Friday, 23 November 2007


Is The Gobbler here yet?

Well, is he?

Slack-jawed avatar of monkey justice. The sky is like an elevator - it descends one floor at a time, softly juttering with the onset of evening. The sun's a slowly deflating balloon seen through a mist of heavy-handed similes. Phhhsst.

Your filthy fist is wrinkled like an old man's knee. Wounded biological furniture. A pancake of eyes. Hey, that broom just winked at me! The Gobbler's car pulls up outside.

Tarnished, like brass or an old painting of an ice-cream flaking scales of varnish. An image shedding skin. I'm thinking of using psoriasis as a metaphor here. For what I'm not really certain. The Gobbler got there first.

Hemmed-in by possibilities. Cornered by options.

Sunday, 14 October 2007

cocaine jesus said...


12:51 PM

Posted to end at the beginning

Delete Comment





now find us here...discharge3 and here...(THE) discharge (series)

Thursday, 4 October 2007


"Shes a moonchild
Gathering the flowers in a garden.
Lovely moonchild
Drifting on the echoes of the hours."



original photo courtesy of doriandra smith.

image manipulation by cocaine jesus.

song lyrics by Peter Sinfield from the King Crimson song "Moonchild"

From Portugal With Love

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Assisted Rafael - Maddalena Doni

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The ugly head rears.No torment can match this awareness,Better to be self ignorant.Dark clouds gathering,Filling recess’s of mind,Oozing and seeping, overshadowing.Smothering thoughts with apathetic mucilage,Soul numbing fugue.Ripping away colour thought,Revealing ceaseless pointlessness of existence,Grey wastes of life.A futility of action and inaction,Mixing apathy and loathing of the gestalt.Two little islands of worth remain.Built of Dark Angel bones and feathers.Two distant embers of warmth,In the long sable night.A third drawing near.If viewed a little opaquely,Through the dank, foul, cloying feelings.Hollow attempts of escape from self,Using joy, anger, distraction, pain,Cycle’s further darkness.Feedback loop perpetuating misery,Aching longing begins.For an end of it all.To end it, finish it.Be done.

Wednesday, 3 October 2007


a shallow shadow that creeps

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i am cocaine jesus.
underground went overground long before punk.
prog. underground. indie.
more shit than a gents convenience.
attitude in shades.
never grey.
news of the world expressed a dislike for my red shoes.
wore pink.
must be gay.
humanity sits in the gutter.
awaiting its fate.
sausage meat convenience.
manners costs a smile.
a fortune in street cred.
bank balance nil.

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where sttt

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stairway to heaven

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As for blue ratio you turn pale
Assassin of month
They rise the stand which is looked in p'ara
Can give night something which himself interludio
He connects that to the morning
image after Takato Yamamoto

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oh look, you twat...
put your petty aspirations away, and get a proper job.
You have no function.
We're pulling late-Bauhaus from your stomach-lining
... See.
Itten was a cunt.
Albers was a square.
You have an interview, and we're going with you.

That wasn't gravy we gave you.
this is how it'll be, see.
See this... which follows:
We're about to lose heads.
We're about to sharpen a stick in praise of you, you head-loser.
Before (though)...
Well, watch this...
We have missiles.
In our pockets is missilesssss.
See, now(-wise),
creeper, blundering through the fudge.
You stand-up comedian.
You train of thought.
We're about to cut you up.

Tuesday, 2 October 2007

death city

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living city

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we shape our different contours

El Cielo

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Monday, 1 October 2007

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For Junior - "Another mouth, another planet"

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Satori Machine

abolition...synaptic renegade...encoder magic engendering a return to...your own static perception promises near invisible, wavering programmes of temporality to wash away your tears...dreaming eyes perpetually

beneath endless reinvention
cascading trumpets and non-linear virus circuitry diseases...joining ovular carnage...immersion within bleeding mushroom sex...gifted the other half with the possibility of separation and thus autonomy...divine sensory catastrophe promises to star in my life with equal measure

folded your past like recombinant cells draining all logic chained to scenes of infection

we'll start with the aliens and roll deep...beyond blood

whorls of suicide data vibrate naked sleep...earthen ashes...semen hours thrown behind dealings painting a burn-mark...subtle exhumed ideas...grace steeling the microbes against way back when implosions

mutant insanity lubricant for two, please

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image manipulation by stickleback2 and cocaine jesus


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I cC 47 G?

Sunday, 30 September 2007

Ecstasy of Brigitte

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Attack on the Artic

Snow haze gleams like sand.
With its lament, it often sounds,
Instead, my mind goes groping in the mud to bring stars
And still, the last day, endless and genderless,
Figures of light and dark…
It's snowing,
It’s returning to a town
Rattling, gasping its last.
Absurdly, my eyes can only see the arc
He never even dreams,
From point to point of meaning
—open? Closed?—
After all, when finally one comprehends…
Snow haze gleams like sand

Saturday, 29 September 2007

escape to europe

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at the belly fish disco 2

"the plane was bad enough. i mean, you know what these cheap airlines are like but then, excuse me if i shock you, this huge coon gets on the plane with this howling niggerr baby. i mean sheeit. all we wanted was a quiet flight without a jungle bunny and its fucking baby wailing like death.
the coon was a lazy fucker too. his missus asked him to carry some luggage, i mean all he had was a camera in his hand, and he grunted, the way they do, NO.
lazy black fucker.
i think they ought to bring back segregation."

