Devoted exclusively to the creative process. Here you will see photojournaling, poetry, prose, an occasional review--journaling or philosophical writing can be found on our other blogs. This is our attempt to use our imaginations. Enjoy!
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
a stiletto mystery
disarmed in red
as corset blues charm
the madhouse beckons
as i try to walk away
from your crimson stare
maybe i'll stay for one last kiss
maybe you'll make me
forget what i miss.
adventures of the past
as I look at you
lying next to me
seeking your shadow
that’s wrapped in my misery
of a haloed deviation
transpired to lose
maybe I’ll stay another day
maybe you’ll give me
feels great to be here :)
Monday, April 24, 2006
See beauty, do not search
Hold nature, do not chase
My notion every ocean only every
Our motion tied between a rock
No hard place
See paradise, love or vision
Our sense and beyond
Quadrants and odd shapes
Three bees and a bonnet
4 mules and a blacksmith
Nothing destroys that does not make
maybe....................hover like that above us because you need
distance from the earth
to see the bodies of your children, broken into
so far.............................................................far away from home.
Sunday, April 23, 2006
SCENE 8: RONALD AND BEVERLEY’S LOUNGE.
A HUGE PILE OF CIGARETTE ENDS FILL ASHTRAYS ON ARMS OF THREADBARE SOFA. RONALD AND BEVERLEY COUGH A LOT. AS INTERVIEW BEGINS THEY STUB OUT THEIR CIGARETTES.
I’m Ronald and this is my wife, Beverley. Our friends call us Ron and Bev. We saw the advert in our local paper and we knew we had to give it a go.
(Voice off camera) Have you ever done anything like this before?
No. The advert said no experience was necessary. Hang on,,, (HE RUMMAGES IN HIS POCKET AND BRINGS OUT CRUMPLED NEWSPAPER CUTTING. HE PUTS ON HIS GLASSES AND READS FROM IT.) …no experience necessary. (LOOKS BACK TO CAMERA)
Well, that’s us.
(LIGHTS FRESH CIGARETTE)
We’re pretty ordinary, aren’t we love? No airs and graces.
(NODS IN AGREEMENT) Airs and (COUGHS) …
What you see is what you get.
(NODS) What you… (COUGHS)… sorry.
The Nwangi Desert is a vast and inhospitable place. Crossing it will demand a high level of fitness and stamina. Do you think you have that?
Definitely. I do a lot of walking. (DRAGS ON CIGARETTE) And Bev used to walk a lot, too. Didn’t you love? Every year we went to the Lake District, without fail.
Without… (COUGHS) Without… (COUGHS AGAIN) …
The Lake District is lovely. Lots of hills. Have you ever been?
We stayed in a tiny cottage in Keswick. It rained a lot, mind.
You said Bev used to walk a lot.
Yes. Before she had to have the oxygen.
Tell us about that.
Bev was a heavy smoker, weren’t you love? Oh, sixty a day. More when we went up the club. Well, we don’t really know why, but she started having breathing problems. Didn’t you love?
(NODS) Breathing problems.
The doctors said it was…
VERY BAD ATTACK OF COUGHING THAT GOES ON FOR SOME TIME.
The doctor said it was emphy-something. Mind you, I’m not convinced. National Health. You know… Well. We couldn’t afford private. Anyway. She has to have a top up of oxygen every now and then.
For about ten minutes every hour.
So… she has to hook up to… what… a machine?
Just an oxygen bottle.
Won’t that be difficult? Crossing the desert?
Not really. The oxygen bottles come in a little trolley. It’s got wheels, you know. And the desert is pretty flat, isn’t it? We thought we might be able to adapt it. With little caterpillar tracks. Like a tank.
And you’re sure she’s up to it?
Oh yes. And she’s cut down on smoking. Haven’t you love? She’s down to twenty a day.
Unless we go up the club.
SCENE 9. EXTERIOR. DESERT. MORNING.
