Brown Equals Terrorist is a website describing one photography student’s difficulties with the coppers while taking photographs up in Seattle.
Be sure to read the “Artist Statement”.
Dehiscence, or some blank reminder of a something.
There’s some kind of serious. And but also.
I’ve been seeing words and phrases around which suggest, increasingly, that one Internet Explorer is an unsafe little beastie. I’ve started recommending to my friends and relations that they check out the fancy, footloose little browser known as Firefox.
I recommend you check it out. It–dare I say it–makes tootling about on the internet FUN again.
Wise up: the more comics imitate movies, the less need movies will have for comics as a source of imaginative material; let’s remember that the movie industry is ONLY NOW learning to simulate the technology and imagination Jack Kirby packed in his pencil 40 years ago. As I’ve been saying to the point of boredom for the last couple of years, our creative community owes it to the future to produce today the insane, logic-shattering, side-splitting day-glo stories which will be turned into all-immersive holographic magic theatre experiences in 40 years time. The comics medium is a very specialized area of the Arts, home to many rare and talented blooms and flowering imaginations and it breaks my heart to see so many of our best and brightest bowing down to the same market pressures which drive lowest-common-denominator blockbuster movies and television cop shows.
this one’s come undone.,
his trousers blown about in the wind.
feel that scurrilous ticklegroan.
oh me oh my
cramped into some little old little me box
feeling that muschhhle ache
where’s the glistening, no, fey
corpus cormeticum or somedamnthing
book or wordphrase to conjure with
(whoop-ah! watch the hands/don’t watch the hands!
feel my eyes drag your eyes away,
while deft little fingers replace one thing with t’other:
meantime, here’s the graggerman, come to grab the grag.
put it in the graggerbag and sleng it on yer shudder.
until tomorrow, i wasn’t even there.
feel the burn (grammatical) as the pointofview
flipflopflaps between you and me and one and his
[what pour self is hid in that strange box?
the mystery box with the sick inside
or maybe the punching bag, o’erflown with dust withal]
and even now, wa?
all the bait is swirling in the water:
protecting no one self, but keeping that groop
solid swiffing in the water.
underthere’s just nothing much
disappointment, filthy monsoons clawing out
even one cold slap
keening out of some pain or dandelion
might not shock one out of time
might not flip the underbelly out
expose that pestilential core
to all the silly world [stop]
did i say silly [stop]
there’s a word [stop] lost it’s meaning [stop]
all the world’s words [stop]
find their meaning slip away [stop]
there’s an infamous particle of faith that scratches and stretches out, concluding something special that most would rather, were the conclusions contrariwise drawn in crayon, stomp upon or growl out into some night-time corruscade. and all the spell-checks in the world can’t save this one, can’t keep strange words like galumph or happapap from sneaking through the dumbwaiter. even some bed-ridden hag wouldn’t stand for that on toast! scrape it off and pour it in the trestle. or the pestle. or the pistle on the whistle.
and so, la.
but tired, beyond. yet, yes. tired.
swinging gently in the.