The Holy Spirit of Erotism

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Brujería (Lilith)

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Station to Station

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Keep on turning

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candid death by faerie

dadaists farewell

Friday, 28 September 2007

edge of the nameless world

Black Skulls which rot
atrophies from the back section light fades in
edge of addict stasis
name prostitute emission radiation screen
bone thin curtain of the green one that covers the skinny immovable skeletal dust body
echo chamber and electricity
the living room
the broken basement
there is no window
dark velvet and fetish of the wine
the film seeks to capture your eyes dead
the nail of the prosthetic finger which is broken by the prostate gland
for your final synaptic landscape tremor

empty the self of rotten skulls
the light fades in from the back
the end of the nameless world
for the addict stasis
name prostitutes on the radiating screen
several covered in jewellery and moisture
a shade of green covering the skinny immobile skeletal body in dust
riffs with electricity
broken affairs on the basement
without windows
dark wine velvet and fetish
a film aimed at capturing your blindfolded death
in between
wars affiche

empty since Black Skulls disappeared
from the back End of the World
unknown stasis for drug addicts
prostitutes radiation screen
several covered jewelry and water
a shade of green coverage bone thin body of dust
the living room and the electricity
the broken basement
no windows
the dark velvet wine and fetishism
the film seeks to capture your eyes dead
the old war between the affiche

yo drain a similar one in light
of the descolora part posteriora
no names of the end of the world
one of the stasis of drug addicts
prostitutes are known to the radiation screen
several areas of the shop and humidity
green screen, including real thin bone of dust
the living room and the electricity
breaking disciplines in the cellar
no window
fetishism and dark velvet wine
the film, like its target catch your eyes dead
average old war affiche
prostate broken fingernail
courtain announced
your last synaptic landscape tremor

the descolora light inside of the posteriora part
the end of the world without name
for the stasis of the addict one

several places setting in jewelry shop
and humidity curtain of the green one that covers the skinny immovable skeletal dust body

riffs with electricity
subjects broken in the cellar
without the windows
dark velvet and fetish of the wine
a film had like objective capturing of you
average blindfolded death
of the wars
broken prosthetic fingernails
announce the courtain
for your final synaptic landscape tremor

first-rate prostitute of emission screen

the film directed the death which is blindfolded to capture

affiche of old intermediate war

ever since the black skull
drug usual person

overturned the jewels and the water

the dust is thin

as for the film to capture your eye completely, you endeavor
plural areas of store and humidity

illuminating together

bone substance

Thing God


RIFF of electricity

there is no window

velvet and fetish where the wine is dark

in the film like your objective capture

there was a death

the nail of the prosthetic finger which is broken

announcement curtain

for the trembling view

my name - meu nome


exp. imag -rui effe
text - valterhugo mae
v.n. famalicão portugal

Bullied at School

Preliminary Sketch for an Appleskull

Auto-Critical Milk Dream No. 2

Twin Sister here.

'The Being' as interpreted by the jin.

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Now in a flavorful version!

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Mistress Jin
"The Food Porn Goddess Extraordinaire"

it says:
That guy should have some cake before he falls to his demise.

a place without time. a time without place.

Thursday, 27 September 2007

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Within easy reach of City centre. Surrounded by amiable working class types. Convenience fast food an easy option or near-by- handy and cost comparative eateries and tourist attractive olde worlde public houses.

Multi-functional. Multi-levelled. Multi-faceted. Multi-layered and contemporaneously coloured. Inter reactive and artfully designed shower facilities and water closet.

Interchangeable under floor heating system that enables titular ambivalence within a socially interactive exchange. A fully operative hop scotch grid labelled uber tailored stairwell and elevated compost generator enables green issues to prevail.

An ideal purchase for the first time buyer or those seeking sordid sin in the big city

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twice. optimist and oak...

From: "john brusseau" <> To: Date: Tue, 25 Sep 2007 09:41:41 -0500 I was looking through all the poems you had posted on the 20th century site, and I had intended to give a interpretation, of sorts, of all of them. I still may go over some of them, but when I got to your Old Oak poem I sensed there might be an unusual opportunity there. It looks like the Old Oak is the story of how your family experience shaped your relationship with the intrinsic aspect of your life (meaning things like God, meaning, purpose, destiny, and identity, etc..) Your preoccupation with suicide is natural under the circumstances. No doubt depression is an old friend, without a healthy sense of your identity, your purpose, and your life’s meaning. This story, although not perhaps consciously written by you as an autobiography, is in fact an essential contextualizing of the most significant issues of your whole life. There is a degree of detail in here, which if I have even come close to defining it accurately, should surprise you greatly. Some of it may be news to you, like the stuff about your dad, but I suspect not. Anyway, I hope this is a help, not a hurt to you. You don’t have to do anything about this email. But if you would like to ask anything of me, or wish to state anything, or bring anything up, feel free to do so. God knows, I certainly felt free in offering this to you.

