tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-59047712011-12-27T09:28:21.513-08:00CITTA VIOLENTAocnoreply@blogger.comBlogger541100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904771.post-43218386940311147252011-12-01T03:47:00.000-08:002011-12-02T05:24:19.900-08:00Sometime in 1969, after a semi-successful period of script hackery and genre heroism, Lucio Fulci began to film a serious period drama. At this moment, his movies and his prospects were slowly improving; Italian cinema was at its commercial peak and Fulci's budgets were growing in line with his audience. His personal life, however, was falling apart, as it would do over and over again until his ocnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904771.post-88951906250349904312010-11-10T06:13:00.000-08:002010-11-10T06:35:34.573-08:00Antonio Margheriti was clearly trying something new here: a brutal and overblown Gothic Western that would be, in his own words, “more Sicilian than American.” He already had form with the Gothic, having produced a brilliant Italian horror in the early tradition of Riccardo Freda and Mario Bava (Castle of Blood); Westerns, less so: Vengeance, his first go, was a dull sketch, quickly forgotten. ocnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904771.post-2607907680596386552010-05-04T06:59:00.000-07:002010-05-05T11:59:15.116-07:00Between mass murder at Benedict Canyon and Oscars all round for Chinatown, two Polanski films pointed towards exorcism and catharsis. First, a Macbeth plied with Playboy cash and psychic violence, treated (correctly) as a visceral, wounded, animal response to the ritual annihilation of his wife and unborn child at the expense of Shakespearean text. A gruelling December in North Wales bore a fine ocnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904771.post-24663269696465884702009-11-04T13:30:00.000-08:002010-01-22T14:43:02.703-08:00Hark, The Village Wait!"If she sees you again she will probably stab your eyes out. I can't believe you ran out on her like that. That took some nerve! Of course, I always knew you were slime." This was Jackie, before she disappeared, quick and mysterious. Not, this time, talking about herself in the third person. "And you're in mourning for this thing you fucking invented. You miss this, you ocnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904771.post-35072552217680148922009-08-24T14:01:00.000-07:002009-08-24T14:02:56.896-07:00ocnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904771.post-85184535337280561672009-08-15T05:29:00.001-07:002010-03-18T14:18:54.567-07:00Traces of the Western Slopes. Events converge, are indistinct: tragedy’s routine, and hope routed. Even in small towns, banks bursting with nature raw, this catastrophe continues. It seeps into cracks and saturates. It is atmospheric. It conditions. It gives pace to the corrosion of innocence. What can be said to be certain still: Karachi, faith, murder. You can hear them scratching floorboards ocnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904771.post-43966602165577447442009-07-29T16:34:00.000-07:002009-08-17T09:18:53.995-07:00Faster, Higher, Longer, StrongerThis made me wince : "Meanwhile an incident in which a mugger took his wallet and outran him showed that the 38-year-old does not have the speed he once possessed." Oooh. Ow. Ouch. But that's it. Ben Johnson squandered every chance at redemption; he also shred every spec of dignity with systematic alacrity. This was almost stylish. For instance, that exhibition ocnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904771.post-70322842410767666572009-02-26T03:26:00.000-08:002009-12-27T03:33:20.605-08:00ocnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904771.post-22886535357579957672009-02-21T08:49:00.000-08:002009-07-01T15:43:07.128-07:00Watched Death Laid an Egg and Death Smiled at Murder. I definitely enjoyed looking at Death Laid an Egg. I mean, this would've been a dour-paced and rather hollow thriller had Giulio Questi not spliced the screen with attractive, garish Pop Art strokes, or made the central conceit a silly absurdist stunt (an unethical proto-battery hen farm) that provides many attractive photo ops and ocnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904771.post-44973199969507727332009-01-26T09:08:00.001-08:002011-12-27T09:28:21.520-08:00A