THE MEMBERS OF THE EXPEDITION ARE ASSEMBLED AROUND A TENT IN THE DESERT. RON IS FIDDLING WITH BEV’S TROLLEY. A PLASTIC TUBE GOES FROM THE TWO LARGE OXYGEN BOTTLES TO HER NOSE. EVERYONE ELSE IS PAYING ATTENTION TO CAPTAIN DICK TROY WHO IS SHOWING THEM HOW TO ASSEMBLE A TENT. HE HAS A MALLET IN ONE HAND AND A METAL TENT PEG IN THE OTHER. TERRY (WHOM WE HAVEN’T MET YET) IS FILMING THE SCENE SEPARATELY WITH HIS CAMCORDER.
There is no shelter for miles in every direction. Saddam’s crack troops are swarming around like wasps on a jam sandwich. This tent, the Titan 3 from Mountain Hardcore, could save your life. It sleeps three and has excellent ventilation and vestibules that have a support pole. The Titan 3 is worth its weight in gold. And the Titan 3 is very reasonably priced, too. Only $295 from all good camping shops. (PAUSE)
Now, obviously, I don’t have to tell you that you have to be extremely careful when you…
CDT SWINGS AT PEG WITH MALLET. HE MISSES AND HITS HIS HAND.
HE JUMPS UP AND DOWN WAVING HAND IN AIR IN EXTREME PAIN.
(Voice off) Cut!
Saturday, April 22, 2006
words by cocaine jesus
visit only if wearing suitable rubber attire Ritual Acts with Penquins
Friday, April 21, 2006
Thursday, April 20, 2006
Did you think I was going to write about souffle? Call it what you like.
He has little gooey chunks of them, all kinds of fruity flavours, tucked away in labelled jars at the back of his shoe cupboard. Why shoe cupboard you ask me? Read on.
You could hear her muffled cries in his stone cold ears.
You could hear his angry roar blazing through her fears.
Stroking every naked inch till every pore is ripe
To ravage with a burning spike he'd twist and twirl and swipe.
Tough black boots that never bend
Purple wounds that never mend
Grinding grey that pretty face
Grinning as he ripped that lace.
Grab her hair, don't make a sound
Watch her writhing, bruised and bound
Make the shoe come down again
Make her glad she found your den.
Harder now, he kicks and kicks
Every blow a bristling brick
Her insides now a mad mauled mess
Her skin merged with the pale pink dress.
She felt the blood flow, black and dead
Unborn infant lying in red.
A little funny ugly thing
She'd nurtured gladly
just for him.
No pain now
Just a hungry moan
A wild eyed tear stained
And still the kicks went on and on
She kissed his feet
And begged his scorn
And hugged his image in her mind
And worshipped gladly, wrecked and blind.
So love me as you always do
This one's stained,get a brand new shoe.
Had an awful feeling of bad vibes.
So, called your office on a hunch.
They said you wont be coming,
you were not feeling well.
Called your home,
the phone was off the hook.
Didn’t like the sound of it.
So decided to drop in and check.
You are shocked as you
see me at your door step
at 10.30 am, Monday morning.
I too am shocked looking at you.
You try to hide your
face as you welcome me inside.
Your place is in shambles.
Things strewn all over.
Stale cigarette smoke
and dank smell of sour
liquor greet me,
as I remove some of the
scattered things from the chair
and sit down.
Clutching your crumpled nightgown,
you ask if I would like coffee.
I say yes.
Give me 10 mins, to freshen
up, you say, here, read the newspaper.
You go freshen up, I say,
I will make coffee for both of us.
You are too tired to even thank me.
You vanish into
the bathroom, as I get into the kitchen.
I know, by the time you come out,
you would have somehow
concealed the black eye, the
imprint of brute fingers
on your swelling cheek.
You will fool me, like you will,
and all the others, as in past.
But tell me, can you pick the
shards of your heart? Can you
mend your fractured spirit ?
Can you balm your
branded by terror, psyche ?
You will never admit that you
are a victim of
violent physical abuse.
You will never ask for help, advice.
And, none, will be offered.
I wonder why, I wonder,
as I get the coffee ready,
why you are clinging on
to this bloody relationship.
After all, you are smart.
Beautiful . A rare Portia. You
could get any guy you want.
If only, if only,
you will let go of this one.
But you wont. You will hang on
to him. Damn you and the thread
that you wear around your neck,
that according to you,
sacredly and eternally binds you to him.
