sno’ white + the 7

I’m totally alone now and loving it, yup.

Everyone was right yip

I’m a fuckin waste a time washed up skag hag hang er’up Zane said, insane hatin on all yr douchie shag gang, who?, ja, you ? you needa join to get cred? Nope?  I don’t fuck with no cpt names, bunch of jhb wannabe drug addicts intels in the advertising house of vain…zip?  2 faced coke snorting supreme games Melville hanging lift givin dyed red headed fat fuck tryin with fingers fingerin these genes to get that oh no omo taint, etv leftovers in a craz-e bed, marked like a pilgrim with that pocket of middle aged cool, dude, I’d rather be dead. RIP washed out writers so super clean, bleached as a fool in a 4×4 jacked as a blck cube. No invites yeah, where’s your headliner mpu? Monster parted before you started on that puma’deal didn’t work out, didn’t call it out too cool, clickety clacking lynching across the hall, black n white drama photos no time to hang too much hype praise to Ja’ fall, dread locked died clout crawl.

Sneakered theosophist onna a pining stage, hangin back

Pinprick flint splinterin no blood no pain

Onna corner hangin back, fake gold chains exchanged

Hang er’up said Zane

 

ANXIETY OF MINUTES MISSING, I’M A DU RA GEST IT WEEKEND…de rigueur,….COZ HE NEVA TELLS ME WHER HE’S GOIN

roxies, rufis, bars, addies, zola  tramis, whiskey,  sneeze

hyrdro hydra hydro morpho, opie condone codon wheeze

ambien ambien ½ ambien sleep

 

3 hours later, normal 60 mgs and tea, tame

Whiskey, water, addies, tramis, dab and concerta feed

Cinnabun, ½ gram smack in the vein, redeemed

Coffee, caffeine, whiskey, sneeze,

Concerta, inserta

½ gram back in the in the vein

Tame, lame, sneeze,

Stil can’t sleep bizarre

 

Not  at peace, insane membranes

Valve spilling, hospital too far, gram in the spoon

On the floor, thai white not tar, man on a mission

Leaving me to cook in the kitchen

Good house keepin, for a stray

mixin it up to keep up to keep mixin it

Down, fixin it up

No apron, strings attached, Sundays only  a day away

Isn’t it?,morph time,  get it together, its fine, shrug

Tramis, dab, facebook post, social roast, spit, spat

Maybe some more smack

Or a snack

Cinnabun, Chernobyl fun?, caffeine whiskey elvis mug

3 duragestic patches left, fact,  he’ll kill me when he’s back

But he’s away, he left me alone, freezing in this sunny cold

Fuck him, I hear me say, I’m a brave, I’m not afraid, I’m still awake

Dstv’s bad

I’m scatching that wound tonight, I’mma sleep, good? For good, no more fight,  turn off the light

good night?

 

they call me angel but i’m no angel; free the form, birthday at the ole sink tank taxis rank- feel like a world leader with 600

Dirty white smiles greet on arrival, the post office escape artists, out for survival I got six hunded you’ll give me nine, I’ll give you a fifty if you don’t take your time

The waiting the heat, the radio blues, the j cole cd, the thought of bad news

Only capsules today mommy, my worst fucking line,

Check mate that bank balance of mine, the fire needs feeding my paper is fine

But he’s back and he’s jacked and he’s got the right stuff, and the small talk ends fast as I reverse out the lot – best let me go, let me get back to my bed, reality tv’s only real if somebody’s that’s not me’s dead

You got a family but what about mine, I’m up the ladder, you’re towing the line, or noosing the rope or tying the knot, or just using this scarf as a jack and a swab

Its too easy, I laugh, backing away from the cops, from the blue lights of blue, following me home on the  jones

It’s too fucking easy, one goes to jail, another pops up, from gull, mazeppa and anton lembede to inanda, umgeni and diza mkize, surrounded by gear from fucking Tanzania, its too easy I laugh in my head, its two minutes down the road, its another eight up the arm, its 1 more for the warmth to fill up my heart, pass out, write, stare, stare, dream, forget forgot, go take another shot

Dither the dream along laid in a sweat cold bed, willing the eyes shut in the head

Two red cubes evolve into dread, backwards and forwards dark images bled

Bleed into stories like souls of the dead

Wet haired hounds; drooling songs sang; grave yard mounds; empty beer cans

Navy hats floating on ana girls frame; fooling the gang feeling the rain i can feel him starting his crude brand of shit again

The mirror image breaks when a flash steals a hit; she can’t find a vein, he implores her in vain

Fooling the gang feeling the rain

A river of dreaming will happen next noon

When a cape town boy will die in my room

and another waste will die up the lane

The daily news will publish his name

The mercury will extol his mom’s pain

Whilst he laid dead on ana girl’s bed,

He’s blue colour collar she’s kinda posh

His crime was one night her flame to his moth,

Packets are flushed as a black bag is tossed

Heavy with that boy whom for two nights was lost

Police make small talk as they flank in the corpse

the mirror image breaks with the flash, Kat arrives with more stash

sink tank

and I hadn’t seen A’vol for a while, that big friendly smile, and dead eyes imploring you for a half loaf of bread, for a quarter gram, for a cool drink, for a brief respite from that life on the corner, on the street, a stolen bike we chained to my car driving him home to pick up a score, it was a capsule day and Durban was far, the sun too full, the will written and signed, resigned, I couldn’t make the trip down the hill, so up the hill we head to molweni instead, and the brakes and gears fight through the dust and my little engine chimes it must it must amid sullen stares of why are you going there, white girl, we know your car, we know who you are, you’re that angelic junkie star, all the boys at the rank know, but I can tell they don’t want me to come to their home, its fine don’t worry A’vol assures,

they know I’m a friend of yours. Sleazy angel its fine, angel you’re mine, we get good stuff now now, its all too easy

then i’m in tune, it’s just me and you

he’s been cleaned by faith he can heal me too, just not with the cross but with the spoon,

i can feel my fear sticking to his skin, buggin out, peeling it back, sucking the poison out

DAY 1 IMPLOSION

Today is the worst day ever, can’t keep up, can’t keep calm, rescue remedies a fake charm, tramadol, roxanol, betapan, need a better plan

Too much stress, fuck this cut up mess, I can’t breathe, need to punch anyone in the face, face off, I;m ready, hair bristling, brain bursting, brandy, whiskey beer dear deer in headlights of tough sunlit face, smack me in the face, fire me in the furnace disrobe me, bury me in a mausoleum, tough as wax near a flame, I’m so stretched, , I hold him to blame,ive fucked it up right this far, might as well forget about the progress just regress, digress, undress whats the point, a day is a joke, who thought I could do it anyway some shite astrology chart apparently showing the way, well the son of Jupiter can go eat himself, I’m someone else, brain clouded bristling like thunder, so angry explode so saddened implode

“happiness might now be bought for a penny.” de quincy once blundered, penny my arse, happiness is 6 hunded

And you turned it into a verve song so I might as well have been busking at the cal neva lodge on lake tahoe