simultaneously stark and indulgent thriller that has US intelligence agents staking out Nazi exiles in Brazil, uranium ore hidden in wine bottles, and one tragic man's tyrannical mother (enough material for two or three more films than this!) but is, in the end, about none of these things. It's a strained, and strange, portrait of love. Or, you could say, love struck by silence, spite, its ocnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904771.post-65755056174764733072009-01-22T14:35:00.000-08:002009-07-01T16:04:07.630-07:00I shall never be bored or sad ever again.Jacques Henri LartigueEach day marked by onetense sun; a score to tabulate days:collect games, a pond, air balloons, bedrooms.(Belle Epoque wealth eludes war; thus "magical games"; hence ourright to "play truant.")Luxury is almost real.Renee Perle,Biarritz, '28.Wrists wrapped in bangles;legs, stockings; bodytanned, in fur,- J.H.L: "my shadowless ocnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904771.post-80885441569722470422008-12-31T08:29:00.001-08:002009-03-09T12:15:50.013-07:00László de Lombos, from Budapest via Paris, 1912. László had not only painted the Austrian foreign secretary, Count Berchtold, regarded by many as responsible for the war; he had also been ennobled by Emperor Franz Josef in 1912. After warnings, he was arrested in the summer of 1917 and accused of making contact with the enemy by sending letters to his mother and brother. He was locked up in ocnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904771.post-31172283620485200822008-12-20T12:07:00.001-08:002009-01-23T12:26:25.522-08:00'Inviting a friend to Supper', Ben Jonson.Tonight, grave sir, both my poor house and I Do equally desire your company; Not that we think us worthy such a guest, But that your worth will dignify our feast With those that come; whose grace may make that seem Something, which else could hope for no esteem. It is the fair ocnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904771.post-55412622222969698872008-05-08T14:38:00.000-07:002009-07-01T16:23:40.956-07:00EXCURSIONS, 2003-2005Lunch hour.Pigeons fly in parallel formation down Old Compton Street, like Messerschmitts on a bombing raid. Just miss me as I stop at Patisserie Valerie's window display to admire cakes topped with fine white chocolate flakes and waves and swirls of cream and glazed fruit. Scan global headlines along the paper racks outside Capital News then wade in through piles of thick ocnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904771.post-41822362217974841822008-04-03T11:14:00.000-07:002009-03-09T16:16:53.408-07:00SCAVENGER HUNTYou turn off the light and climb into bed to the sound of helicopters circling council estates and foxes rutting in alleys and yards. Then you smell the gas, because you didn’t turn it off after dinner. You didn't do this, did you? Orange halogen saturates all the rooms. Carbon monoxide can kill quickly without warning. Blood is getting gel-like. You swear you feel this and it's ocnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904771.post-2482127585504796312008-03-01T17:51:00.000-08:002009-06-26T10:51:42.497-07:00PRESCRIPTIONSWield Pucci-esque shades of aquamarine with authority and yet some wonder! Try tan bronze eye shadow and beige lipstick, and they still ask! Lean, luxe, beaded dresses with scattered gemstones, feathers, fringes. How to reply? With crocheted boleros: eye-popping, maximum, maximum, deep-purple, chartreuse, turquoise. DO NOT WEAR equally bright pieces. DO NOT WEAR dove-grey rabbit ocnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904771.post-36398692185923846072007-11-08T12:20:00.000-08:002007-11-26T12:30:32.657-08:00The creation of a sort of Eden is not impossible if there is but a will.Piet MondrianPunching the numbers in, to open the front door, to go home. This open box in a warehouse renovation project, security-protected and certified, an unambiguous enclosure to contain and protect me. It expresses certain impulses and ideals; it can create or sustain a way of being. There is, in here, a perfect ocnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904771.post-1167577432874738382006-12-31T06:10:00.000-08:002009-05-14T19:28:25.224-07:00Stirrings Still (Originally posted Feb' 2004. I would now be nicer to Zukofsky and Olson.)pragmatics is a politics