"Behind every system, behind every rule stands a corpse and laughs. You can't tell me who I should sleep with. I don't work for wages. My life is a revolution... My life is a beautiful life... What you call freedom, I call waste... I will continue to love my own voice. If everyone becomes me, everything will collapse."

Bruno K. Ă–ijer

Monday, January 25, 2010

Shelfs on Neediness

Sitting in a box. No ground floor. No roof. Box have many door ways. It's a labyrinth. Walking and cowling with inhibitions. Restless, disgraceful elements. Low in oxygen supply. Intoxicated with left-overs, abused with truth. Honesty. Prosecution. Face to face with itself. Hanging on shelf's, filled with old newspapers. Cut-outs of the modernity. We have it here, a long term disses of society. A perception of what everything and everyone should be like. "Should" is one ow thous words used to soften "MUST" - "Have TO". - You "should" never ... Yes, this what days are about. What should and should not. Elementary schools leveled intelligence. Ambiguous lettering system, irritated skin molecules. Everyone is wining in the end. "Applause" sing lights up in the middle of nowhere. And the clapping sound of the majority begins...

The table is here, why so? Remembered. Last time I have putted it on the bed, while he sat with me on the floor. There was always someone else in side of you was it? (rhetorical question). Here is never enough time for anything. Never enough cigarettes, never enough jokes, never enough oxygen.
This time table had 3 legs and one hole witch indeed is endless. Eight eyes, eight legs, one head no conciseness, low level in entertainment. - Are you partying?
- No, I really need to work on this.
- Ok, it's OK. Oh well...
Now he know, now they all know, as I don't join the happy artistic time spread. Interests are full of it's best achievements. So, how is the new mechanism? Does it work properly, is it legal, who is in charge?
Now, it's time to put everything in to artistic goal. For it's purity and the mighty mixed messages. So, I put left hand on the brush. Feel how smooth it is. Glossy. I pick it up, holding it tight that it would not escape while writing. Leaving this ink to dry.

Good night,

Sunday, January 17, 2010

Bus stop is taking over

Nico is playing silently, then voice gets louder and louder. Gets inside my lobes.. I cant resist her. She is here. Slight shiver. A dangerous creator. Recently I smoke to much, He told me, it's bad. And that happiness is an illusion. That I just need to do what I was doing and never surrender. I agreed. He told me that moments are there to cherish and that nostalgic memories are killing us. I just nodded. He was kind and gentle. I was high. Pills where taking over. It was one of the thous evening when everything could just be perfect. The spell was on. Crossroads.
On my way home I fall it to a light gaze of warm nothing. That gaze is keeping me in it's arms day by day.

As one character form Muratova's movie sad " I would give this world a rate zero". She was completely right.

Bottle is opened, table is perfectly clean. I think it's a point when the obsession with cleaning reached it's highest point. Drowning in air fresheners, wooden floor cleaners, sink polishers, antibacterial materials. It's my domestic right to leave this kingdom spotless. Obey the domestic master.

Who the fuck is he? - question went in to emptiness. He is here all the time. Day time, night time, no time - all time. He has a twisted smile. He makes doors move at night and turns off the coffee pot in the mornings. I hate him!
I have tried to shoot him, to drown him, to strangle him, to cut his throat, to poison him, to feed him, to love him... to eliminate him. But he is everywhere. I feel the breeze coming from my right, staring.
No shape, no name, no age. He smells of death and hair conditioner. Take IT away! Remember. Forget. Forgive.

Sounds of ambulance sirens. The room is closing-in and brings up memories. Like waters on full moon. Nothing comes home again. Trying to focus on neediness and inflammations. Wishes are dismembered. There is no owners and no landlords. No civil right. No escape roots. Po polishers. No tranquilizers. All and everyone is used-up. Motivations went down the drain combined with bleach which is used to for feel the need of determination. Tomorrow,tomorrow. It's a new day...

Coffee, morning waters, shops, books, computer screens, lipstick, bus stops. Tons and tons of nicotine. People, crowds and crowds of lost, humiliated, disoriented people. tick-tack... tick-tack. Alarm clock's, breakfast. Nutritious, milk bottles. More coffee, more nicotine, more lipstick. More of everything that could change the way voice is moderating the maps. Brushes, color patters, color structures, color balances. Researches, tutors, more lipstick. Fabulous, I'm just fabulous. Oh, what a wonderful composition. Oh sure, lets go out to a movies some time. Yes, lecture, of course I will. Trips, gigs, London, Tate museum, Copenhagen, Birmingham. All all of that. Morning, coffee and more nicotine and more lipstick. And more of the thing we used to call daily artistic routine. Arguing about nothing, showing off the artistic knowledge. Pushing my brain to read and suck in more and tuns more of information, used, unused, cooked, boiled, row, chewed-up, spit-out. Empty glasses, bottles, cigarette-buts, ashes, pages and pages, paper on the wooden flours, movies. Subjective movements. Waiting rooms. Phone call. Holding lines. Google maps. Corners, main roots, side walks, allies, turns, street light, elevators, taxi drivers, bus stops, bags, backpacks. Insanity.


Good night,

Saturday, January 16, 2010

Ashes to Ashes

Some how it just meets at the check point. if i had new back then what I know wright now... the scale of justices would move to other direction. voices would had a different tone, hands would not shake. gloves would fit better.

The wight of emergency rooms is getting shoulder tight. i know it's coming back. everything is going back to it's usual status. finely no one could trick that treat. the ashes of yesterday are everywhere. my fingertips got heavier. there is a cave deep inside the hills that guides the cracks.

Usual VIP staff is working on the edge, overeating, over sniffing, overspending. over. costumers are all the same, nothing had changed back there. we will feel the difference only when it will be to late. artistic status. viral infections. poisoning equipment.

