are you dead or are you sleeping, i sure hope you are dead

he sat drinking at the corner table
how long has he sat there
have his seven wives all left him
has his car run out of petrol

they may have killed that mad dictator
i would have taken all their passports
she hid that sorrow blindly
but her scars were made of paper

he was marching round the building
he was marching to an order
that the scars were made of paper
frozen bars held up the windows

but i drank that message with a bottle
threw my hands up in defiance
so many problems with the family
as they shot them from the towers

she was fucking that guess over
like she knew the spies were friendly
but he always kept a record
of the freezer burns he gave her

they just kicked his head in with their trainers
though his wicked eyes were silent
people waiting at the cross roads
would not make a space to keep him

dear lord look after my nightmare
make my demons sleep over easy
and if they challenge all her actions
may she cover them with blindness

can i stay over tonight
can i make my way in silence
can you give me one more bottle
as my car's run out of petrol?

a very merry birthday present

and a very merry birthday

sweeping willow trees across the screen, the sleep is somewhere out 
there in the reflection.  draggin my feet like some petulant child 
and all the while the smiles and the betrayal battle on - never far -
 never listless - grounded in unsupervised authoritarian triangles i
 cannot begin to fathom, the brotherhood in this building. we trade hugs
 for bags, fifty buck notes, short changing the dealers, then willing 
them back. i have certainly done my penance. 
lying awake whilst the peacock struts and mates and fans his tail 
above my head, its 4am and the birds are a mother fucker.
this bastard took the back stairs to my place. my simple little space,
 where writing is attempted under heavy; sedation, cigarette burns fight
 for survival amongst the bed sheets, the dressing gown
 down on the floor. there might have been blood in the sink. 
the flat smells like sour milk, the windows are open to thieves 
and back tracking my steps is more of a muddle than 
the independent's crossword puzzle. lame is as lame does.
 zean beat me down. told me that infinite truth, sent him packing, 
buddhist beads at hand, anxiety for lack of scripts of all forms, 
the weekend looms and no doctor feel betters in sight. 
a sentence, a 15 year old sentence is the fight. 
people are embarrassed broer he told  me. 
for lack of accurate description i raitonalise laugh, drink, bang 
my way out of that room in his head. all eyes are upon us now. 
the gods, deserted - - a Sisyphean failure - to borrow a phrase, 
if emotion must skulk in the background. and still a hundred hours
to fill, another glass my friends, salute - a joint arrangement, 
bereft of escape, the long war, the fed up, the confused, the angry,
 the big stinking loss of a botched fall.
 i looked down from the top of the building 
and spit on it all.

THE WILD DUCK

Remember the night the city burned down. We were trapped in back streets charred, under the influence, faking smiles, the dude in the blue beanie had been sitting in the doorway of the Edgars store since early this morning, he had no ears but rapt attention. There was a group of us, five if I remember correctly, five of us who entered through the makeshift cinema at the Point and took advantage of the confusion. Breaking into modern day refurbished, city ‘rejuvenated ‘projects, mansions of cool, déclassé and worthlessness rolled into a corporate structure. We stole whilst we waded through the waters the foam of the fire fighters. Shannon screamed directions whilst we each took a room, looting and laughing, but that all ended years ago. we have had to grow up. No longer are we guaranteed good press for our sins. Straight and secular is the answer. No life for no lifers or something similar to the Nazi refrain. I’ve sunk all my senses into the new project, battling malaise, inertia, no home cept the lonely depths of mornings sans sunlight. In a room without curtains, they watch me, I’ve seen them. Sometimes I perform for their pleasure, boredom has that great a grip. And eruptions are no longer skin deep. They say    the body holds memories I say slay the body, pray to Harlequin for the rent and pull the tooth. The toothless are wonders that defy the well dressed charlatans that parade the inner city sanctum. I profess the unconscious call at my own demise. They want the film, they don’t want the film. I can make the film, I cannot make films. Reflections in the pink wine of an afternoon and my animas a rare bird stuck in her majesty’s jail. We lose our friends as we lose our memories regain them, have a tequila, figure the morning out. Drench it in sherry and good tidings, good mornings, good nights. The good fight. I listen to symphony I can’t listen to these imbeciles who carry some strange sense of entitlement of good grace, good manners, deportment, ethics…ha, who really knew the little fish girl, who swam with her before she sunk to those gorgeous grips where icy waves became sacred shrouds and failing that superficial glance of heaven fell in love with the oceans dark deep seductive force. Gravity will always win, you have to go down to get up. Fresh eyes are tired, me feels when stationed in their back room, begging infantile demands for that’s what makes a director in their world…a dumb distorted place…it wasn’t what we were looking for they lied, they cannot see so how can they even attempt to pry..and I’ll tell you why because of press because of awards and prowess and like the big independent screen available to all and sundry who care to pay the price they’ll provide shelter…temporarily but then what…oh more mortgage to the soul, more filters, more sanity..yes we are frozen beyond their clutches and I’ll defy god dammit I’ll demand a little bit more..the kid, the tramp the wanderer, the gypsy..taciturn eyes, garters down, petticoats up, more beef than brawn, more nuptials shredded via shredded paper, the age of letters is dead. So in this manic mania we steal, we fight. Temper tantrums, Oedipus and Faust come knocking at the door whilst skin must be clean, the plague on the pavements swept up and the age of wooden sculptures burnt by the fires of the homeless, the weak, the powerful, the cold, the icy cold that will not let up and will not let us sleep this sweet and airy night

beautiful cinematography by Anthony Dod Mantle - Chloe and Zuko - a scene from My Black Little Heart

My Black Little Heart

Friday 27 May 2011 21:00

The Bioscope – Johannesburg

286 Fox Road – Maboneng – Street Life on Main

R40

“To be assaulted by a South African film made by a young Durban girl which is totally original and unique and which is made with a total respect and understanding of film language is very rare, She is one the best that we have in South Africa, and her talent should not be ignored.”

