How not to be?

March 25, 2009 at 8:12 pm | Posted in writing | 8 Comments
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The advantage in such disguise is that every old man’s voice is an artificial construct. Ronaldhino for instance, in that sudden moment when he forgets all concern with the blustering faces and clomping of the larger boys or on the alternate letting the machine through its mysterious allegory algorythm organise the syllabubbles, this is the question.

you are a hypocrite,

October 28, 2008 at 6:12 pm | Posted in poetry, writing | 9 Comments
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Squires, what’s with all the smoke and mirrors.
Put your money on the table like the rest of us
you drunken bum. Tearing up the losing ticket,
this is the end of your lucky run
and out of the bible the gun appeared.

A puff of smoke, a rum, sit down old man,
for goodness sake the point is yet to come.

Everyone’s a winner, it’s a straight up guarantee cos
the value of these goods is not made by me he says
(a not so subtle highhat shuffle)
but always by the buyer, haha, bye bye tata,

Brazilian Invisibility Spell

August 14, 2008 at 6:31 pm | Posted in poetry, writing | 13 Comments
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the essential anonymity of the artist in
Sao Paolo streetart done with stencils sure
but such passion that black and red,
white and blue leap from the wall
and assert liberation into the image,
the artists are Hieronymous not from ‘umility
but from a belief in the power and freedom
in anonymity behind the image, Exu. You cannot assert that you
know Picasso nor Matisse all their remains
are mere images and endless interpretations burned
blurred into the retina and the bus smells
faintly of magnolia thinks Saudade
looking blankly at the back of her nails,

To take an actual busride and look at the streetart of Sao Paolo go here…

di’spell’ing the ego,

August 7, 2008 at 6:57 pm | Posted in poetry, writing | 17 Comments
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haha, once said and done again, the right way to spell
he said, now somewhere here is a pointed purple hat,
a silver moon over a lost isle and he is running out of patience.
Is he off chasing some wild tale again,
odd dreams of strange exchanges between various creatures,
transmission by osmosis perhaps Bill? Who knew?
Ari, he shouts into the ebbing light
but too late his son has gone,

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