Sometimes it seems I have two dreams

I left everything to the last two minutes, burden those others – fuck sorting my shit out finished, little bit of rough riding it starts getting tough, pull it back for a second. Police making my mom scared, why is your daughter holding 180 grams of subutex? Why she got a syringe? Where’s the heroin? <duh> Why is your daughter scarred, why is your daughter high, why is your daughter shy to speak she got something to hide? Dude, people get high people get caked we’re floating on a thread, no sir nothing makes sense, I’m not a dealer i’m a care giver sitting on the fence. Shareline Crisis out shopping inopportune cause josie not in the building this afternoon, oh hello is that that claire girl again, ffs I’ll be right there. What you on you you got so much energy my dear says the the bemused face behind the white beard, sucking on an electronic cigarette british dialect staring at my tits. This defective side bob, scolex style blow job, two hundred rand in hand, dialing the numbers to the man, a gram with an owe to the ou at the other end of the phone to the other end of the street to meet, quicker than the old man comes we greet, exchange, kiss on the cheek. The road lights retreat, home, bed, spoon, water, heat, dream 1 dreaming of dream 2 it seems i might have two left feet

cut scot some slack cat robot i’m gonna live till he dies…again

Scot opening closed windows cause yr room fucking stinks of cigarettes, are jelly beans innocuous toxins or is it the other way around? I asked his girl one time by some skate park whiteness, outside here there’s always a bakkie, this one filled with kids from his passion project at jeppe’s. Its a habit and a past time, me not feeling cold is mine. I grew up as most girls do where risk is not offered, thats why these girls grow up listening and acting like yella wolf man, how pleased to spread before those weeds, unsmoked strangled disseminated seeds,
the script for tonight– the left over hanger on, there’s always that guy in the group, with a beard, a stink and a grubby tie on, going in, unzipping handbags, hiding places, rifling through your cupboards, just checking that you got no more left here, the phone’s on the floor, the number now lost, he just shattered my screen his temper he’s fucked…he woke me up before I go goed, the bottle of scotch scot left before he left after we left to go our seperate ways, bet we’ll see them again in one or two days, they’ll be back they always creep in, untie the scarf, use the knife ,there’s no room for escape just the one I live in – this needle is fucked it scars with its prick, i’ve known enough pricks to scar me for life, all the stories he’s told are made up, i’m made up, we’re not going anywhere, he’s cute, he’s tall, he fucks like a dog in heat, he screams like a child without a sweet, I give and give again but no relief, the powers off, the gas is gone, there’s no heat. Meltdown in arlington street, meltdown in main street, meltdown in albany street, melt that shit down all over these sheets. i’m a gift, us women we all are, give a black man a bitch to lay his hands/ his dick on, i say vultures you say culture, i mean come on..Posters kids put up get torn down again, eighteen months later and the same shit cycles again, backlogged statistics mounting up again, downgraded intelligence spouts again, revelations reporting intercepting on course again, of course courses make everything right again, read another internet blog back out again, contact with family fucks out again, boys at the rank on form again, smack back to crack not kat again, expected Tech centred ostracised again, only redemption is this prism purse opens again, no significant slack just shut out again, so shoot up again, fuck them all all over again. Fuck myself up even more, the past wins again, engrams ingrained, sarcastic sighs in re train, jane on the phone again, mishandled handling handled again, again no sex straight bi or les

are jelly beans innocuous toxins, I think you’re weird she says

THE DIFFICULTY OF STAYING IN THE PRESENT AND ULTRA VIOLENCE REVISISTED OR PRESENT ULTRA VIOLENCE DIFFICULTY

its a lot more than pulling yourself together; its pulling yourself apart, 20 sec’s lapsed, deal back – the going rate then was 190 sec flat, mind adjustingly numbing, legs spread, warm bed hugging, keepon rhythm rhyme humming, there’s no reason for rhyme say something, can’t say, the people’s recession is out shouting, looking down on them freaking that’s me upper cut outing … no right press hikes for the likes of us, we’re the chosen ones coming , we can command, demand dominate every day doubting,
I hated red wine then I heard his steps down the corridor while i lay alone frozen, the bottle in the fridge, we crack this bitch open now the blood spilleth over I can taste me on my lips, keep blinking the abyss. fall in love with the feel spluttering
then another dude in a grey suit steps out of the blue and black into my world, we’re all here to play, you must obey the command say yeah and the game resumes, my dear, process the procedure once again, I agree with the rules monsieur, my knee’s no more hurting but my mind keeps blacking out, its scary, I keep 1.1ing , are these creatures real or are they just in my mind I keep shouting, reality’s not something, the world is an alarming rock of nothing but prisoners stuck in rebirth, you got to move fast, to keep you outrunning, no stealing fire, no wasting time with ire, satan is the answer just twist the meaning wiser, make more light lightning – sympatico now fighting
ive always been on the edge of the verge stumbling, now they’re offering celestial brightening, feel those waves everyone’s a spirit that didn’t behave pave the way to another plane, bridge ride humbling…ultra violence mksilencing

i’d hit that

I am the lost problem, the snared fox frightened by gunshots off the highway, I smell of dope…apparently, I don’t I’m full of atrovent inhalers without my name on the label. I’m abused, confused, attacked. I’m shot I’m done with shooting, I’m not.
I slink in through the front door, hiding my blood stained hands, the stink of chemical breath off my lips is about all I can stand. I’m supposed to grow up, forget, but I can’t. I’m stuck, I’m struck, I’m tough, I’m not.
I read in the mercury just yesterday on page three, that I’m in the 2% that have paid pure service to the boys at the rank 60 grand, 10 months, I’m trapped, I’m thanked, I’m an angel only because they can’t pronounce my name. I”ve got a gat colt rail then I got three more, 92fs and a m4, thats the deal
I don’t want to sleep I want to just feel
Alive I hide hundreds and punctures
My uri Gellar shelf is a montage
Monarchist injunctures
Whilst the sirens gradually yell
I sleep in discomfort,

I;ve lost 4 paragraphs to space , salo in seconds, I played with the thought last night, inferno on my arms, lost all my charms to this cheap thrill, so not cheap so not lost, so not thrilled

aversion therapy glasses

.

forgetting to remember

… remember that story before the glass slips brain slips..its happening again, liquid distraction, thank you, fuck you bless you for that delivery… Autumn is heroin. For me its the epitome of my most prominent memories with the drug. The mist, the light, the leaves, the wind, the chill in the bones so easily solved. Belushi ‘don’t take shit from anyone’ echoes off old pages of music magazines, which brings me back to that room, and the dealer outside the window throwing rocks up at us and belushi was on the laptop screen and there their bottlenecks and my spoon and a heater and so much warmth in the quasi designed starkness but that was on the other side of town, and its saturated grey and autumn again and the walk in cupboard where I preferred to shoot up in, and their being no more need for vitamin c because we’re in Thai town now and the fuzz of the beachfront and the otheryou telling me about hiv and the otherme that floods apartments and hotel rooms and petrol stations and perceptions and knocks on your door at 3am with 3 friends with 3 bags and 3 beating hearts that need a room and a space to just, won’t be a second bro, thank you so much dude you won’t believe what just happened tho, there’s always cops, there’s transport nightmares, puking on corners, fuck it excuses there’s then another excuse for the abuse and you just ignore the vibe, push the other three aside, hit his toilets and hide.
Mattress basing, how low can you sink, i’ve taken plain rides to the other sides in a 3 minute black out rat poison motherfucking track tracing the cold changes the veins, won’t shoot in my neck again then again then again, fuck it there it is. John stewart has been on the whole day, sabc 2 don’t cut it round here can’t remember anything they’ve said, zean knocks at the door: are you dead?
Tantrem’s all in a rage, I just jumped the psych ward 4 mins down the road 2 weeks after cannes, keep forgetting second chances again.
Again blood on the hotel carpets I’m told I must pay floor getting kicked off another ‘chance’ I haven’t paid for, fuck them all just fuck them all, this run is too easy, got money don’t have money I don’t even have to pay for.
Oding on the 8th floor, oding on the first floor, oding on the ground floor oding on the second floor the third floor the sixth floor the 19th floor, oding oding, the floor the floor always the floor, getting fucked on the floor, getting off the floor, finding powder on the floor bags in the corner, under the sink, the toilet lids, the basin hids, the mirror, the three bloody ties behind the bathroom door, you can taste yourself in your mouth before your jaw breaks and you get off the floor and dont answer the door, another lame metaphor
cape ivs call it spikkie, old timers call it neds, white dudes downtown jack black jack dudes won’t use needles, they smoke hold your hand in instead. We’re being thrown out again, so we’re back in his mansion again, no fun anymore, weezles creep up for more, graffitti jokes, french blokes, russian blokes pull out vodca hidden in cases, I recognise this guy’s face’s from berlin, he saw me tap dancing outside the mandela hotel, can’t hide this shit no more, no more reason why, peters high, thomas on my arm, the gates remain open, i’m not used to this heroin, too slimy too dark, its not tar there’s no road there’s no bridge, I wake up on a ledge in a pool looking for more works On the sand for sunrise, at war with the mystics, thinking back to my durban beachfront, berea centre, esplanade rides shooting up by myself arms fucked under my shirt, nerves shot, hands numb smiling inside. I used to rule the world comes on, no one notices the coldplay till its too late, it’s too late we all get it, we got it, we’re gettimg it forgetting it refusing to remember it but there’s so much more to tell, vuse passes me a half a gram for real, I got 3 meetings and a script to sell, fireworks.

