Cent!
I propose we celebrate this lugubrious smattering of sentences' 100th installment with a British Sea Power themed rave party. Come as your favourite BSP song! I would have to come as Carrion, but I’d expect Timmy to go to the effort to comes as A Wooden Horse. Jai could be a Fakir.
There are too many tank tops and not enough tanks on the beach today. There are too many Cons and not enough Air-con. There are too many poor, and not enough porn.
It’s the imbalance that really throws me. It’s the dichotomy of thought, the space between that the Japanese are smart enough to have a word for. It’s the chasm of the afterthought, it’s the dance of the dead impressionist painter; it’s the last Waltz Disney cartoon of our childhood.
Today, we become men. And they shall not tear me down, they can nail me on the mount and they can bury my name under the fires of the forthcoming age, but they cannot bring us backwards!
We will never walk this torn and scuffy road that tells of longing, of infinite choice and of bildungsromon, we will never scream in pain again because they have torn out the child which screams.
I will play all day and all night to no one, and if they had heard surely they would have finally understood and wept for the shaking of change. If they had heard or saw or sensed then it would all be ok, and then other consciousnesses could carry the vacuum-sealed packages of truth which were exposed for the 3:05 of the pop song. But no one heard, and no one saw, because they were huddled around their own camp fires. They were eating their own tortured human flesh. They were their own masters.
Dead Man was on SBS the other night. If you missed it, then you’re just like everyone else, and besides, you wouldn’t have liked it anyway. It’s full of wank.
The vision of Christ that thou dost see is my vision’s greatest enemy.
HAPPY 100TH POST, BLOG.
I must create a system or be enslaved by another mans; I will not reason and compare: my business is to create. - William Blake.
There are too many tank tops and not enough tanks on the beach today. There are too many Cons and not enough Air-con. There are too many poor, and not enough porn.
It’s the imbalance that really throws me. It’s the dichotomy of thought, the space between that the Japanese are smart enough to have a word for. It’s the chasm of the afterthought, it’s the dance of the dead impressionist painter; it’s the last Waltz Disney cartoon of our childhood.
Today, we become men. And they shall not tear me down, they can nail me on the mount and they can bury my name under the fires of the forthcoming age, but they cannot bring us backwards!
We will never walk this torn and scuffy road that tells of longing, of infinite choice and of bildungsromon, we will never scream in pain again because they have torn out the child which screams.
I will play all day and all night to no one, and if they had heard surely they would have finally understood and wept for the shaking of change. If they had heard or saw or sensed then it would all be ok, and then other consciousnesses could carry the vacuum-sealed packages of truth which were exposed for the 3:05 of the pop song. But no one heard, and no one saw, because they were huddled around their own camp fires. They were eating their own tortured human flesh. They were their own masters.
Dead Man was on SBS the other night. If you missed it, then you’re just like everyone else, and besides, you wouldn’t have liked it anyway. It’s full of wank.
The vision of Christ that thou dost see is my vision’s greatest enemy.
HAPPY 100TH POST, BLOG.
I must create a system or be enslaved by another mans; I will not reason and compare: my business is to create. - William Blake.
posted by Cal Samson at 3:00 PM
2 Comments:
i watched dead man. it was deliciously aggravating.
Agreed, anyone not in platonic man-love with Jim Jarmusch would have found the phrase "superfluous pauses inciting homicide" spring to mind, but such is life.
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