of languageIf genre is shattered, collapsed, erased, I wouldn't necessarily call that theory. It's not a stylistic decision any more. Look: you know it, poetry no longer works. That doesn't mean there is no poetry. It means that traditional poetic form has no use because, now, it ocnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904771.post-1157145942200135172006-09-01T14:24:00.000-07:002006-09-23T09:59:20.916-07:00FOR THE DELUGEBloomberg TV dispenses figures, charts, graphs, without pause, from the moment I arrive, and all night (a 24-hour data passion): I know this in advance, I know this from experience. But I won't stick around, I know that too. A hotel room two minutes from Zurich airport. Blood pressure: 186/95, and rising. Flight paths not quite drowned out by automatic shower, TV glare, lamp buzz, ocnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904771.post-1138493491395136642006-01-28T16:11:00.000-08:002008-12-20T12:16:51.203-08:00Louis Zukofsky, 55 Poems, 193511Stubbing the cloud-fields - the searchlight, highIn the roseate twilight of rain-sky, green! green springIn the heavens mild in the spring; or down suddenlyEarthwards, plunge deep suddenly earthwards,Like escape, stampede of cattle horns, ghastly, ghastlyTheir giant heads invisible for joy, grief, cavalcade, plunge earthwards,And into our hearts, O sacrifice,But weocnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904771.post-1137749702955115302006-01-20T01:34:00.000-08:002008-12-20T12:20:20.904-08:00ocnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904771.post-1137192032155593092006-01-13T14:38:00.000-08:002008-12-20T12:16:33.580-08:00Rihako, via Ezra Pound, Cathay, 1915Exile's LetterTo So-Kin of Rakuyo, ancient friend, Chancellor of Gen.Now I remember that you built me a special tavernBy the south side of the bridge at Ten-Shin.With yellow gold and white jewels, we paid for songs and laughterAnd we were drunk for month on month, forgetting the kings and princes.Intelligent men came drifting in from the sea and from the west ocnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904771.post-1136576095553343262006-01-06T11:34:00.000-08:002009-12-27T03:34:58.666-08:00PRESSocnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904771.post-1136119523974118852006-01-01T04:43:00.000-08:002009-07-27T12:23:41.255-07:00Scarlett Johansson is holiday-ready in a Stella McCartney dress, $1,585. At Marshall Field’s and Neiman Marcus. Tiffany & Company Majestic Diamond Necklace, $1.3 million, and Diamond Regal Drop Pendant, $2.5 million, each set in platinum. At Tiffany & Company. Beauty note: to attain this look, try M.A.C. lipstick in Viva Glam III and nail polish in Rocker.Happy New Year.ocnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904771.post-1122496958449851432005-07-27T13:42:00.000-07:002008-12-20T13:25:52.457-08:00On the arid sands of Fire Island, California, two young lads, conscientious Peter and gormless Dan, approach a curvey brunette. The girl, Sandy, has looped a piece of string around the left leg of a maimed seagull and tied it to a stick in the sand. She pokes and jibes the gull with another stick, giggling as it sqwacks and rasps in distress. The boys are initially outraged by this ghastly sceneocnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904771.post-1120936367434226242005-07-09T12:11:00.000-07:002010-01-22T16:52:51.402-08:00a.by then I could rub against your skin still - bare shoulders,neck, stomach, thighs - or take hair between teeth, lie still,take some message from gesture, touch, repose, whichever came first orseemed, still, like an attempt at contact, a response. Thatwas (once) the least of our demands: the low threshold, "mere"sense [...]but something hit us, with sudden violence: a violation, either vitalismocnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904771.post-1111963729939067972005-03-27T14:47:00.000-08:002009-01-26T07:59:58.092-08:00The heterogenous is ... resolutely placed outside the reach of scientific knowledge, which by defintion is only applicable to homogenous elements. Above all, heterology is opposed to any homogenous representation of the world, in other words, to any philosophical system. The goal of such representations is always the deprivation of our universe's sources of excitation and the development of a ocnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904771.post-1110672364226662412005-03-12T16:00:00.000-08:002008-04-04T14:13:04.457-07:00Homage to a Pirelli Calendar (1974)Kindling expired with a crackle on the sand. You discarded your sandalsand cut a toe. The blood was the same colour as your lips and nailvarnish. Which was a bit ridiculous! Catfish spine; crabs legs; murmaid's purse. Sifting fine shells andother oceanic matter through fingers: a lot of life to toss away and toywith. I wanted to say something to unknot the ocnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904771.post-1107444208901091312005-02-03T07:21:00.000-08:002009-07-27T12:08:52.980-07:0020.08.04Battered by Typhoon Megi: down the hatch with candles and food in tins and comics and china cups. Which idiot…don't s let's just cower in quarter ruin confuse ourselves for the love of love and money don’t say it don’t say it there, you said it. Pour Martinis ignore signs light Camel Lights…no more. No. Shut up about it. Ssh, now. Shh. This intimacy can take us over. You can take over. ocnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904771.post-1104517171388830742004-12-31T10:18:00.000-08:002011-12-27T09:26:46.706-08:002004: The Art of NavigationIs this some kind of stupid experiment or what? There's the rapture of arrival: a reconfiguration of senses, co-ordinates, and horizons. It's all contained on a 0.85-inch, 2-gigabyte hardrive. The (re)quest for simplicity, and something more discrete: erasure of function and relations. Things, even processes, are ultra-tactile, so hardly register. The stars are milky, ocnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904771.post-1102354100014005222004-12-06T09:28:00.000-08:002005-04-05T11:11:24.796-07:00When the Red Brigades kidnapped Italian President Aldo Moro in 1978, they didn't expect Moro's Christian Democrats and the Communist Party and the Vatican to refuse any form of dialogue with them. Neither did Moro. The State and Church response - "kill him if you want: we will not negotiate terms" - came as a nasty shock to captors and captured alike. (You can read the story here.) It was the Redocnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904771.post-1099609540564334782004-11-04T15:05:00.000-08:002007-09-04T13:00:22.997-07:00...vast and empty erotic zones to gaze over                                             Potente readily lambasts rumoursconcerning movement. High precision quartz            &ocnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904771.post-1099336609420703122004-11-01T11:16:00.000-08:002009-03-09T12:26:18.238-07:00Coastal Excursion.Alone as sea mist descends in patches, then opens with a breeze, until sunlight turns hard again, hard and bright on the water. Walk across course shingle and shell fragments; a thick crust of mussels, limpets, periwinkles, whelks, cockles, scallops, oysters and razors. Scattered piles, rich in texture and colour, like a coastal souk. Scarred soles smell of seaweed and scabs andocnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904771.post-1098384153279153582004-10-21T11:42:00.000-07:002006-02-28T02:47:16.293-08:00Exact directions to the location of Paradise are not available.onto the DLR at Bow Church for a short ride over roads and tunnels and waterways to the interior of Canary Wharf. Conditioned air and a tinny tannoy spitting Top 10 hits temper normal physical settings: blood temprature cools, the pulse slows, reflexes reverse. Nerve endings wilt like weeds. Workers stream through tunnels. Reflectionsocnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904771.post-1088375105073182032004-06-27T15:24:00.000-07:002009-01-23T12:31:27.977-08:001PaulaPaula Gellibrand was like a Modigliani come to life. Rooms framed her. She dressed to the strict diktat of avant garde decorator Baroness d'Erlanger: for example, very plain nurses coifs or her nun's habit wedding dress; otherwise, a hat trimmed with wisteria for the Ritz, or a coat of honey beige summer ermine to match the pigskin upholstery inside her Bentley. She married the ocnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904771.post-1082854464756109222004-04-24T17:54:00.000-07:002004-11-18T10:02:48.643-08:00
HH0TTTTEEST G!RLLS EVER
It's suddenly spring and everybody wants to tear off ties and bicker and kiss in wine bars.