not even niacin? the score

I still really like to score, the score in the wound, driving for hours in the city, revisiting, slowing down driving off, ducking round, how many Esplanade lights have sat me in the drivers seat, bent soup spoon in hand westbound
how many times have I sat in Albany streets crack houses, so tired, so wired, nothing but daggers on the inside, paranoid checking the windows for cops below, my clamped tires, nevermind it will be alright, just past that smoke i’m expired
Petrol attendent knows my plate, says babe its late, says i’ll be right back, comes back, hand him 2 2s, swop for the toot, swop for the bupes, swop for the bruise, hit the toilet, rank stank, gangplank, one step junk, jump, dive, shoot, dive, suvive
how many times have I been lost in Embo, screaming down the phone, telling drunk dudes to leave me alone, travelling down unknown dark roads, seeing township folk tableaus, khat, smack, skyf, sugars, so hoity toity so not dirty yet shooting up nyope
Church is ripe with an evening service, workers and shirkers drink quarts on the corners, waves from the white guy in the toyota hilux, pick up the phone and pretend not to notice, Skeet appears in the rearview mirror, jumps in, drops packets and exits
14 dealers in a 10k radius, I congratulate myself for this supercilious web of comfort I weaved, I move like a fiend, i’m a scabrous queen, no friends now they’re weaned, now they’re apparently clean, now most are od.’ I got 3 more straws, think fuck it all, I still really like to score.

PRE CLAIRE

boo hoo this town is on tic

two little words that mean so much to me

even this morning

staring at illusions on the beach

rocks sinking into mirrors

sinking down down into that

ice cold abyss that surely

awaits our tepid blood and

unreliable bodies

we don’t

we don’t believe your supposed

descent

we don’t believe your self

inflicted detachment

we dont

we don’t believe that you will never write a good line again

but that was before the 10111 call

there’s this girl turning blue on our balcony

they apparently said

flashing lights

naloxone then red

all my heroes are changing clothes

who they are now

none of us knows

they’re taking photos of me

they’re taking photos of you

whatever -we write

no matter

we do

its strange that all i will leave behind

is these words

funny little words

funny little squiggles on a page

no house, no kids, no legacy, no business, no car, no riches, no regrets

just these funny little words

will be left

standing on the balcony last night

i let that warm sane narcissism wash over me

surrendered to its charms

if change is better than a holiday

then proverbs are better than psalms

the grass the sand this bed is cold

just like my skin

though all four have small beads of perspiration to remind what

warmth will feel like again

pretend for as long as it takes

thats what i tell myself this morning

after a good five hours of knocked out sleep

nay i am deluded

i can pretend as much as i can abstain

my drinking is way  off the charts

i’m embarrassed to tell the nurse

half a bottle of brandy, a bottle of vodca

a Spier savignon blanc, jagermeister shots and two spins

a few hits of the pipe, two shots to the arm

at least i finally passed out, i tell her with a grin

i never actively engage with any work that i do

work is like a foreign city

barely visible through the clouds

through the fumes of burnt bodies

there lies work

and i must remain detached and celestial

or face those very real consequences

and there is no honour in being burnt

weed makes me write

smack makes me right

i spent hours telling my stories to their blank faces

and they wonder why i’m scarred from the outside in

one more shot in the right arm is all thats left

i surmise

scary hands resting in front of me

the veins have gone underground

into hiding

tired i’m sure of the relentless hammering

of blunt needles

i try and trace those lines

up my arms under the ink

through the inside of the elbow

yellow and blue

punished and bruised

all for a ride to the insane plateau

bless

and boo!

i put a fire out fire in the harbour 10111 i did something right ships a no go dragon clouds Title (optiona)l

Escoffier would have scoffed

It felt like they were screaming it inside cages, horse legs in my room

Again tonight

Stoners on harbour fires, fires being lit just behind us

Grenades I have seen as big as rats

5000 calls, and it turned out to be the carguard with no toes

Who had the good stuff down here in hout bay

i must get back to

The sms I received from vusi read:

…………………………….nice to be see ugin

They’re constantly taking photos of nothing but coloured swirls in the life of an innocent lens

If I am alive this time next year

Those girls on welfare’s babies will be 5 years old and they’re not even worth that much

I remember how confused you were when I told you I loved 7 swans

And my 7 swans were you

Crowley had got to me to me,  his army of sluts

shaven head  messages

l I still need those cuts

upon my hand

drugs for drunks and a harbour that never fades

or has lost the ability not to shine

do as thou wilt

a promise of two for free

waterproof

 

become a witch

I scare myself

My insurance plan a planned assured apocalypse

Damaged image in the mirror

A promise of two for free

Impipi alert paranoid need

I love you I saved me burn marked effigy

Beach washed memory blood stained anatomy bruised loser no one listens refugee

 

I’m Gelhorned

 

Swept aside side of the road across from the convenient bank

Hanging off tracks

Asking to show him how to shoot one day

Ja bro that’s goiong to happen

Where do you stay

Is all you CAN say to break the silence

I am silent

Mumbling aobut past indiscretions

Yes mam you were very drunk yesterday

I didn’t realise they’d notice

I smell of ammonia and vinegar

Some toxic moonlight mess holes in the lace curtain

Ashes on the glass

The pillowcase was stained when you rang and offered me a gram for free

again

i’m Gelhorned

needing base for adventure

virgo

 

Delirium in softest chiffon clouds these kitchen walls

At the mention of you

You’ve moved away just like you always wanted too

 

We nodded our heads respectable respectively I’m sure you’ll be just fine

If love be a dove I’m shoved in a stole every time

 

Weighted and wined we dined yeah we danced

Like we’re old something new your patience in tethers

building little pieces of puzzle together

 

who was the  first to pass out?

I was never one to give out

sweating stars shooting up in my heart may have sinned

so you move on don’t look back

it’s a another lie that you trapped me in

don’t forget

that night on the couch on the street by the bay

I bled

You read

Like we were

Like we said

We’d obey

 

I’m just a kitchen dreaming of you

And the light that flickers under you

And I wish like we said

I’d get over you

But I do then I don’t

I’m too inside of you

 

A sigh defined by the last hit to last

Was a scared bird flying into panes

Of reinforced glass

 

Next time you’re around why don’t you stay for a bit

We’re living in the last days

Hear it I can feel it too too much anger into stagger

I flew over the states and you slit your wrists over it

 

I’m just a kitchen dreaming of you

And the light that flickers under you

And I wish like we said

I’d get over you

But I do then I don’t

I’m too inside of you

CLUB TROPICANA DRINKS ARE FREE

Cant you feel that I’m dying my heart

Is diseased fucked as fucked as they thought

No more vein left in crying

The fact that I’m dying

Is

I’m dead

 

Cant you feel that I’m dying my heart

Is diseased fucked as fucked as they thought

No more vein left in crying

The fact that I’m dying

Is

I’m dead

 

 

 

left to right of ugly brooding and theoretical pedantry – thoughts on south africa

 

eloquence at its best from mr hoare and so pertinent to the historical spew of nonsense we have to crawl through on the current s.a scene…give me the present or future – the past is a cultural crutch for affirmative artistic invalids dying on development take aways eaten in 5 star restaurants whilst watching another episode of generations and staging the equivalent of winning a lost lotto ticket

 

lost notes

Whilst working in East Africa as a volunteer for VSO, I had occasion to visit the Hollywood club one Sunday night. At that time, 25 years ago, you didn’t see many dreadlocks on the streets as there were stigmas associated with the Mao Mao. Rastas were stereotyped as “Banghi Smoking Wahuni” throughout East Africa (Hooligans who smoked weed).