• Trevor Steele Taylor, film curator National Arts Festival, Grahamstown

Durban city’s underbelly gets ripped open in Claire Angelique’s début feature film My Black Little Heart. The Bioscope is proud to be screening this film, certainly one of the most daring and ground breaking film to have come out of South Africa. Claire will answer questions after screening..(further details below)

SPECIAL UPDATE – YOUR R40 includes DOCUMENARY AND AFTER PARTY

COME PARTY with us at the CHALKBOARD CAFE after the MY BLACK LITTLE HEART screening. YOUR R40 MBLH TICKET GETS YOU EXCLUSIVE ENTRANCE TO DJ’S, DANCING AND DRINKS (Licensed for the evening)

PLUS PLUS PLUS - a mini documentary about Jhb’s most notorious and controversial industrial band of the 90′s -  LIVE JIMMY PRESLEY.  Edited by the film makers into a 20 minute version especially for the night, LJP will screen just prior to MY BLACK LITTLE HEART.

Tickets can be bought online at www.thebioscope.co.za

Or visit www.facebook

FILM MAKER IN ATTENDANCE

EXCLUSIVE Q&A WITH CLAIRE ANGELIQUE POST SCREENING

Claire Angelique is the first female winner of the

STANDARD BANK YOUNG ARTIST AWARD for film.

Her new feature film PALACE OF BONE premiers at the

NATIONAL ARTS FESTIVAL

GRAHAMSTOWN 2011.

Set and shot in the city of Durban, My Black Little Heart pummels the viewer into a world where Internet porn on Durban’s beach front meets Nigerian voodoo in the inner city and a young girl from the wrong side of the track-marks finds herself stuck in a hazy sub-city seaside vortex of decrepit flats, poisoned streets and abandoned office blocks littered with self mutilators, ex-cons, gangsters, street delinquents, hustlers and addicts.

Telling the tale of a heroin user/dancer, My Black Little Heart, is beautifully shot by Anthony Dod Mantle (behind the camera of many of Lars Von Triers films). Using mostly non-actors, the film’s dark subject matter finds its counterpoint in its dreamlike and non-linear narrative. It chronicles both a deeply personal narrative and a city in transition. With a soundtrack by Chris Letcher and a resonating local narrative, the film presents a thoroughly original view of the world. Durban has never looked more beautiful or more ugly.

‘one of the best drug movies I’ve ever seen’ – Andrew Worsdale

‘you’re horrified, but you can’t quite tear yourself away’ – Shaun De Waal

‘This powerful film My Black Little Heart, by Claire Angelique, is about female sexuality, freedom and the rituals of friendship. It is a striking example of S.A cinema at it’s best’ – Barry Ronge

‘Occasionally at festivals such as the National Arts Festival one unearths someone one genuinely believes will rise above current constraints to become a beacon for others to follow. Claire Angelique is one such individual. Part kook, part poetess, resplendently slugging a can of Guinness, she holds court on all matters filmic.” - Mark Lloyd

“Claire is unique, a true individual. She sees the world in a way that no one else does.” – Darryl James Roodt. “

“If she never makes another film after My Black Little Heart she will go down in history as the author of the most powerful South African film made to date.” – Aryan Kaganof

Tickets can be bought online at Or visit ]]> http://claireangelique.wordpress.com/2011/05/24/mblh-screening-27-may-9pm-the-bioscope-plus-extras/feed/ 0 claireangelique chloe-zuko http://claireangelique.wordpress.com/2011/05/16/20-sugar-nollie-faith/ http://claireangelique.wordpress.com/2011/05/16/20-sugar-nollie-faith/#comments Mon, 16 May 2011 17:33:31 +0000 claireangelique http://claireangelique.wordpress.com/?p=623 ]]>

are you dead or are you sleeping....i sure hope you are dead

we’re spread on grasses, spread out laughing about the downhill

I saw scott

everyone reflecting back

black

its scarf territory, its also kind of beautiful

he’s a shade of beige

she’s a rocking horse

i’m a grenade

that does’nt get paid

lets call a spade a spade

my darling

your vespa is insane

they gather in the street

its cold between the blocks

weird little shooting stars

weird good feeling all round

12 kids

9 boards

1 zean

3 lords

feel free to send stuff

he said

its all good its all cool

its for the kids

and stuff

more flashes more lens

plastic lamps pimped out friends

river phoenix to the right

a plastic man to the left

we can’t turn left he said

they can’t turn left he said

my mom was in love with her kids

all moms are

sometimes dad’s are too

sometimes we drink to you

and you and you and you

more flashes more lens

plastic lamps pimped out friends

river phoenix to the right

a plastic man to the left

we can’t turn left he said

they can’t turn left he said

they were right

FILM MAKER IN ATTENDANCE….WITH RUM….FOR Q&A SESSION POST SCREENING

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