Old Oak

His forest now a park,
that forest = your heart which was once natural and limitless is now groomed and defined by civilization. So far, this is the way life goes for all humans. We grow up, and get with the societal rules. Instead of all of the pristine naturalness we know as a child, our heart becomes constrained, or even imprisoned by society’s rules, and values, until we come to look civilized.Old oak stands broad and tall.
The oak is an Idea (probably your God idea) which spans generations (which has been in your families belief system for generations), and is yet is viewed as having strength, and as being of high esteem (tall, and broad).

Now-a-days, this is what your interaction with your inherited belief system/God idea involves

Boy sprawling amongst twisted oak roots, Daydreaming and mind playing.Boy = an undeveloped sense of what you desire. Daydreaming= you not thinking clearly (This means, you don’t actually know what you really want in life. So you are daydreaming your way through your life instead of living out what you want. What you have always thought you wanted to do with your life is not what you’d truly like to do.)
Youth, haunch squatting, amidst twisted oak roots, Youth= a slightly more developed sense of what you desire (in other words, there is something you are relatively ore conscious of desiring, and it is to be ...) Squatting amidst twisted roots = you are not sitting, resting (which would indicated belief). Instead you are squatting (which indicates you are pondering). You are pondering the partially hidden, and perhaps evil (twisted) foundations (roots) of your inherited God idea. Absconding lessons, smoking stolen cigarettes. While you are busy pondering the twisted roots of your God idea, you are also busying yourself with avoiding learning truth. No doubt, the twisted roots of your god idea have made you fear finding out that there is no truth, so why bother learning it. Also, you smoke stolen cigarettes (which is a symbol of speaking in harsh, burning judgmental language, that is not how you truly feel, you stole these from others)
Young man loitering around twisted oak roots, A young man= a desire you are even more conscious of having, that of desiring to experience a lover in the context of the example of the evil roots that have founded your idea of God. (You find yourself drawing from this twisted example in your relationships with a lover) I think it’s interesting that it is a POTENTIAL lover. This is an objective term for an inherently subjective, personal, situation. Awaiting assignation with potential lover.
Father leaning, back to trunk, feet on twisted oak roots, The Father (probably your father) is viewed as leaning on the tree (that is, depending on his God idea for some kind of support) and all the while his feet (his walk, his actions) are walking out the twisted evil deeds that fucked up (twisted) your idea of God to begin with. Sorry, I got a bit carried away there. {I guess, if I am wrong about this, then I’m gonna be monumentally wrong, aint I}Watching his family at play. Your Dad stands by and watches you play at living life, knowing He is probably responsible, and not saying a word to you of what he did.
Old man standing, staring at twisted oak roots, I am not sure, but maybe this is your Grandad. I need to know if your Old Man is staring at the roots in fond reminiscence (in which case He too would have been involved in evil behavior), or in sad disappointment (in which case He may have been a past positive link with the original, untainted God idea in your heart)Flashing glimpses of times past, rolling through befuddled mind.
A fond tear falls from cheek, to feed twisted oak roots. dittoOld man wanders on, half smile hanging from sagging flesh.
Boy sprawling amongst twisted oak roots, Daydreaming and mind playing.
Old oak watches another generation flash past, His forest now a park. Restatement. The outcome of the twisted roots in your god idea is that the forest (your once natural heart) is now a civilized park (a showy place). In other words, Because you were made distant from God by means of some family evil on the part of your Father, you are now likewise distant from a sense of Gods’ destiny, purpose, and meaning for you. Thus you can’t discover, or believe in the true you, and you thus long for death. It is the death of that version of you produced by the twisted root that needs to die however. If it does, you will find your true self, and be alive for the first time in your whole life. By the way, don’t let shame over your own misdeeds keep you from getting this healing. We all have sinned.
This little poem is the true story of your life. Why do you think God gave you the stuff to write it? I think God is trying to undo the damage done to you in His name by your father. And He is doing this because He loves the real you. Give Him a chance to show you He isn’t as advertised. Make your own contact with Him, and work out the personal issues that are required for the two of you to become one again.

Your bud in Nashville, TN, John Brusseau.

P.s. I can't ask you to be my MySpace friend because your settings don't allow bands. You could maybe add me though, I'm not sure.

Tuesday, 25 September 2007

rust and decay


if only she knew the flat line of razor.
a defining moment that trip wires.
caustic as a slow nail driven bone flesh.
a dry fuck that tinder chars.
carpet burns on the heart and soul.

time before now she dreamt of angels.
taut wings spread like cathederal tiles.
hollow cheeks spun limpid pools.
eyes that sought blue flame novas.
dark white-grey ravenous.
a trick of a mockery of god.

now she takes nights via white lines
and blue stars that carve signs
on her knees and spine.