 

from the original 1925 manuscript version of his completed General Theory of Relativity to a postcard sent by Einstein to his ailing mother Pauline on 27 September 1919.

Written just after he had heard that astronomers observing the previous May’s solar eclipse in West Africa had seen “star displacements at the sun’s edge” thus reinforcing a key prediction in his developing theory, it says “Dear Mother, Good news today… N A Lorenz has telegraphed me that the British expeditions have definitely confirmed the deflection of light by the Sun. Unfortunately Maja has written me that you’re not only in a lot of pain but that you also have gloomy thoughts. How I would like to keep you company again so you’re not left to ugly brooding.”

“history is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake”

‘ God is a shout in the street.” ulysses

Piero Manzoni went towards the negation of colour altogether. Art he argued emphatically “should be totally white – or rather totally colourless – removed from all pictorial phenomena… a white which is in no sense a polar landscape, an evocative or even merely beautiful pictorial, a sensation or a symbol, or anything else of the kind; a white surface which is a white surface and nothing else… indeed, better still, a surface which is and nothing else: being.

 

American constitution Benjam Franklin was asked about how to provide best security for the nation. His reply was   “Any person who desires security above liberty deserves neither.”

But is this how it has to be? Does the artist really face a choice between losing their talent to drugs, or their edge to sobriety? in this country neither, you either bend over or kill yourself bending over backwards

 

 

de Crack house

It’s strange how sickness feels so right,
as the only true reaction to any action.
when dreams and release are paid for in producing self-loathing amounts of crap.
because norms are heavily taxed forms to avoid.

response

oh contraire, no attack at all, and as much as i can surmise from what i feel no negativity…. only sadness from both my own and ….and our ilk s’ debacles. if art and the magic true artists spin are not meant to be infused, enjoyed and shared then i would keep my opinions to myself. if from your implication to my life and comments i deduce is a suggestion of the kind of world you would like to live in where we don’t care and celebrate or even weep and mourn and encourage each other, an emotive apartheid of real feelings then i guess its your choice…and the good ship  has finally hit that icy burg… but as another human being and feeling very close to those very same dichotomous alienating/pleasing/subservient/insecure and reclusive reruns of this tirade then no i won’t keep them to myself. yes i do think he enjoys his addictions as i do, we all do, how can you not. you’re entwined in a world that is able to knit together experiences and trances like no other…….its fuckin sexy, its the height of self everything,,,,its the perfect Fitcaralldo moment….but but… but… larger the unravelling of every precious thing you hold dear is the price. thus my ‘the greatest love affairs always end reflection’….reflection, better to have loved and lost, but better yet to lose the whole sense of being loved and in love with these kinds of obsessions than the indifference you have to sacrifice in order to attain them. personally i don’t thnk its worth it. not to anyone with anything to give and those of us, as … i believe, who hold such strange enchantment its a seductive and elusive and fleeting idea that can never materialise unless you jump back into the branches of that faraway tree to ground yourself and put experience into prose. it suiting him is metaphorical meant in no other way. but yes the suit is a size too small anyway if you would want to get into semantics….i’m a big boy now. and yes i have a lot to learn but not about the present at hand, it’s detonated and all that will be left is a once loved vision as residue

the great art of having one’s bed turned down properly

i’ll buy from you too

black dog bitter

in assuming you know who i am

i’m addicted to routine is it worse now on or off the game

it might just be except the same

things that used to happen

hurt so much more and handwriting mixed is as confusing as before

if i hold my pen into the night maybe i’ll sleep allright or just die tonight

still not the same it depends on flow, thoughts that won’t stand up in any court of law

fight the good fight don’t need no help

keep your hands up defend yourself

its necessary to have thinking pauses

when flowers drown

 

a desirable case

desist – silent my love hanging

hangers..hangers on

resinging songs about singing

songs listening to songs

oh song

i’m always so very wrong

as the influence is stacked the case the case

a so sorry face from a distant place

we just ran

then to sit and listen again

they insist

i resist

 

i glimpsed into their liver

today i have seen

two dead lizzards

and cigarette effigies

sense of smell important but bad

i’m sicking up my sick

 

‘It’s strange how sickness feels so right,
as the only true reaction to any action.
when dreams and release are paid for in producing self-loathing amounts of crap.
because norms are heavily taxed forms to avoid.

I wish the world could just let go, and let me flow for a while.
I wish my armS were strong and could lift me up for a while;
to give my feet a rest from the ground.
to rather hang on to something touching it, than being near it myself.
Because the ground smells like iron
and iron smells like pain.
And my head hurts when I refuse to notice.

Hope you’re fine and hope you’re well
dvcxxewwqssvwhope you find a place where better grows taller than worse.’ some not or email from someone i cant remember

i’ll try anything thrice

cars with a view

too many forged scripts  count on one hand not enough I guess I’m losing my favourite crying game but sunday night was an armed breeze filled with hills the astute sky the dip and dives the ants under the keyboards, laughter surrender says  a mighty truth for the warrior who wishes some finality over the sheets in the early evening..drunken tears spilt on stupid words we all prayed for a sunny day and we found it in glasses like summer us cope with our lives

Pity the fast word they warned not even the anorexic dog is denied the tension of these human wounds stomach aches with us all unite, I spill rebuttals I then have to clean  the bruises vacant up we never shift or forget we just indulge digest and regret…how fair the shift and how fair the fair?

I keep a mind journey that falls from control and those insults mean well  little well when I’ve given the here a better thought I thought too much and then betrayed the cds trying to be dvds we spun them on something that was meant here to stay and like those 8 tracks they still all go away

This fight on fight off fight the fight you figure it out you have to finally see that  I’ve made up my mind like the glass the windows see much more than me..i wrote my last note ive cashed in my last phone I spent 12 years smoking and digging that bone away a special piece of  how does the Cure sound?…oh yeah I made myself so sick.. I wish Id stayed asleep today

Wrapped wondering aloof in this special space –  a blue casio tone to approve

And sheer pleasure dances in circles as if by telepathy whilst rampant grumbles echo a sullen bed because  a head is trashed with lack of empathy

Beauty drips out the electrical morning for those lost loves

She kept asking for an opinion one she knew could never be found

And I  slipped down below her panty line Id like to approve your surrender as you bopped your head bowed in the most incorrect time….how?…fuck two fuck three fuck four lying on the floor

You were never mine

yesterday

Shooting up rat poison, strychnine and arvs hoping for some smack somehwhere in this mix

 

Car guards at the post office xolani thulani

Bail 27 august – mad rush

snorted then through the rest of the shit away

hoping xolani gets a suspended sentence and is back on the prowl tomorrow

don’t feel like the mission to the city

 

Sat in bank on a Monday with 50 pounds to my name in change

Etchings of pickwick papers

On the back

The queen in front so regal

But that didn’t make it legal to exchange

 

 

I forget the first in line

Was my best friend

We used to mingle in the park with the others all the same

I could climb trees higher

And had desire but that drive has left me ashamed

 

DREAMS OF

Durban cityscape at night

Future

 

Backing car over 20 schoolkids in uniform around 11-13 year olds

Black kids. Very black kids. Fat. Having to step over them to get out of car. Feeling their death. Eyes staring at me.