And his sadistic ways.
I wonder, if intelligent women
are really intelligent ? I doubt,
by seeing the kind of guys they land up with.
And also, refuse to part from.
May be, I value the intelligence of women
too much, with respect to their
choice of men. As Truman Capote once
wrote,… “Women are like flies. They
settle on sugar or shit.”
Maybe, sugar is short
in supply, nowadays.
But, I think, TC missed out
on the third category – salt blokes
that some women seem to relish
in rubbing their wounds against.
As I get the coffee into
the living room, you
are magically back, as the
vivacious woman I know.
All the marks are made up expertly.
May be from practice.
You are no longer the battered,
torn and aging woman whom I saw
at the door. The room is straightened out
with no signs of any disarray.
It even smells better, and seems cheerful,
with the freshener you have sprayed.
along your sham,
we bury yet another
of your life.
Once again, you have
managed to conceal all your hurt,
all your pain.
And putting on a brave show of
being the strong woman
We sip the coffee, making
mundane conversation, oblivious
to the tragedy. Suddenly,
your face becomes a
waterry blur, as I cant conceal
my care for you.
I wonder when you
will save yourself.
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
ESTABLISHING SHOT. WELL-PRESENTED SEMI IN LEAFY AVENUE. THERE IS A FOR SALE SIGN IN THE FRONT GARDEN. IT IS RAINING.
SCENE 5. INT. FRED AND JUNE’S LOUNGE.
FRED AND JUNE ARE SITTING ON SOFA TALKING TO CAMERA. THEY HAVE THEIR DOG, A YORKSHIRE TERRIER, WITH THEM. THE ROOM IS BARE. A FEW LARGE BOXES ARE PILED IN CORNER. FRED WEARS DARK GLASSES.
Hello. I’m er… Fred. This is my wife June.
Hello. And this is our dog, Liam. He’s a Yorkshire Terrier. We got him from Battersea Dog’s Home.
He’s very intelligent. (TO DOG IN SILLY VOICE) Aren’t you? Yes you are. Oh, you are. You know you are. Yes, yes, yes, yes….
(Off camera) What made you decide to take up this challenge? To cross the Nwangi Desert?
I deal in… er… second hand goods. And, well, to tell you truth, things have been a little slow lately. Haven’t they love?
Very quiet. Mind you, Liam keeps us on our toes. We named him after Liam Gallagher.
Anyway, we saw this advert on the internet.
TV programme seeks volunteers for desert adventure. And we thought, that sounds exciting. That sounds like fun. We’ve never been anywhere, you know, dangerous before.
We did go to the Isle of Wight, once.
That wasn’t dangerous, though, was it?
The ferry was.
It ran over a dingy.
So, we saw the ad on the internet…
And Fred’s friend fell in. And drowned.
So, we saw this ad…
He went right over the railings. Well, he wasn’t really a friend was he? More of a business associate I suppose. Nice chap. Liam took quite a shine to him. (TO LIAM) Didn’t you Liam. Yes you did. You did. Oh yes you did…
(TO JUNE) I don’t think the viewers will want to hear about that.
So. You were looking for adventure.
FX: THE DOORBELL RINGS TO TUNE OF THE SWEENY.
FRED GETS UP AND GOES ACROSS TO THE WINDOW AND PEERS FURTIVELY OUT.
Let’s start again. Cut.
FRED AND JUNE ARE SITTING ON SOFA AS AT THE BEGINNING
(Ooo camera) Fred and June. What made you decide to take up this challenge? To cross the Nwangi Desert?
I think we just needed a break. You know. To try something different.
Lie low for a bit.
What do you mean exactly – lie low?
(LAUGHS) Well… that’s not exactly how I would put it.
But you said…
June means we need to take some time out. Regroup. Have a bit of a breather. We’ve had one or two er… problems. We’ve expanded the business a lot and the er… bank want their investment back.
We’re just hoping for some peace and quiet, to be honest. The phone never stops ringing.
The desert is certainly a place for introspection. A place to find inner calm.
So… you’re not after adventure?
I’m a bit confused. Are you after adventure or peace and quiet?
Er… well… June is after adventure but I’m after peace and quiet. How’s that?
