail entrenches, as we said before. You're likely to bore us, yes; but we will not block you. Fall freely, as you please.
posted by murmurists at 2:09 PM 0 comments Monday, November 26, 2007

[fuff fuff]

posted by murmurists at 9:11 AM 0 comments Sunday, November 25, 2007

item #4190
Ha! Same old you ... Terse, childish, even snide, certainly dismissive, and egotistical, as ever ... occluded, obscurist, self-satisfied ...&c. Manners are important. They are, in fact, a function of intelligent interaction. A bit of 'hello mate, hope you are well' to start and 'best wishes' to end goes a long way; like a handshake, in being both meaningless and meaningful. I see this time you finish with a nod in that direction. Purely reactive. Succinct ... how so? More, he said she said... tongue-pulling-out; and your judgement upon your abilities is, again, egotistical. I see laziness rather than economy. Similarly, in order to meaningfully convey the kind of framing you say you were after, more work needed to be done. Did you seriously think your piece would appear as engagement? You know, I bet you did! Hilarious. Writing is for sharing. You look down on such things as ever. Hmmmh ... with your approach, how many socially-successful, emotionally-successful, materially-productive joint-ventures have you contributed to in your time? You see maverick, I see lack of commitment and an unwillingness to put the real work in. 'Amusement' and 'reassurance' spit forth from your typing fingers as if they were diseases. Both are human, in fact. My own central motivations are, however, somewhat more substantive. They are there, but one must have what it takes to see them.

posted by murmurists at 11:29 PM 0 comments

item #4189
Gosh, hello again! How rude, you are! How tersely, one-removedly you return...oh master of the half-persued this that. Such oppositions you ply. Why insult, when one might do something more interesting? Still baiting your hook for waves of destruction? Of course, I realise that you did choose the stick over the carrot; so all else follows... Versions of dialectics. Versions only. Idiosyncing. But, hello again...this response to your response, tipping along the contour of my last unacknowledged mail of friendliness, regardless. I had that in my book of comic predictions, anyway. Why play? Well, one answer is: to build...as opposed to 'fuck 'em'. The latter gets one where, precisely? What successful system espouses that? Has it worked for you? Are you happy? Are you in love? Anyway, I terse-return ... To your thoughts...Several simplistic oppositions, in a list...reminding one of 'did didn't did didn't'-type exchange. OK. I have several Killing Joke LPs, so I have room for some 6th form iconoclasm. Never liked Nirvana, though, so I only go so far. Sorry. How about raising the debate to the level of, say, Death Ambient? Or better still, Debord, Derrida ...something French. With that in mind, I tell you the piece circulated was A PIECE OF PROSE (my emphasis); one of a series. Because you came in inch-deep, you thought it was me making a statement. Did it's off-kilter illogic not raise a doubt? People itemise. They respond in-character; they get the drift. Will you tell me ...'ah, mine was such a response...and you DID NOT get me...? To that, I might say, '...ah this IS such a response, and I DID get you...'. You have always underestimated me. You feel wise to yourself, I know. Despite the inferred depth of your leanings, you only ever operated on the surface, via a series of novelties. I hope you have changed...and, moreover, deepened, less thinking you are mysterious. Have you? Your unadorned terseness suggests not. Still avoiding those tonal resolutions. I offered you the hand of friendship. All I ever felt from you was patronising stony ground, giggling instead of engaging, thinking it was a kind of badge of cooky wisdom. You reduce others in order to feel superior. It does not work, however. Arc at me...eh... invective. Are you really up for surfing that wave? Or can this be rehabilitated?

posted by murmurists at 11:23 PM 0 comments

Dirty Frank


Some see him as a scoundrel (mongrel, morsel of human flesh). He sees in mirrors reflections of wirra (sorrow), a boy who was left to kill himself. Time does not heal all wounds (when sound can travel listen), if it killed your soul (stole it if you want to own it). How do you bleed (while you plead), the heart was ripped to pieces (peace I hate the word), by the man you called your father.

The universe sent you what you need (feed off flesh), is that why some boys are abused to become men that scar (far the sound of healing). Some boys get locked inside a broken soul (what a foul story was told), frightened to talk, to breathe, to be in this life.