 

Being dropped off at a rehab which just consisted of shelves in cupboards where bodies were sleeping next to each other

 

Chased by wild animals in a 2dimensional scale

Flying along dover coastline on a bicycle

Being an ultimate victim in a nazi camp run by young ‘revoltionary teenagers’ in Germany setting up a ‘organic’ new world type society. Main street life haily tattoos addictions vile shite waste of space we are

 

 

 

 

main line suffocation street

 

give me oil in my lamp keep me burning

The rain was like iron bullets on the apartment’s factory type window, except larger with black aluminium frames and loose locks. If your final steps are these windows then take a few back and remember the open plan micro loft room with its high white walls, the torn poster of nevermind the buzzcocks on your right to your left – a web of wire as a headboard filled with black hearts and silver and scarves and long leather gloves in front of a queen sized white bed covered with the flag of Swaziland and King Cetshwayo. A side of kitchen, a black belt in the sink, a couple of signs of other dilly dallying of the spirit cleaning out in jik and water, a shower and basin to the left, out we go. Let’s face it – it’s an empty gallery. The lifts, the new ones then the old ones, then the fire escape – a double wide metal door swings far too buoyantly open, the sliding door pass, the night staff at reception,  a slightly guilty look, two lazy guards watching your movements in twelve different areas on a large flatscreen, a ridiculously ostentatious swing out front door – 4 metres long pushing you to the pavement, Pata Pata the restaurant, Chalk Café – the Bioscope independent Cinema, fluorescents on every corner. More Security and then straight back to your vehicle, if you’re lucky and a keen observer or modern cultural anthropologist a dusty black kid on a skateboard might whizz past you…and then fall over….or there might be a party of some sorts or an arty opening…or closing night spilling out onto the streets…. . However if your name was Eric or Max or whathitsname and especially if you were a Nigerian Eric or Max or whatshisname you would not taking this little trip through the grand entrance up the stairs through the doors to the empty gallery that protects the door  to Main Street Life’s real inner sanctum.And it would most certainly not be at any kind of reasonable hour whereby  the residents and businesses would still be abusing each other….and the mood was gay….No your entrance and its timing would be very different.

 

Click, push, giggle, slam, click, turn, push open. The mood immediately is serious. This shit is serious. Its 2am, I’ve been waiting since 8pm when he told me the long drawn out story when he would be getting off, then stuck in Sandton at 10, countless smokes, positions sculptured by sheets, lame movie…lame lame lame movie and why now on a Friday night. I can still hear the last of the arseholes from the Monster Munch party on the roof. Rabid and hysterical fucked on a mixture of cheap vodka hidden inside Russian Bear bottles – thighs slapped into fake leather leggings and stamina…my fucking god, whats the fucking time now? 1am, ‘ dude listen I’m sorry but this is fucking ridiculous, its cool I’ call someone else (but he knows I wont), you know.

–          Give me 20 mammie, the rain is very hard here.

Whatever, I have to wait. I check the syringes on the kitchen counter, search for rogue cotton balls with a trace of gear, bump that, I hate reusing anyway..i hate been that desperate, but its not even like that, its just. Well you don’t even get a rush so ….whats the time?

Max’s number lights up on the cell. ‘ are you hear?’

–          How much you got?. ‘I told you I wanted three grams, I got 700, I’ll give you the two on Monday, promise’

–          No mammi, the rain is too hard. 900, otherwise I can’t come out all that way

‘yeah yeah I got 9, just hurry’

I don’t got nine. I got five. I’ll sort it out when he gets here.

 

It’s the same black golf that pulls up around the side street from the Main Street hotel/apartment whatever the fuck they want to call it, nightly around 3am. I’ve seen him lurking earlier, maybe at around 6am, or after a serious night he can be here by 8am, before most of the Main liners are up..save one or three of the respectable lot of working people who somehow got swayed into thinking that the building was actually cool and reflective of their coolness and hipness and we made it ness…the ones who got sidetracked…who couldn’t leave their old real life living on the breadline in the middle of the shitty city centre soul and move to the suburbs to bathe in the bliss of clean white commercial and successful south Africa. I wonder sometimes who are the real rebels? Those that stayed and deluded themsel ves or those who moved and excluded themselves?

Dish dash, down the stairs, Elo is at the ATM, he needs a few packets of sunshine as well, I’ll drop a few lines into my spoon and speedball, I decide on whimsy. The side door bangs behind me. Fuck it, its raining to fuckery outside. Slimslamming the rest of the rogues tucked up safely in their cells, I dart into his car, already trembling with andrenaline. Nothing I mean nothing feels the way those 10 minutes before you slide that blunt eye into tarnished skin, hit the red and change your personality forever. The chest heaves violently you can hardly talk, string words together, don’t ask me any fucking questions. Let me concentrate. Let me make sure there’s no cotton on the tip,  make certain the exact spot of the last exact hit. Don’t interrupt me. The people who have witnessed these strange demonstrations of power plays within my little tomb know all this. They sit silently on my bed or at the metal table stolen from the back courtyard of an old dump of a building that will soon house popular tartlets and deluded designers, film makers,  more and more wannabees – a perfect combination of modern day horrors wrapped and packaged without any sense of infinity. They’ll sit on the uncomfortable black plastic chair and either cut up white lines on a Modest Mouse cd or sort through really shite weed bought from Rasta at the shebeen all the while stealing sad glimpses of me at the kitchen counter preparing my respite from the pains of my head heart and body and then when the bathrobe belt falls effortlessly to the floor and the syringe hits the bloody muck in the sink and I take that first breath of buzz, I’ll look at them and finally engage.

There’s rumours rumours everywhere. People glance and people stare. Doors stay locked whilst tongues still cry we’re here for you when you’re ready lies.

Its insane but you start off with a little piece of nothing, you add some black, some definitive articles, you get a job, a to do list, you creep forward ever so slightly, you’re happy you think, the scars have faded, the eyes remain blood shot but those around you those who’ve know you think you’re doing well. It’s the best you’ve looked in a long time I was told by a dear friend. Fat I thought. No I mean it. That’s the thing its always well meant, aint it. It’s a maroon cover of concern of feelings that jump and sliver into new resolutions. You lift your chin a little higher, you write you think much better, you strive a little harder and then one day kinda out of the blue there’s a shift in your mind, its so gloriously delicate its almost invisible, it’s a quiet thought that multiplies into a philosophy that you’ve always known will keep you safe, will keep you sane. Its an intangible desire to disappear to separate yourself from the scurvy of waking up falling asleep aspiration ambition empathy conversation other people and life. It’s a silly desperate perfect answer. It’s a slight shifty satisfying waster.  It undoes all you’ve done. It unravels all that has been wound. It sedates and delivers you to spaces explored by few, it comforts, it condemns you, it frightens and repels you. Its width height girth knows no boundaries, there are no asylums, no scrapes, no tears,  no sex, no day , no night it is an infinite suggestion that defies religion science and sense. If you’ve pandered to its whispers if you’ve braved the backlash the withdrawals the despising looks and whimpers of others, if you’ve thrown away all your respect your cares your loves your titles your works your awards your future then you are rewarded by access into its loom into a numb cavernous dimension which sets you apart for ever from everyone else. They say its seductive, its more than seduction. Seduction is sickness, its flesh its desire its tangible its renumerated, it’s a currency – but this this my friends and foes this is myth this is fantasy this is more and better and cleverer and distinct and insatiably pure and it bellows achingly loud it devours and feeds you with every delusion vision and vice you have ever known and all that  you will never know until you try it.

Have you ever been beaten raped or reprimanded so badly that you have purposely and momentarily lifted your mind from the situation and swam som ewhere else? Have you ever wittingly divorced the truth from the untrue under duress? That’s the place where we succumb we sink, and we sink whilst inhaling the last breath of every shamed warrior and we die detached and disposed. And most of all we die.