And we’ve family in Australia.
The Nwangi Desert’s in West Africa.
Sorry. Of course it is. Sorry. I’m very sorry. I was forgetting. We’re only pretending it’s in West Africa aren’t we… for the programme…Oh dear…
Don’t worry. We can edit that out.
Have you ever been to the desert?
Not as such. Although we have been to Camber Sands. Near Rye? They filmed Carry On – Follow That Camel there. Have you seen it?
I think we’ll end it there shall we?
Liam Gallagher’s in Oasis.
SCENE 6. EXT. DESERT.
CONTINUATION OF SCENE 3. CAPTAIN DICK TROY IS SITTING ON BURNT-OUT LANDROVER. HE JUMPS DOWN ON TO RUNNING BOARD AND SWINGS HIMSELF INTO THE DRIVING SEAT. IN DOING SO HE SNAGS HIS SHIRT AND CURSES QUIETLY. HE ADDRESSES CAMERA THROUGH GLASS-LESS WINDSCREEN.
This is the Nwangi Desert, West Africa. It has never been crossed by man. Or woman. It is so hostile that even I, with my years of experience crossing similar deserts, tracking enemy soldiers under enemy fire, could not cross the whole thing. Not in one go, anyway. In fact we are only going to walk across one small corner of it but in doing so we will still be the first to have made that giant leap. Only the South Pole is more hostile than here. But this is much hotter and… (HE JUMPS OUT OF CAR AND ON TO GROUND. HE TRICKLES SAND THROUGH HIS HAND.) … there is much more sand.
Monday, April 17, 2006
Sunday, April 16, 2006
Saturday, April 15, 2006
Friday, April 14, 2006
A WEDDING IN ENGLAND. THE COUPLE HAVE JUST COME OUT OF CHURCH. BELLS RINGING. CONFETTI IN AIR. CROWD NOISE. CAMERA SLOWLY PANS TO TERRY WHO IS RECORDING THE EVENT WITH VERY PROFESSIONAL-LOOKING DIGITAL MOVIE EQUIPMENT. HE GRINS AT CAMERA.
CLOSE UP OF ZEPH, THE BRIDEGROOM. HE IS DRESSED IN FORMAL WEDDING CLOTHES.
What a year you’ve just had.
I know. I was there.
Back at the top of the charts with your new CD – The Desert Symphony. And now a new wife.
Fantastic isn’t it?
So where are you going for your honeymoon?
I think you can guess.
CUT TO:SCENE 2. EXT. THE DESERT.
PANORAMIC VIEWS OF DESERT LANDSCAPE.
SOUNDTRACK PLAYS INDIGINEOUS AUSTRALIAN MUSIC. WITH DIDGERIDOO.
OPENING CREDITS: FOLLOWED BY – TITLE:
The Nwangi Desert, West Africa
SCENE 3. EXT. DESERT.
TITLE: One year ago
CAPTAIN DICK TROY IS SITTING ON THE TOP OF A BURNT-OUT LANDROVER IN BRIGHT SUNSHINE SURROUNDED BY DESERT.
It was 1987. A Land Rover unexpectedly and spontaneously burst into flames. It was this Land Rover. The one upon which I am perching. It was subsequently abandoned by its party of retired school teachers from Wadhurst and left here, a casualty of the extreme heat of the Nwangi Desert, one of the most inhospitable and merciless places on Earth.
My name is Captain Richard Troy and I am an expert in desert survival. Over the next eleven days I will be leading a group of ordinary, and in some cases very ordinary, people across this vast and featureless landscape.
My task, my very job, if you like, is to train these ordinary people. To build them into a team. To make real men, and in some cases real women, out of them. To take them on a journey. A journey on which they will grow. Not physically but mentally. Not on the outside. But on the inside.
You too are invited, from the comfort of your sofa, to join them and me on that journey. A journey that will take them, me and now you across this vast, uninhabited wasteland that the people who live here call The Sands of Hell.
To be continued...
