A kind of a "dangerous supplement", marked, scarred on a body, post-orgasmically, always, already in anticipation of (a) crisis OR for a desert avec 'agape'. Mindb(l)ogg(l)ing Noise. "Avalanche, would you share my last pursuit?" (Baudelaire)

Tuesday, February 24, 2009

Masque Mass


Καρναβαλίστικη Ποδηλατοπορεία το Σάββατο

Αυτό το Σάββατο, 28/2 Καρναβαλίστικη Ποδηλατοπορεία στη Λευκωσία.
Πλατεία Ελευθερίας, 6μ.μ.
Αμέσως μετά, πάρτυ δρόμου στη Φανερωμένη.
Ελάτε και φέρτε μπογιές, μουσική, ζογκλερικά!!
Δε Μπλοκάρουμε την Κίνηση, ΕΙΜΑΣΤΕ Η ΚΙΝΗΣΗ!
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[Image from LondonTweed Run 2009 ]

Monday, February 23, 2009

Alma Matters

No exquisite diatribe in the socio-geographic background of this blog is needed to unravel the early gardens we have been manured in. We are most of us from The English School. The question therefore of caring about the recent climax of post-retirement histrionics by a group of home-makers and la politiques of recuperating late-comers with pre-owned SLK's, especially as its tele-echo is smouldering the sandstone walls and the brown fibreglass chairs of our past, is already affirmed. Not least due to that past being partly the future of our memory, what has us on the streets and pavements and keyboards amassing the flour of the earth, collecting yeast. Because nothing rises by itself, not even that acquired symbol of misplaced prime-time Hellenism, without kneading. Not for laurels and burned to the bone heroes we are here. And after all nothing goes better with butter than freshly made bread. That was at least one of the reason we are from a school, a school that mostly would not have us either (when one speaks of gardens it might be that one speaks literally of gardens). And even when its smoke was blown in our eyes - smoke as we of 15,16,17,18 would see it - it was not our dear mom (bless her), nor our forceful grandfather who would, over tea and biscuits, stand in our place. But us as such. Egoistic, proud, hairy and pimpled. No ideological back-packs, no assumed moralities, no paroxysmal wet dreams. In an unashamed paternalistic tone then, the following goes out as much to leavers already left as to leavers of tomorrow: May we petition you, Sahun illustrious, then, to put his prentis' pride in your aproper's purse and to unravel in you own sweet way with words of style to your very and most obsequient, we suggested, with yet an esiop's foible, as to how?*

*James Joyce, FW 422: 19-22

John Cage - Mureau

Friday, February 20, 2009

Tuesday, February 10, 2009

Thursday, February 05, 2009

G
loss
:
I
see a car
rot
on the r
oof. The smoke caress
ing drying uten
sils. Formless
ink. A horizontal hog. Shadows of voltage.
Laments of joints.
Marked intensities on roughly applied ceramic exteriors.
Broad
casting
palms. Pips
on wood.
The super
fluity of my right
thumb and index.

Negative Capabilities

Wednesday, February 04, 2009


HRH Prince Africa Zulu
Catch up with Africa's Brighton visit here.

Tuesday, February 03, 2009

Oi! Bank On This!

The People vs. The Banksters. Mass snowball fight. 1pm Tuesday 3rd Feb outside the Royal Bank of Scotland on Bishopsgate. Pass it on.

The People vs. the Banksters. Mass snowball fight. 1pm Tuesday 3rd Feb outside the Royal Bank of Scotland on Bishopsgate. Pass it on.

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The People vs. The Banksters. Mass snowball fight. 1pm Tuesday 3rd Feb outside the Royal Bank of Scotland on Bishopsgate. Pass it on.

Sunday, February 01, 2009

Pommeau jai Souppes na'shis























To more exciting trips to come!
Xronia Polla Elena

105

Provoking Exposure 2.0

In the absence of grounding talk, the one of Saturday nights of old and beer, the key is shared and thus immediately taken out of public circulation. To attempt to decipher the following equals the strive for an answer to the validity of male monks in cities. An amasser of continuations and a gathering of diversities; one's past, namely mine, appears to none other than me, at least, the other's present. The railway of a larynx and the sterile generalisation of hares too. Hat's off to that stamina is due. The wine steadily on the white side to defy the mustard and hinder the provoked by ignorance mutilation. A custarded whisk. Even though I had finally become nothing but a mildly furred paternality, in between two hands, some butternut and jutted shelves, we had a dear good time, without song or dance, even.

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