Its half past noon exactly. I’ve been up all night up all day, agitated beyond belief. The kind of mania that comes from rereading books I’ve reread betrothed to arguments I’ve argued to pointlessness, to routine to too many hours too many minutes too many fucking days too many fucking pointless hysterics and the blood is now dripping off my arm onto the bed, onto the sheets, the pillow my long sleeve white cotton shirt, the music the tv the radio the extras all seem to be well rehearsed, me I’m sliding I know there’s no romance in this stupid entanglement of a tattooed guy to my right and a large girl stuck between the pillows at the back. He stares at me and mutters something about turtles and water and rain and I stare into the sun and recognise for a second that he actually wants to fuck and that’s like the most hilarious proposal I could think of right now, besides, Mac 2 Durban division will be at the petrol station in like 10minutes and I’ve got to get out of here the thing is we’re short on sthe plastic supplies the needles are useless we’re like samurais with toothpicks and the phone starts ringing and I answer it and I feel myself agreeing and I see myself driving to the pharmacy at mid fucking day the worst time of the day to go anticipating long ques and those disapproving glances from the pharmacists who all know I collect my suboxone every third day and they know that THAT aisle should be off limits to me but right now or just then I don’t care. I just need a perfectly slick affair with the tools of my trade and not have to indulge my double life to keep the peace, to keep the sanity of everyone around me except myself. So I leave with tattooed boy by my side ranting on about teepees and piranhas and he puts in a tape of bob marley and I groan and I listen and try to concentrate on the road until we hook up with mac 2 and its fast and its on the side of the road as the station is hot with pigs and we pull into a lane and scuffle to fix with the last ok needle and then everything’s fine…again.

We were really close to having it on I think, when I think of zean. I mean I always wanted to you know. He’s fit, cute, intent. He’s straight like the ramones. He’s a razor blade in thought and a slug in speech. He cared most of all and I guess when you’re short of warmth a flame is better than a fire. He’s gone now like they all do. They just disappear. That’s the problem with reality it doesn’t last.

the whitneys britneys sicknees and flimbees

 

singles eat for twice the price

My shoes feel too tight

I’m high as I might

Just have ever have been, I fly out the door

Dissolve through the wall

I’m standing over your bed

slicing thoughts in my head

How fast  thin smiles change round here

We were throwing wits about just yesterday

Wine and beer and coke and cane

2 B’s, an E, diamorphine cocaine

Im to blame as the bups just don’t work

Nor rescue remedy I tried calling emergencey

But they just wouldn’t listen to me

So I’m blowing smoke on tree skulls

Fucking spider’s entrails

Licking blood, cleaning sheets,

Burning off the laptop keys

the moon  is at half

earth  in its pass

all for this fools behalf

Ill wax and I’ll wane

From hell I’ll abstain

swallow four myprodol

chased with valium as well

but there’s lack of respite

and the days stay as night

 

shedding bad habits

bedding entraptments

wedding  in blackness

fake sanity enactment

and I sit and I choke out the past and the wrath

and discharge the vipers lead the flame to the moth

cast one final smile then I’ll drown in the bath

sexxxed up lights flicker down the town is magic tonight

despite the dirtiest brown

im seeing straight with blurred vision intact

im feeling great  fifth demurred  incisioned whack

my well being  rates lift conferred ambition sacked

foreseeing  dilated clifts preferred  collision CRACK

dead at 3am or 7 whatever they’re good times? aren’t they

reinvent four/4 timing sucked on fack

 

Caged and unruly the mighty mamba smirks, I keep the famous under my skinned friend’S SKIRT and stilled I retreated between alligator and sloth trajectory skewed another vomit of fake water over the scene..suspicion  she screamed through this brain….fuck this shit I quit

I dive into the small of my back why don’t you ever stand up straight

Bite this motherfucker I swear in an infants breath I will not hesitate to make you swallow this deathly kiss

But oh shame little temper trantem, you must abstain little temper tantrum

The dirty kids on the street play with cell phones and the rest of us just get along sedated in glory for story

I put money In my pockets

I find plastic in my vomit

And I feel the trees are angry with me

And moving further away from me reminding me of something cruel

the view frees heavan from a shadow

but its all cool

hey boy take a walk on the wild side

the track retracts with gratitude

Like the audio bullies I really want to change the things that I do

He has the eyes of an unsuccessful rapist my first love – I do too

 

‘a sketch of the conclusions’ CONfESSIONS part I

Darwin's disciple

I NEVER GOT TO SAY GOODBYE

But you must have known I loved you

I arrived home in a sunny swamp left my lapt top in the car

I smoked a joint and eased into the cluckl , 7 beers in and and good old boys drank whiskey and rye and sang this will be the day that I die

whilst the mind went blank the spine painless

I mused at hues of  leaves their jolly moody greed

I mused on about anger in poetry, music and art..how the sweetness of the gene will determine their means

And then I walked to the end of the yard to look for you

Its been a day.. I miss your morning eyes and our evening lies

and then I spoke to that pregnant girl whose country ankles match her dead eyes

and she said ‘ they put her down’

oh Lady friend

I never got to say goodbye

But you must have known I loved you

 

I never got to say goodbye

But you must have known I loved you

Now not I remember where I was before

But I remember quite clearly opening their doors

And if earliest memory serves me well I know you laughed as I rolled you over

Flowers carried in right hand, smiles and sadness memory my madness

Whilst your brain was being unspun my stupid ways had all begun

oh yeah Here come the painbirds

Give me forever sleep saint mary

and now how strange all I see is your smile in their bed, in yours, in water, in kindess

How well you were adored

And though michelle had left us a prior day

I recall with a stab entering that hospice room where the nurses were making the sheets

The fan was turning my heart was burning and I still don’t have a clue

I never got to say goodbye

But you must have known I loved you

 

I never got to say goodbye

But you must have known I’d love you

You caught me taught me made me cry and you must have known I’d love you

Our merry ways our love in an elevator living it up whilst I was going down

Yet you have always been a stable friend and I know now we will stay friends until my end

Because

I’ll never get to say goodbye

But you’ve  always known I’d love you

 

 

 

its just a prick in your pants

I took a walk in needle park and got bought.
I took a swim with that shark and got caught.
I took my place next to my grave and then I fought.
I fought for the times with listless restrain as you might know
I get a kick from the pain. I get a restless leg and a scarred hand
And then I know I will never fight again.
I told my friends I had to leave.
I asked them please not to grieve
For I was to walk in needle park
And learn how to film in the dark

– nina remember-ed

camden and chris 008

an ayre through the mire

Twist and figure it out all over again and if it was not only for that dumb saturday decision….

. How many forged scripts can I count on one hand not enough I guess I’m losing my favourite crying game but sunday night was an armed breeze filled with hills the astute sky the dip and dives the ants under the keyboards, laughter surrender says a mighty truth for the warrior who wishes some finality over the sheets in the early evening..drunken tears spilt on stupid words we all prayed for a sunny day and we found it in glasses like summer us cope with our lives

Pity the fast word they warned not even the anorexic dog is denied the tension of these human wounds, I spill rebuttals I then have to clean up the bruises are vacant we never shift or forget we just indulge digest and regret…how fair the shift and how fair the fair?

I keep a mind journey that falls from control and those insults mean well little well when I’ve given the here a better thought I thought too much and then betrayed the cds trying to be dvds we spun them on something that was meant here to stay and like those 8 tracks they still all go away

This fight on fight off fight the fight you figure it out you have to finally see that I’ve finished I made up my mind like this whiskey glass the windows know much more than me..i wrote my last note ive cashed in my last phone I spent 12 years smoking and digging that bone away a special piece of how does the Cure sound?…oh yeah I made myself so sick.. I wish Id stayed asleep today

Wrapped wondering aloof in this special space – a blue casio tone to approve

And sheer pleasure dances in circles as if by telepathy whilst rampant grumbles echo a sullen bed because a head is trashed with lack of empathy

Beauty drips out the electrical morning for those lost loves

She kept asking for an opinion one she knew could never be found slipped down below the panty line I told them fuck off Id like to approve this surrender whilst you bopped your heads bowed in the most incorrect time….how?…fuck two fuck three fuck four and remember to always lock the door

Whatever Its all over and just remonstrated on now as we as he makes a final bow

the oracle of gaddafi

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?

oh endocarditis!!!