There's sweat, hot breath, perfume, tension. Lonely black walls with tags and torsos ripped down. Somewhere in this city, surely, there's got to be
Oh No! The sun is too hot so let's wait for the breeze tonight or until we get sand between toes, tanned legs, salty hair. We're ocnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904771.post-1081676897043992862004-04-11T02:44:00.000-07:002004-05-13T08:55:39.040-07:00
To have a rendezvous with infinity will be the ultimate in human achievement.
Norman Cousins
Picking orange daffodils in minefields.
On an old Soviet ME-8 helicopter flying deep into Laos.
Out to a Red Sea resort on the Sinai Peninsula.
Waiting to book a room in the Ryugyong Hotel.
Exquisite ice flowers and blue lips in Greenland.
On a Silversea verandah, sailing down the Amazon.
ocnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904771.post-1080932200621071072004-04-02T10:56:00.000-08:002008-12-20T12:37:06.786-08:00More product: the kid stays in the pictureocnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904771.post-10793546558890242004-03-15T04:44:00.000-08:002008-12-20T13:22:05.610-08:00Back from long lunch near the Cutty Sark, through Mudchute and Heron Quays. Beneath white towers in a tin arcade. The yen has gone wrong and the tigers spit and curl. Blue dragonflies breed in a tropical foyer. There is glass everywhere. Aluminum and travertine. We are encased. From here to there and there. It's as beautiful here as there. The FTSE fell again. There was regime change and the end ocnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904771.post-1077581176592482612004-02-23T16:02:00.000-08:002004-02-24T04:54:10.530-08:00
1. You're being coaxed or pushed into a fight.
2. You can't help feeling like a fight because you're sick to death of
3.
To otherwise be happy in the field recording statistics, events, and
the same tales of his exploits in different versions because the original stories were fundamentally untrue
The most concerted air campaign since World War II delivered by B-52s and Stealth Bombersocnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904771.post-1076761255453452252004-02-14T04:20:00.000-08:002009-06-25T07:05:45.831-07:00Valentine's Day MessageI was always subtle about this: there was posture or the way her legs looked in nylon, skirt and heels, when crossed. The eyes, their colour, what they convey - humour, mischief, mystique, occasional genius, joy, loss, or sorrow. Even spite - now that was something - just NOT blank, bored, or self-serving. Charisma contained like a secret revealed in body language and ocnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904771.post-1075339628577359082004-01-28T17:25:00.000-08:002004-02-27T07:17:11.450-08:00
All My Soho Loves
Office girls in white shirts and black skirts and patent leather heels standing in doorways taking cig breaks. Bar Italia spivs, corrupt club football on a large screen, postcards from Amalfi on the wall. Camisa & Son for Parma ham, olives, and cheese. Nino's Salon and its glass door pin-ups and Audrey Hepburn cut-out (4ft high). Angelucci's coffee beans. A fat plate of ocnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904771.post-1074445537001784942004-01-18T09:05:00.000-08:002008-12-21T04:57:55.032-08:00It is entirely romantic (small 'r') but not a romance. The ease of it does not even defy explication; there's nothing - absolutely nothing - to explain. It's lovely the way every convention is set up to get these two unlikelies into a (ridiculous) clinch that would destroy the dynamic. For example, the ending moves like pure Hollywood Romance (like the end of Crocodile Dundee, the 'grab love ocnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904771.post-1072878986554690982003-12-31T05:56:00.000-08:002011-12-27T09:22:21.145-08:002003: Sadism Over Butterfly CollageMy shadow follows me wherever I should chance to goAll these words of dissent, assertion, and denial. Argument covers movement as if to displace fear, or suspicion. The unknown tackled with untried technique: bunker bust mountains, cluster bomb villages, assemble an intelligence database from scratch. A power complex that specialises in covert surveillance, ocnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904771.post-1071936068008023882003-12-20T07:54:00.000-08:002008-12-20T12:28:51.617-08:00Crisis Management, Cold War-style.2. Ronnie Talk To RussiaThe world situation is now