Flesh tissue is getting old and falls down on the soil. soon a tree will grow there. the only thing that is still biologically pure. after a year the fruit will grow on that tree. it will get as big as the ego on the one, who watered the plant. Users will come from everywhere over the globe. they all will want a part of the pure ego. The first bite will make it's eater an unstable genius, whom will blow eternal artistic bubble. the fruit will get rotten in the a second and no one would ever taste it again. visitors will get the feeling of pure rage. they will scream and fight each other. the ego will grow inside of them, and the bubble will turn bigger and shinier.

After some time users with get distracted form their urges and needs as the light of the bubble will catch everybody's attention. hypnotizing colors and sounds will blind and deaf. users will offer everything to the creator of the bubble. willing to get in they will sacrifice everything they ever loved. and he agreed.

When everyone got in, the genius clapped his hands. the inner space inside the bubble turned in to a mirrors. the ugliness was so disturbing. everyone inside dropped on the ground and screamed for help and salvation. they wonted to get out. but their egos started to eat the from them inside. looking glass grow thicker and thicker. visitors where face to face with each other and with their reflection. after some moments the bubble got hot and melted. the mad genius went near the leftovers on the burn out soil, got on hes knees and had eaten the tar. he grow big as the world itself. then an atom reaction was made. he exploded into nothing.

From ashes to ashes!

This is a fairytale for today.
Good night,

Thursday, January 14, 2010

Machine work

Dear Princess and King and the holy spirit

They made me think it's not a game, somehow I believed them, it's lie. A mischief. There is someone inside the rule book. The posed inner evil that will hunt you till the rest of the days.

Doctors prescription doesn't work, the feeling is overwhelming. Moments. Stones do not move. to come to this after all this year. Protect your enemies. They will pay back. I'm obsessed with paper. The brushes do not move. Canvases stay still as an army with out a Captain. Brave knight is poisoned. Make him come back. I never quite understood what makes the rule book work.

What price are you willing to pay? The naivety and banality are going side by side. Sifting, the air is shifting the image. How come we stand still as a broken sow mill? Question marks and punctuations try to dismember the leader. I hear the battle sirens, it's all around the place. Why is it getting in a way, no answers are so easy to achieve. Glock 17 has reached the level of desperation.

Will this history participate in future no one knows. The only answer is simple - the time will come. Obsessions, passions, fascination, fake illusions, desperation's, lust, contamination, inspirations, motivations, fluid exchange within seconds.

We had a single solution, the baler was here with in a seconds before the truth risen.
All that was told is forbidden. We entered the new zone. The final score is zero.

Good Night,

high roads

When I took the blanket of the bed this morning, the fog was licking fingers. Mirrors are biggest liars, they show everything throw unknown angles. The lie started this day. I don't believe in saints. Never had. But you could smell the presence of someone odd. Never felt that before. There was a stranger in my room, in my bed, in my kitchen, in my stomach, in my floors. In the buke of peonies and lilies that stands near the microwave. I can feel him, he is watching me. I never believed him.

The wonderland was closing in, hair pins flew in the air, softly. The misery kept it self pretty tight, quietly and sensitive at some moment. Paper pages turned to different directions. A full time day dreaming was looking at us.

No longer anyone had something to say, it was obvious, someone surrendered. Pulse had made the last input. He was tall enough to see the high roads but low enough to crawl. Pushing the pages throw a low life. Time, we manege to stay in touch with the inner self. Post Freudian reality keeps it's mouth shut. That is a rule of the royal treat here. Just shut it.

I turned my back in and out - all you had been wasted. Macro space scientist drives you mad. It's all we ever had. Indeed the tendency here is simple. "Operation Miranda" will always stay on the top note as the back had the slight tone in it. Good bless you all!

Miss Sexton is an ex Miranda. She was her kind.

Her Kind

by Anne Sexton

I have gone out, a possessed witch,
haunting the black air, braver at night;
dreaming evil, I have done my hitch
over the plain houses, light by light:
lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind.
A woman like that is not a woman, quite.
I have been her kind.

I have found the warm caves in the woods,
filled them with skillets, carvings, shelves,
closets, silks, innumerable goods;
fixed the suppers for the worms and the elves:
whining, rearranging the disaligned.
A woman like that is misunderstood.
I have been her kind.

I have ridden in your cart, driver,
waved my nude arms at villages going by,
learning the last bright routes, survivor
where your flames still bite my thigh
and my ribs crack where your wheels wind.
A woman like that is not ashamed to die.
I have been her kind.

Good night,

Thursday, January 7, 2010


The vibration under the feet, this is how it should be called. That one second when the impulse comes from the fingertip to your brain. A slight, slow, pulls stooping touch....

Forget the past! Nothing there, nothing here. Left - right! Inhale - exhale. Time! The corner is still shivering, I see it. The bright thing under the last shelf. The memory. Sound, smell, vision.

Positive outcomes, shortcuts, lists, pages, words, lines, light bulbs, HD quality blue ray black screens. Number writing with no purposes. It makes everything disappear. White blanket is face to face with the mouth. Put it on top, smile and hope for the positive outcome.

Body count games are nice. But they tend to distract our positive way of thinking. Bad for the vibration. The zooming sound. Pages full of nonsense.

Concentrate on the spot right there - the bad bad
ceiling man told me. Hm... Yes, indeed. What was she thinking? Just make it happen. Full body cast is working clockwise. The blur is taking over.

When control is giving it's last order the public shags. Impulse is hard to obtain and impossible to reserve. It will find you when you will be on the right path. Lose your routine and dive in my dear.

Good night,