cuckoocannonball asked: is it legit if i give your film a gentle little plug? i feel i owe the film a bit of free publicity.
Anonymous asked: CHAUD!
There is a man sprawled in front of me with a dent in his skull. Sirens wail nearby but I’m motionless. I can feel his blood. First it courses into my arteries. Then it comes through my pores. It doesn’t gush forth in currents. Instead, it trickles cleanly in red cursive across my knuckles: “albatross”, it writes. It scribbles up my arms and down my abdomen, spelling words I’ve never used. ...
Personal Reading This Semester
The books I’ve completed this semester/winter break, ranked in order by personal preference. I’ll update it as I go along… Moby-Dick or, The Whale by Herman Melville (1851) Tropic of Cancer by Henry Miller (1934) Naked Lunch by William S. Burroughs (1959) Tropic of Capricorn by Henry Miller (1938) The Love of the Last Tycoon by F. Scott Fitzgerald (1941) Underworld by Don DeLillo...
It happened when my skeleton was a stencil for injections, when my words came out in virile spurts, serving the typography I built from boyhood. That was the form I took when two prowlers flagged me in the nucleus of an alleyway. I was limp-minded when they faced me. They moved serpentine, sliding between parked cars; they had holes for hands, but still I couldn’t stop them. I couldn’t stop them...
Good, Free Drone Music →
Check it out. Free download link!
1. Sofia As a teenager, she lost her vodka-varnished name in his home. Her nail polish gushed from fissures in his flesh when he first fucked the serotonin out of her. She fantasized with him inside an inky boarding house, eclipsed by grey wind and silent commotion. Then he broke free into inner city fervour, sped past splintered institutions, surveyed cracked-out crowds and left her to soften in...
Just a reminder to anybody who hasn’t seen it: The Coldest Months, a film that I wrote, co-directed and acted in, is available to watch in its entirety for free. Please share your thoughts and spread the link!
When you first see him he surveys you through eyelids made of ennui and slops words through holes chewed into cuticles. He has poetic license (so say the chemicals bubbling between chafed lips). He drools apocalyptic between cautionary tirades, clutching at strands of consciousness that sprout haywire from his scalp. He tugs them free; they drift to your feet in bleeding clumps. He sucks down the...