14.2.09
9.2.09
You asked for it.
In handwriting, as requested.
Although I did like your image of me "standing on a chair, with one leg up on the arm of it, shaking your fist, bellowing".
Perhaps I'll re-stage at a later date...
Although I did like your image of me "standing on a chair, with one leg up on the arm of it, shaking your fist, bellowing".
Perhaps I'll re-stage at a later date...
5.2.09
Flattery? Parody? Original?
Tyrone Place : Carlton : Melbourne : 01.02.09
Neo? Neo-Neo? Para-Neo? Anti-Neo?
the secret garden
Echinacea pallida
Francesco & I : Botanical Gardens : Melbourne : 01.09
Magnolia grandiflora
4.2.09
On loss.
Found object : Lacey Place : Melbourne CBD : 01.09
I miss you. I miss you so much sometimes that I can't even swallow.
You know who you are. Even 'though I know you will never see this.
2.2.09
St Jerome's Laneway Festival Suckers
Sucked in - no pity here.
This bizarre obsession with "festivals", especially of the pretentiously edge-y, "intimate" variety, set in repulsively garbage-strewn stench-ridden back alleys, has seen its apogee in this year's Laneway Travesty - as if that debacle in that crappy old Lonsdale St carpark wasn't embarassment enough for the organisers.
Seriously: almost every band that deigns to put in their 30-minute set at these painfully-overpriced bogan-laden queue-fests does a "side-show" i.e. a REAL show, in a REAL venue, at which one gets to see/hear/experience them in all their glory.
But for your 100 bucks, you got to stand well outside of a skanky, urine-soaked strip of slimy asphalt with an achingly-full bladder, in spite of your possession of a perfectly-valid [if somewhat sweaty] wristband, listening to the distant strangled sounds of your favourite band through a mediocre soundsystem [and apparently the sound of people literally pissing because they couldn't physically get to the non-existent toilets], with a myriad of other pissed-off [if not pissed-on] punters.
Think about it next time you're scanning an apparently-star-studded line-up and contemplating parting with a three-figure sum of your hard-earned cash.
This bizarre obsession with "festivals", especially of the pretentiously edge-y, "intimate" variety, set in repulsively garbage-strewn stench-ridden back alleys, has seen its apogee in this year's Laneway Travesty - as if that debacle in that crappy old Lonsdale St carpark wasn't embarassment enough for the organisers.
Seriously: almost every band that deigns to put in their 30-minute set at these painfully-overpriced bogan-laden queue-fests does a "side-show" i.e. a REAL show, in a REAL venue, at which one gets to see/hear/experience them in all their glory.
But for your 100 bucks, you got to stand well outside of a skanky, urine-soaked strip of slimy asphalt with an achingly-full bladder, in spite of your possession of a perfectly-valid [if somewhat sweaty] wristband, listening to the distant strangled sounds of your favourite band through a mediocre soundsystem [and apparently the sound of people literally pissing because they couldn't physically get to the non-existent toilets], with a myriad of other pissed-off [if not pissed-on] punters.
Think about it next time you're scanning an apparently-star-studded line-up and contemplating parting with a three-figure sum of your hard-earned cash.
poetastery in action
the jarred heart
glassed in from
the jagged without
in vitro non vivo
glass jarred and
formaldehyde hardened
the sino-atrial silence
is deafening
sui generis
class encased and
dusty shelved
and clearly labelled
"Display Only:
Not For Sale"
[A stuffed raven taxidermies onto a nearby runway without a second glance]
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