When blood drip out your broken face on white tiles between love and hate, do you really feel it?

Do you know you are there to see the red stain white (What is right?). Make a mess of it all (you are worth nothing), even your blood stains. Good for nothing Dirty Frank. Break him (he might never win), he was born to feel blood burn his eyes, lick it off his lips. This is how you are alive (they connive to hide the truth).

Slow (he will never grow), is the universe when you enter a knife through skin. The pleasure is timely, locked in the sense of strength (the length of power is not shown).
You can not be god and take what you think belongs to you.

This I swear Dirty Frank you have left your marks, dirty hand prints on dead bodies. Is that your sin, to try and feel free.
What was the initial deed of death? Was it your soul ripped from blood to stain white floors, while your father beats and rape your body.
Is the deed of death the knife that kills your victims?

Original artwork By Perry(published with permission)

size does not matter

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postcriptic



i tasted like bromide fear burnt aged black onto pots of brass.



innocuous palpable fears throbbed up and down midsection jelly fruit.



evening threw a robe. a blanket heavy and dark that smelt of seaweed rotten and cabbage like mini parts.



orwell chested a hard ball from far field left onto the tin roofs of shanty palaces.



zing.



shackle time rose and rose and rose again oven ready and festering muscle cripple for to ever zing.



and zang.



pinball electric smarts fold foreign empires into lace pockets filled by horny fists that rub the ink from newspaper print.



and you.



and them ribald thieves of nimble meaning and tawdry fabrications that cock, cocksure, cuckold men into shallow graves.
a gavel that falls plumb deep and plum soft.



movement in a glass symphony tailored to tinker like the chink chink chink of cut glass thimbles.
he watches the short men, the dwarf men. potters and craftsmen hoe their imaginations with wet towels.




ladies towels.




red and crusty.




mucus in a lamplight, gas lit side street.



oh the henry of it all.



a bald ninny. a pate for the shine of pink.



partial remeberance and cutaway.

mind set.
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ye'ken?

ablution amid adhesion
acquire andersen
aquarius arum autism afire
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Slipped aka Nothing 2C

alma ballistic
aspersion Amherst
abandon Bakersfield
afterlife abysmal abound apartheid
amphibian affluent assure arenas
Agway backpack adjoin akin archer airfare band
angel beauty
audio avoidance atavism bassinet apparent another bailiff
alert antiphonal
backbone alkyl abbot adversary banister beacon balletanise bean
bed avocation banal Andes badMonkeyallergy Anglicanism
biteplate aviary
automorphic alp acetanilide anything beast Andy bathroom
angelica argotalter adhere awake arteriolosclerosis abetting barnyard antiquity
acculturate Artemisia
appointee approach Antarctica Adkins autobiography Anaheim argonalizarin affable
average abject Ackley baccalaurean ate anent Angus ballad
allegation astonish
alabaster Andre alto ace anagram backstitch armada bad
afloat ardent
America Barstow ail Anglican aloof abbot advantageous
anchoritic ambient
bane await barkeep Bakersfield abrade Annabel acerbic
balsam astringent
applejack ampere antiquity audacious bakelite apache beauanticipatory anastigmatic
arequipa banister angle age arson angel anything
Bach bake
bagging agriculture allege armada

Make room for her nature...


Words - Murmurists
Images - Stolen too...
Manipulation - Guilty as Discharged.

:














:
rui effe
flying cow

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legends




he is not the ice cream man. he melts his heart for anyone.
hat of felt falls over shadowed eyes. walking past the statue of legends.



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The light blue

His teeth have been 'corrected' with braces but have now returned to a version of their original shape. The two front teeth are prominent and in line with the incisors, but the other teeth that were pulled and rifled in their sockets, for a period of over twenty four months, grow from the roof of the mouth and collect milk solids and phlegm from his asthmatic lungs. These string across the the roof of his mouth and around the epiglottis and his tonsils, which are unusually large, push the tongue to the front of the mouth, and through a long habit of not revealing his teeth while speaking and the seeming necessity of having a gap for air at the front of the mouth, a pink spot of tongue and the white shadows of spit down either side of his mouth is in frequent appearance.
His tie is worn loosely around a thin throat and bears a white tag with his name. He has chosen not to opt for the usual left chest placement of the name tag as a mark of originality, and was known to hide the 'trainee' tag attachment under the largish starched collar of the light blue shirt that was part of the uniform for 'food for less'.
:



:
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:




:

rui effe

prono.txt

I really just wanted to talk about porno.
please go here for thoughts on the subject

constant consonant

9 comments:
cocaine jesus said...
crude but effective.