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.

PALACE OF BONE clip

PALACE OF BONE jhb premiere FRIDAY 5 AUGUST 7PM

Claire Angelique, Standard Bank Young Artist of the Year for Film 2010, screens her Jhb premiere of her new feature film PALACE OF BONE on FRIDAY 5 AUGUST 7PM at the BIOSCOPE INDEPENDENT CINEMA, 6 FOX STREET (MAIN STREET LIFE)  which showed to rave reviews at the recent National Arts Festival, Grahamstown 2011.

PALACE of BONE, is the documentation over a couple of months of the strangely unstable day to day life of Faith – a scarred but brazen and quirky twenty five year old.

Filmed entirely on cellular phones by her devoted best friend, the enigmatic Po, (who is rarely seen in front of the camera except in reflections, turning her back to Mecca…), we are allowed a voyeuristic peek into their friend’s squats, downtown bars and are privy to bedroom confessions. That is all until we realise that the ominous sequence of Faith’s actions due to likely severe psychological problems have forced Faith to escape the city and take to the hills.   

What we as an audience get to experience is Po’s last days with her comrade in the Palace of Bone; a euphemism for both the backstreets, backrooms and backdoors of the city of Durban and the cache of queer insights and outlooks of Faith, a girl who feels she is bigger than her world and thus has some rather unorthodox answers to curb her frustration.

The film ends with us only sort of certain that Faith was last seen on August 15 2008, smoking a joint beside rusty train tracks north of Botha’s Hill. What we are certain of is that there are six dead bodies in Durban harbour….

The film will be introduced by Claire Angelique who will be available to answer questions after the screening

”After the intensity and catharsis of  My Black Little Heart, her new film Palace of Bone is a step away from savagely personal. In fact it’s anything but autobiographical. Still, Angelique’s trademark dark, beautiful imagery pervades, as do the thematic obsessions with the underbelly and the underdog.’‘  – Cue

“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

‘’Claire Angelique’s extraordinary Palace of Bone will undoubtedly create a far-reaching impact. Although it is an unconventional film, it is rooted in mainstream popular culture. In particular reality television and the technological devices that have engendered a culture of (self) documentation. Angelique enjoys blurring the lines between fact and fiction, so the reality/documentary mode suits her aesthetic well…. In a way Palace of Bone is a twisted whodunit. But there are so many levels of meaning in this fascinating mockumentary.’’ Mary Corrigall – The Sunday Independent

TRAILOR:

http://www.facebook.com/l.php?u=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3D1BPDoGZeSZg&h=_AQB45sHy

CLIP FROM PALACE OF BONE

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xGvrECdo0TU

FACEBOOK EVENT PAGE

https://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=214609325256299

THE BIOSCOPE CINEMA BOOKING PAGE

http://www.thebioscope.co.za/

 

 

 

Die Freigabe der Vernichtung Lebensunwertigen Lebens – THE AUTHORIZATION FOR THE DESTRUCTION OF LIFE UNWORTHY OF LIFE

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

MBLH SCREENING 27 MAY 9PM…The Bioscope plus EXTRAS

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 http://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 www.thebioscope.co.za

Or visit https://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=195445973835124

https://claireangelique.wordpress.com/

http://www.youtube.com/papasalubi

20% sugar…NOLLIE FAITH

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

MY BLACK LITTLE HEART – BIOSCOPE JHB SCREENING 6 MAY 9PM…film maker in attendance

http://www.thebioscope.co.za/2011/05/03/standard-bank-young-artist-winner-claire-angelique-presents-her-film-my-black-little-heart/

MBLH SCREENING – 6 MAY BIOSCOPE film maker in attendance

http://www.thebioscope.co.za/2011/05/03/standard-bank-young-artist-winner-claire-angelique-presents-her-film-my-black-little-heart/

MY BLACK LITTLE HEART – SCREENING BIOSCOPE CINEMA 6 MAY 9PM

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

https://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=198147733560556

for Melville roja…this ones for jews

four of us. A strangely cool combination. I liked it. I liked hanging out with the cousins until, you know itss always the the that this next time thing. hubbly…… Everyone’s thing too bright. Clarity of thought is bad is only good when you remember it. This road felt like the other road looked like that road by the beachfront by seventh lane near loop near queens street. Her cat was street smart. We’re tearing up whispers on the top of morrocco. He said egypt was like yesterday stuck in tomorrow.

The pool is green and big, the table’s looking good, his asmatic approach made me laugh, her confirmation her nutty eyes

they’re happier without you I said

and next year we’ll all be dead. Like they say in durban, yeah bro i’ll do it tomorrow

my mom her bed her eyes

I cried

my hands the want the fuel

she sighed

the problem of cornettios

my problems like yours are all based on lies

one more beer and i”ll be just fine

serial hijackers raping serial rapists

I fear the scars will disappear

the broken leverage between lost art and lost soul

and the vapid toil of lost self control hey Cal, the hippy twist

fakes love loves fear

does it bug you when I say I don’t care does it bug you does it it bugs me every single night

I can”t I mean I can I mean’t what I said a bit of a long time not so long ago

different strokes for different folks is the feed fuck your mom and kill your dad is the deed

lets dumb this language down I hate this line I hate thiss line

finger tapping speed dreaming like lester bangs, I feel for you my friend

I feel your broken dreams

but I can’t pretend I am brave and I cant keep needing the living dead and I can”t see a straight line

anyway by that time we’ll like i’ve already said, we’ll all be dead

we all take what we get there’s no other face we’d rather all forget

I feel like i’ve started something i’ll never finsih

he read my palm

told me you’ll be doing what you’re doing for a long long time

he let go my hand and said

you’ll just be fine

I’ll be just fine

um

another impressive line

 

 

well done

 

 

 

4:46, get out of bed, brush your hair, make the lift club

 

psyched

its a cool feel on set. There’s harassment, perpetual explanations, dissertations, costume changes….grey skies instead of sun…its better….fast, spit it out young man, it will never be right, I guarantee it. This god damn illusion, its working backwards, fuck thank the gods its actually working. No democracy. Its the unilateral I, the sarcophagus in the sky. I try to form cubes and other dimensional shapes, they labour on about tea stained rags and union breaks theres rain theres bank accounts and breaks….theres hate and smite and wrong cues and dirty snags. And its so boring if you’re not in that zone. When the caterer runs out of coffee and the wardrobe dept is asleep, and you know theres a glass red wine being poured by a ghost while the dp dances for a while thats when I leave its when its best to leave…cause returning is never easy and its always over before you leave me

reading what you want what you wrote ditty

add subtract balance

the rain is a fall down

like yr promise you’ll

meet me this weekend

the screen is stuck on

your blue and its a

kind of a cool vibe

faces will tell you they lie

cases will keep you inside

masqueraders come

here every single

nightmares last time I fell

I just lied

give me the sun then moonlight

I knocked the air

out of the way

no doubt and my tab bullshit

that just ran out

Clever thoughts

she told me end

in doubt

we take the

future we take

everything

we both fight

but there’s always

a door there’s

always last nigh

I have a

hunch I’ll be just fine

bang in the bathroom….SUSUSUSUSUSUSTERILE

condoms on the grass

miiiiiiioowwaaahhh tat song

can you borrow back what you steal

its all about money anyway

the morning was light and bright

the wine had lost its taste

 

I speak to them on the corner

the rest are singing in their closed pews

its all just a catch

I just want a taste but just play it safe

nothings reflected in reality

its just need that fills up the space

its just you I can’t replace

 

faded frame and pop..popss. It it says it all

reeligion on a keyboard

iv’e learned to love reflections its only 8 in the mrning and I might be drunk

 

i’m still learning but i’m moving

i’m moving

sorry i stepped on your phone now

i’m over it…- bad spelling bad rimingg….you g…i’m over it

nothings making senssssssssssse '''''m over it..stttutckkk keyboar............i'm ooooooooooooooveit