Thursday, April 13, 2006
my porcelin doll
she plays a dangerous game
much is required
she plays a monster
she likes her power
she manipulates it
It disaggregates hurt
shes been here before
shes knows it well
he watches her enter
loser pays hell
she can't win this game
she has him to blame
things won't be the same
she can't win this game
damning the rules
she wagers her heart
the game doesn't care
it rips her apart
bruised and bleeding
she stumbles away
she knew the outcome
but she loves to play
my porcelin doll
sirens call her name
the wagers be damned
she will play again
she can't win this game
she has herself to blame
things won't be the same
she can't win this game
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
I find everything staged:
the words of comfort you plant,
the concern that I fake,
the platitudes that we toss,
twirl, throw into each other’s face.
How brittle is our truth
that we wrap it with pretexts
believing love holds good
only in certain contexts.
The other day
at Carter Road,
when the Sun was
a speck of orange in your eye
and the world
a soot covered portrait,
I felt I had a poem for you
but then, these days, I don’t write poems.
I look for words instead,
words that string into freshly minted idioms;
idioms that burrow into the silences
you puncture our conversations with.
In the quietness of the night
the simmering underbelly
of this ever-changing city
explodes into a shrill scream
unheard from the glistening
living rooms of Malabar Hill
draped with Bach's Symphony.
But I strain to hear your voice
In this mutinous noise…
© Dan Husain
March 25, 2006
Monday, April 10, 2006
dancing like a ballerina wrapped in electric hues with all movement trapped frame by frame frozen in cut and paste sticky back sequence she spins upon the mirrored steel spotlight clean and precise floor with time a mesmerised spectator unable to blink in the blinding gaze of her blazing super nova sunlight shimmering shifting sensual spin and thrust with ankle and wrist razor blade sharp and cutting imaginary semaphor lines across the stark bleached backdrop of vacant space as time and meaning collide with bone bruising brutallity and finite feather tendrils that spark and shine like sex chase down history across the benign canopy of vision that blurs with emotion and visual violence that confounds thought and confuses sight and confirms the knowledge that beauty moves with precise and limitless grace like angels weeping and sighing at the dazzling creation of a divine starbust dance
words by cocaine jesus
from Ritual Acts with Penquins
Thursday, April 06, 2006
and watch my footprints in the sand
and all my schemes as yet unplanned
as they float upon the breeze.
they talk of me in tones now hushed
with words that ramble and are rushed
like toilet paper to be flushed
as i crawl upon my knees.
those humble servants of commerce
who genuflect and promptly curse
i wonder who is really worse
the beggar or the thief?
the lines are so clearly writ
and in those lines i have to sit
my brain and soul can't benefit
from this lack of belief.
they tell me that the trouble is
i'm far too old for this young mans biz
i've gone to seed and lost my fiz
like bubbles in the sky.
any employer now worth his salt
will wash his hands of any fault
and tell me i'm just not his sort
and that's the reason why.
but i simply don't accept these truths
from the mouths of callow youths
whose infant eyes i'd like to bruise
with my fist firmly placed.
experience and ability still
are a worthy tool and priceless skill
and far from being over the hill
it's my industry that's disgraced.
from a retort to when I was made redundant
words by cocaine jesus
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
Monday, April 03, 2006
Sunday, April 02, 2006
- ► 2008 (15)
- ► 2007 (147)
- What a tangled web we weave
- A Rake
- Dear Liberty
- Heat and Dust (3D art)
- dear god
- Vanitas (3D art)
- The Savage Desert - Part Three
- Dystopia 6
- Dystopia 4
- Beat it to a perfect pulp
- Aren't enough good guys around these days?
- The Savage Desert - Part Two
- "how are you?" [shi]
- diary of an average gal!
- The Savage Desert - Part One
- dangerous game
- These Days...
- I got a girl named...Ramalamadingdong
- Saturday Night
- for whoever....
- Kettle Love
- Speak softly, my love
- the short road
- Murder at the beach house
- Gallery of Distinguished Gentlemen - Jason Voorhee...
- Elf queen
- House of 1,000 corpses - I
- ▼ April (33)
- Blue Athena
- EATING POETRY
- Innocent Bullet
- Little Onion
- Prmod Bafna
- Roger Stevens
- Russell Ragsdale
- Shubhodeep Pal
- Weirdo Getting Weirder!!
- david raphael israel