21 November 2007 09:30
cocaine jesus said...
what do you mean crude? i am damn proud of it.





21 November 2007 09:31
cocaine jesus said...
yes, the writing is OK but the title is crude.


and silly.





21 November 2007 09:31
cocaine jesus said...
OK? better than OK. fucking good if you ask me. as for the title what would you have used then?





21 November 2007 09:32
cocaine jesus said...
hammer fist.





21 November 2007 09:32
cocaine jesus said...
hammer fist?
humm.
does have a certain ring to it.





21 November 2007 09:32
cocaine jesus said...
ring to it? now we are getting anal.





21 November 2007 09:33
cocaine jesus said...
hey! so who is being crude now then?





21 November 2007 09:33
cocaine jesus said...
touche.

21 November 2007 09:33
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A Prolonged Technics...

a prolonged technics that just fails to supernova: closer to the eye's map of the present heave, pillboxed in collusion and covered in somewhere, reification looks calmly out upon streets lined with rows of damp shufflings across time's mangy drip. used condoms howl at intentions concealed in secular clumps of neuron ambrosia disguised as wombs tweaking the end. ideology, broken into by the lower ray of diction, rotting alone outside the window's humming velocity. it wants to be an illogical pulse, rather than a wheel of synaptical poverty. fuel leaks into translucence, a circus of thoughts, both terribly vulgar and plastering its own skin with winter's easy cognition, the face of music.

Corrosion

Opposites unite around me. They depend upon me integrally both for their presence and their absence. You will learn that, in me, there is no deferral. All is immediate. I cohere with language itself. My words mobilize language, in fact; in the same way that destruction franchises conflict. I live to reenactment these conflicts erotically. Each of my writings is an attempt to simplify you destructively, finally. There are no other meanings within these texts. Stop looking. My view of you, reader, is subliminal, private property.

Another Hour...

another hour has become free of its moorings: and a battering laugh. palms withered a hole in each quartet not trolling the abyss. ice floes meaning hate spits bacteria from celestial insides, warm sciences that seep lobster claws. a tread indentured by sartorial gifts, legs set to lean. lust and smoke bravura as meteor excess, intoxication afraid to sound random. semen is at home within the last day's solar wink.
For Alex
Porcelain Skull


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This is my brain

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Discharge 3 Brain Scan

This is your true brain, the emotions that run your life!

i've been wanking




slow slow quick quick slow. the alarm bells riven the call metal. brazen flesh resounds to the purple rise. the throb of menace fills the basin with worm skins.
freeze. freeze. release. plump as a pillow. soft as eider. seconds bier the burnished briar. to flame and chill. the clock measures by grimaces. china eyes.
grit upon the tooth. the sally forth of brisk fists. pain in fractures of pleasure.
reversed into head sung. spinning plates that spiral. circus recall. recall. and end.



pyte




take the slow path.

avoid the toads that squirm.

heaven knows enough.

angels confirm what we thought.

the process begins with grunts.

fallible as history.

as rigid as education.


fail safe and mute as dumb.

like dumb.

like very noble ideals.

everyone can be bought.

bring and buy corruption.

big hats for the heartless.


the process begins with grunts.

i am a grunt. he is a grunt. she is a grunt.

the stage is set and lit.

by moonlight and sodium.

penniless we arrive depleted and wet.

grass covers our tracks.


our tacks. tin tack paddy wacks.

i wear my decals with pride.

how about you?



albert camus knew a thing or two

RAIN FOREST

AMAZĂ“NIA
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womb for one more.
rodents residence.
water flowing under.