ITS ALL IN THE DELIVERY

Highlow! and fuck it,good excuses

too much retro

to i’mm too drunk to type but sobre enoough to walk

vice versa

slurred verses

boring curses

ITS ALL IN THE DELIVERY

the churches are all dead

barbed wire I wish I was dead

this avenues so quiet

all the cars are white

and you and you’re dreaming in your bed

its all in the delivery

if I had a gun, i’d use it on my head

if I had a choice i’d use it in our bed

if I had some options, i’d trade for peace of mind

my eyes drip black every morning because you’re too unkind

my heart is tanked in confusion

its shooting its frozen its lying out on the grass

they’ll sit, they’ll laugh, they’ll drink, i’ll fast

I predict the preppy grunge wave

ITS ALL IN THE DELIVERY

egypt is out side my window, its a waning moon

I converted yesterday afternoon

i’m at my last

I function, I breathe, this right arm could be saved

is it how we planned to live our life a new excuse for hate

the words get shorter, the feeling longer – your short rod is about to break?

Bullet proof glass

what happens when the money runs out?

Its all in the fuckin delivery

its all about light

its all about I can’t convert gods beautiful images

i’m in egypt, i’m in a tomb

 

i’m in love with a girl…how fortunate?

FIRST he GIVETH THEN he TAKETH AWAY

this is the wail of the lonely wife….and such is life, she’s had enough

I caught her looking at me in the mirror, whilst he pushed you to the floor,

he said I just can’t take you and your fucking looks  no more

i’ve been with him when he fell, i’ve always helped pick up, i’ve been with him through hell

now he wants to fuck it all up

i’m a monster, an addict, a drunken psycho whore

well you’re just you, my dear, and as charming as before

we’ve spoke of concentration camps, executions, solo style

we’ve dreamed of potassium chloride and all the haters we’d defile

a team, some tracks, the finishing line in sight

one indiscretion can make everything right

or make everything a fight

i’d take my own life for this man, I made a wife for this man, I became pious for this man, i’m in crisis with this man

theirs shady eyes behind the doors,

why can’t you see them for what they are

I magnify my fears to remind you who I am

you shot me down to begin again

I don’t like your reasons, I don’t care for my tears

I’ve only been this drunk to drink all your beers

You mixed spite with my vitriol

you mixed whiskey with my wine

I trashed all our hotel rooms

because I’m just too damn kind?

this is the wail of the lonely wife…and such is life…she’s had enough

lets move further apart and trade guilt with self right

lets stay up and get wired and pretend the dark’s not light

i’ve become the only one thats bent and fucked and broke

you’ve just become my last resort, the face I can provoke.

Give me the truth and i’ll tell you a lie

its all the same anyhow, its all fucked now anyhow,

its all rather quite juvenile

…………stop

he stays in bed the whole day

walked right through the door

 

ding dong...mp4's 5 steps behind

set up with fake quotes from agents and managers –

I nearly burnt the kitchen down thank angels for smoke where there’s fire

 

lost in a tropical forest

questions for The Mole : concept versus video

 

I DON’T PRETEND TO SHOW MY AGE

it helps when there’s a history of painting in a family

 

‘I say I say, I say not’ ‘you again’, my dustbin is absolute full with toad stools,, how do you know its full, cause there’s not mushroom inside…he found a tigers head one day nailed to a piece of wood – the tiger looked quite miserable but I suppose he should – just then from outta window a voice began to wail ‘ he said oi where’s me tigers head? Four foot from his tail” oh my old mans a dustman he wearrs a dustman’s hat, he wears co rblimey trousers and he lives in a council flat, next time you see a dustman looking all pale and sad, don’t kick him in the dustbin he might be my ole dad’

 

the morning after……………”you”’ve messed up enough times. You ALWAYS mess up! Sorry That was meant to be a quote.

 

everything goes black.  orange cat eyes the space…just revolving back – weird flotation, sensory deprivation tanks

….for at least the next 6 minutes

I want to take photos of my bikini

cause darling you told you you’d never leave me

 

i’ll give it up for a good seat at the opera

bus pass, dumb smiles and just a little kiss between you and me

no drama, no drama

no more scars on your stomach

no more scars on my arm

I told you its just a reminder of karma

I promise you no more no more

drama, no more drama

 

 

i like big hands

 

aum

men pause

31239185

35

8

LEARNING TO LIVE ON THE GROUND

new speakers and headphones

got a fix?

I am the boy with no arms, dad panicked on seeing him in the crib

what a fib we’re all messed up ad lib

black to white with a clever left foot, he did right in school, he figured out the 20 sec ad lib

white to whine real life dress rehearsal

humans just can’t get along

living out your favourite song

i’ve always loved big hands and I don’t even really know why

the scars are disappearing and I donn’t even really know why

I gnarled at him he gnarled at me I don’t know if its wise

army figures rise

3 Casspirss 10 soldiers

flood relief

employment down so please put yourself in the firing line

white water rafting

black water rafting

life on the streets

no life on the reef

spaghetti highways

pastel cities

bus driver in training

mothers in waiting

a man with one leg has the coolest jersey I ever saw

and a 1984 chrysler new yorker

put yourselves on th eline, the army needs you..there’s too much water

muddy boyfriend

. I pass Bongisiwe’s house. It’s a wooden two bedroom with chickens in the yard. Loud gospel music is swimming through the windows and a faint light seeps through. It makes me happy to think that her family is inside. Bundled up, her doing her homework, her mom feeding the baby, her father watching the news on TV. I want to go in. I want to ask them if they can change the colour of my eyes and make it all right again. But I don’t because I don’t want to make it right, I want to make it wrong and therefore I am wrong….. apparently. I sneak into one of the containers and watch the spores growing in the hay, soon they will be fungi and people will eat them. It feels magical. Tomorrow I will feel magical, tomorrow I will begin again. I will move, I will smile, I will tell Suzy and nick that I love them desperately and want them near. I will travel great continents to hold them close to me, let them feel this black heart bleat, let them know that I am in control; I am the maker, the marker, the mast and the helm. How do you begin again, which moment dictates the direction? I am standing now in the big green field next to the lake. The boat has been set free. I sit and listen to the night. I sit and wander what to think; now that I have destroyed all that I love and love all that I hate.

they shoot little birds in back yards

henry david thoreau

Cottingly re hoax re visited..and a fair afternoon..cast

cast

cast

cast

cast

cast

cast

cast

cast

sno’ white + the 7

I’m totally alone now and loving it, yup.

Everyone was right yip

 I’m a fuckin waste a time washed up skag hag hang er’up Zane said, insane hatin on all yr douchie shag gang, who?, ja, you ? you needa join to get cred? Nope?  I don’t fuck with no cpt names, bunch of jhb wannabe drug addict intels in the advertising house of vain…zip?  2 faced coke snorting supreme games Melville hanging lift givin dyed red headed fat fuck tryin with fingers fingerin these genes to get that oh no omo taint, etv leftovers in a craz-e bed, marked like a pilgrim with that pocket of middle aged cool, dude, I’d rather be dead. RIP washed out writers so super clean, bleached as a fool in a 4×4 jacked as a blck cube. No invites yeah, where’s your headliner mpu? Monster parted before you started on that puma’deal didn’t work out, didn’t call it out too cool, clickety clacking lynching across the hall, black n white drama photos no time to hang too much hype praise to Ja’ fall, dread locked died clout crawl.

Sneakered theosophist onna a pining stage, hangin back

Pinprick flint splinterin no blood no pain

Onna corner hangin back, fake gold chains exchanged

Hang er’up said Zane

 

aversion therapy