slipping towards a very dangerous precipice. Problem number one for the world is to avoid nuclear war. Andrei Gromyko (Soviet foreign minister), 8 September 1983. In 1981, Reagan defeated Carter's demoralised Democrat administration with an election campaign based on two fundamentals: neoliberal economic reformocnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904771.post-1069856904307104502003-11-26T06:27:00.000-08:002008-12-20T12:22:17.095-08:00My debts are great: my worst crime has always been indifference. There's no clear opening here, and no starting point. But now! I chimed through, fell through ice. Gulls laughed. They laughed! Polar Bear stuck his paw in and dragged me out. Big black dots on a white dome invisible against the sky - kind baker's eyes and snubby nose. Left alone on pack ice, meanwhile, I digest a blizzard. There ocnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904771.post-1069320714468143462003-11-20T01:29:00.000-08:002009-07-27T12:06:05.062-07:00The Salon Christiana has mock-Baroque rooms and dress-maker mannequins erect and red as fake blood pulsing from model veins. Dotted like vast pins, blood-tipped. And the bright lips: scarlet slashed across white skin. Manicured hands pull up nylon tights, deliciously, unlatch or link suspenders, to high Italian courture, circa 1964. Christina Cuomo (Eva Bartok) retains tight catwalk discipline ocnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904771.post-1068803030698444042003-11-14T01:37:00.000-08:002009-07-27T12:02:41.710-07:00Crisis Management, Cold War-style.Mr. Secretary, I hope you don't have any friends or relations in Albania, because we're just going to have to wipe it out.1. Command and Control, Kennedy and the Cuban Missile CrisisGive me the order to do it and I can break up Russia's five A-bomb nests in a week...And when I went up to Christ I think I could explain to Him that I had saved civilization.Major ocnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904771.post-1068671713264056502003-11-12T13:13:00.000-08:002011-12-27T09:19:36.116-08:00Renee Perle at Biarritz, 1930 Jacques Henri Lartigueocnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904771.post-1068037328398890482003-11-05T04:55:00.000-08:002011-12-27T09:17:50.354-08:00Body WarThe Gucci End: Louis Vuitton venom in the veins. Bodywear, Coco kit; great loose coat tied at the waist like Garbo or Bacall, over scoop-necked cocktail dress. Transparent organza top, super-fluid cuts, electric colours, snake-print leather skirt, python bustier and tick tock chopard. Maximum house style: fine vintage or Dynasty redux. Soft La Perla lining under Versace exoskeleton: slim,ocnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904771.post-1067973627097104572003-11-04T11:20:00.000-08:002005-09-23T09:31:36.816-07:00ocnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904771.post-1066943912216648572003-10-23T14:16:00.000-07:002011-12-27T03:24:54.485-08:00As above so below but more soThere's far more than red wine and naughty salt and pornographic print-outs spilt over the floor. Kylie is a wax candle, tactile curves and bumps; Christina's a spent wick: a flat fizz, a dodgy rocket. Tara and Tamara tear ligaments on the dancefloor, my loves, with dense, dead glee, burn bank notes and inhale. There's Holly Valance in her gorgeous, golden skin ocnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904771.post-1066404073264394132003-10-17T08:16:00.000-07:002003-11-05T08:33:58.906-08:00Insane logic located over local dissent. Mischievous, engaging, quietly subversive, relished and subtley feeding the absurdity of this position in line with you and I.
After enjoying Michael Barrymore's comeback performance at Wyndham's theatre a while back, I drank peach schnapps with JG Ballard, and this is what he said to me:
The M1 was our route 66, the gateway to the British West. When ocnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904771.post-1065649064950446442003-10-08T14:37:00.000-07:002011-12-27T03:10:05.863-08:00The White MothAthens on the wall and the fall in Rome on the routes straight through Byzantium and crumbling cakes in Papal States.But good faces evoke good artists - and conversely a decline of portraiture usually means a decline of the face, a theory which can now be illustrated by photographs in the daily papers.Or, the force of something abject like worship.The portal to the soul or the ocnoreply@blogger.com