Words - C.J.
Shall we, say, collapse-comment ouselves, whilst noting that Anonymous said, '...dear t & a. in the area at the minute so able to come across for you as previously stated. will chicken do for now...'? On 18 November 2007, at 12:53, jean said, '...sorry was anon. not tech with such things. meant to say is jean...'. Two minutes later, Tom & Allison said, '...Jean, you twat, you owe us money. No no no. It doesn't ruin everything. It ruins just the important things you Communist...'; whilst, later the same day, at 13:10, Anonymous said '...but, but henry, i told you before you should not barbeque a rodent...'. (now minidisc).

histrip fer







TORSO BENDS BANANA SHAPE.
OVAL WORDS DIGREES.
DEGREES OF OCCULT BEHAVIOUR.







FAILURE BEFORE GOD.
A HAND DEVELOPS SORES.
BURNS ON THE KNEES.




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item #3053. Classically, we ur-locute and contort, exerting situ and falling into our desirability. We divine categories vast and unitary. Put simply, we want exclusions - of area, volume, sense, and occurrence. This is a branch of Determinism. In this, and with this, we seek to establish the primacy of individuals over non-individuals. Be aware, we are exacting in our demands. Dare you chance a brief reply to see if you are good enough for us. We will not take second best. So think carefully before you consider this step. Tom & Allison
I am thinking of opening up my "blog" to "friends" again. Just so I can delete the whole bunch for being interaction retards again. Interested? I want to limit it to people who never say anything, if I can. It is unfair that you don't post on BOP, as I do not get equal opportunity to ignore your shit.

Sure.At the moment it is easy for me to say little.You successfully ignore my blog, so I disbelieve your whine about equal opportunities.Imo, people who cry ‘equal opportunity’ are just lazy and unwilling to make an effort, if they got off their arses and made the effort they could do what they wanted, make their own opportunity! Look at Ms Thatcher back in the 80’s ! A woman? Prime Minister? Did she cry equal opportunity? Make me PM or I’ll cry?, did she fuck.

LOLHey Minion, matter of fact I have not successfully ignored your blog. Did she have a sense of humour?

Oops, my bad, you do indeed comment on my myspace blog, which is greatly appreciated...My reply previously was with my blog in mind, as in a 'blogspot' page...slow slow traffic on that page :), in fact maybe even less than my own 'demon' pages...ahh the fickle finger of fame has yet to point at me :( No eager sycophants waiting with bated breath to praise my latest greatest piece of emporic clothing...I wonder if emporic is a word? Wax or waning lyrical again, as you seem to cause me to do, of down the stream of not really consciousness, babbling brook of meaningless drivel spilling from my chipped cups, cups I’ve been in and out of for more years than bears catch popes, I wonder if it’s due to the 60’s? Am I a child of those times? Latent hippy jeans hanging in the cupboard taking up more room at the bottom than the top, dusting the bottom shelf at each swaying swing caused by that door creaking open and slamming shut again and again, maybe some butter for the hinge and some toast while I think on it, also I seem to end up typing all this before I eat, are my words some how driven by hunger by need? If so why are there not more references to nutty cheese and buttered muffins, half fried-grill finished bacon, best taste that way, with crispy rind, crunchy snap of greasy crackling, salivate, salivate! Churn of stomach and clench of gut, spasm and drool, spasm of mind over matters of food, but right now, this moment, my thoughts are mainly of Jarlsberg on bacon on muffin, drip drip butter and fat down the chin chin chin…Yes, I really would like to blog with you and read what is written, as I have already wrote what I write as such…a new flavour would be most palatable indeed. Damn, no muffins. Need to shop shop shop!

stains on a curtain






like the chill wind of a razor blade as it cuts into a cactus heart. i can hear the sound of the crow. i can hear the sound of the magpie. reach for my pistol mama. play my totem fabric with your fingerless gloved hand. lay me down so that i can sleep.
upon your milky breasts.
upon your sweet thighs.
upon the scented heart of you that flutters pink like a ladies purse. keep the honey chain slick and pour me an ale. an ale and some confection for the disease of that heaven that flys open beneath the stars of creation. i caught your midnight.
rolled it in the palm of my hand. like tobacco in a pig pouch.
like the rancid taste of england stewing as it ferments in its womb of confussion.