Mike Figgis Riff

August 12, 2008 at 7:25 pm | Posted in links, poetry, writing | 19 Comments
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some deep profundity plops like some bubble
through thick purple ink
only to splatter down a cracked porcelain sink,
if i just speak in some spotlight like
some frill necked lizard coughing dislike
hunching his spine truth as a shield
especially in dry spells
like this when the dust
makes poetry a mental martial art
Ozymandius, where is your crumbling
hungover statue now?
staring blindly into the sun like some
actor playing Bukowhiskey,
there is courage in your momentary erections
set against time in a blind
Tipota landscape
seen through Mike Figgis’ eyes. 
 
 

(Mike Figgis wrote and directed Leaving Las Vegas. Ozymandius is both a poet and a famous poem set in the desert by Shelley about how the works of men decay over time. Tipota is a writer who writes surreally often in a very filmic way. Ben Gazarra starred in “Tales Of Ordinary Madness“, a film based on Charles Bukowhiskey’s book “Erections, Ejaculations, Exhibitions and Other Tales Of Ordinary Madness”

So this is a poem about landscape, both the physical landscape of the desert and a cultural landscape the theme of which is similar to Shelley’s. Our efforts to defeat time. An iconic image of a man in sunglasses staring into the sky over a deserted landscape can be found in all these references in various forms.)


Benny Hill Riff.

July 20, 2008 at 9:32 am | Posted in writing | 20 Comments
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Dada diddle diddle dumb dumb dada. Subtitled, cos I want to, On Being Childless.

I read the other day, at least I think I did, that if you are approaching fifty, male and childless the chances are really good that you’re gay. Which puts me in a tiny minority, a middle aged heterosexual white (and I say that because in the world into which I was born and through no fault of my own that was of distinct benefit. In fact, a sane person looking at my life would say, “Why? You have thrown away every advantage including an elegant and complex education. You own nothing, no property, no wife, no children.” My hair is literally turning grey and I am a large and shambling beast. I am an exile where ever I am.

No, I cannot be more literally true for fear of implicating the innocent since I was drunk a lot of the time, (insert link=”the complete unreliability of memory” and like any drunk include the sober) some balding man in rags, a woodgnome in a clearing giggling through his moustachioes with his arm around the plumpest sweetest smiling one. We all heard music whenever she moved. Haha, amoral you see not immoral, in that in life one must first survive. Everything else is a surplus which you are free to give away and in doing so offer hope to those around you. It is a small sacrifice. As your society fragments, which it is right now inside these lunatic machines which exaggerate every effect, which are literally changing the way thought occurs, you will need to remember the things which were fundamental to the survival and success of the little pink people. Similarity becomes far more important than the bizarre twentieth century cult of the personality. (Though you must remember to celebrate diversity amorally, in that it is fundamental to your survival. It was one of our first assets and mirrors the tao.) People would call you names, attach words whose meaning is long dead as if in an archaic language, communist, anarchist and antichrist, atheist, subversive, arrogant and insidious. So I am childless by choice.

richie havens riff

July 14, 2008 at 6:50 pm | Posted in writing | 17 Comments
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the end of all complex negotiations, when Che turned from that table and all and sundry contractual obligations. Not only a definition of brutal honesty but of perfect utility, precision, the truth as a weapon best handled with care especially in the hands of novices, he said, ho ho ho, lash me to the mast boys, here we go,

now there are some of you who dare to presume it is some earthly pleasure we desire, some booty or bounty, bliss in some port of call but we are pirates, the slow fuse suicide bombers of our times, it is freedom we fight for from all the hypocrisy of ordinary lies. If we sin let us sin in some real and grandiose way and throw away our lives simply for the experience of being and believing,

you cannot measure the morality of your actions by their consequences since you can’t possibly predict how many lived or died as a result of your butterfly. Kings are thieves all of them and the complete unreliability of memory if pondered makes knaves of us all. We are completely adrift, you drunken scoundrels, in a sea of instinct and only those who read the tides survive,    
       
 
(The link above goes to a letter by Ernesto ‘Che’ Guevara de la Serna hosted by Message in a Matrix.)

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