hi guys...
just thought id start a thread for those of us who write while driving, write on bubble gum paper, napkins, those of us who sit bolt upright in bed at night and have to scribble some new epiphany out....
heres one for my new melb beat crew....
Savouring the smell of sticky sweet sounds
that roll off the palate like jelly.
Relishing the radience of rounded rumbles,
that echo through the bottom of a belly.
Tasting the treats of thick tunes
that tingle every earlobe and drum,
believing the basis of black bouncy bass
that vibrates from little toe to thumb.
Rejoicing the roundness of rumbling repeats
that reverberate endlessly............
Call it music, or the sound of the earth,
images that take us back to birth.
You say we advocate
drugs sex and violence,
I tell you-
nothing starts with
silence.
kitties daily words of insight
-
ghetto kitty
- Posts: 13157
- Joined: Thu May 04, 2006 1:40 pm
- Contact:
kitties daily words of insight
Last edited by ghetto kitty on Mon May 29, 2006 5:21 pm, edited 1 time in total.
-
ghetto kitty
- Posts: 13157
- Joined: Thu May 04, 2006 1:40 pm
- Contact:
hehehe dunno bout MCing
but with my husky semi yanki/semi irish/aussie something accent ive done lots of voice over shit...
im being pushed by friends to do spoken word stuff, but i hate the whole old man pub soppy love poetry or intense shock value aspect of spoken word...
ive got soooo many words....want to do spoken word night at lounge maybe...but when it comes to that...kitty is shy...yes. shy.
but with my husky semi yanki/semi irish/aussie something accent ive done lots of voice over shit...
im being pushed by friends to do spoken word stuff, but i hate the whole old man pub soppy love poetry or intense shock value aspect of spoken word...
ive got soooo many words....want to do spoken word night at lounge maybe...but when it comes to that...kitty is shy...yes. shy.
-
sweetcheeks
- Posts: 1310
- Joined: Tue Dec 07, 2004 2:52 pm
-
ghetto kitty
- Posts: 13157
- Joined: Thu May 04, 2006 1:40 pm
- Contact:
I wish I could use my shoplifting abilities
and steal you away from here.
Parents the cameras encased in black bubbles
watching us, recording with a little red flashing light
they call ‘morality’
Friends are the metal strip stuck somewhere hidden,
that beeps and yells when we leave them,
doors slam shut and they are tackling me.
Society the round thief mirrors,
watching to make sure we don’t bust out
happiness regardless of the consequences.
If I could, I would hold you for a moment,
then surreptitiously look around and
slide you into my bag gently.
As soon as youre out of sight nobody
has any proof I took you,
that you were not always mine to begin with.
Even if you had a die tag I wouldn’t care,
I would try and remove it carefully,
but if you ended up half blue that would be fine.
I’m tempted just to grab you and run,
sirens and people screaming and me escaping,
then the rush of knowing I have you safe,
that you are mine.
and steal you away from here.
Parents the cameras encased in black bubbles
watching us, recording with a little red flashing light
they call ‘morality’
Friends are the metal strip stuck somewhere hidden,
that beeps and yells when we leave them,
doors slam shut and they are tackling me.
Society the round thief mirrors,
watching to make sure we don’t bust out
happiness regardless of the consequences.
If I could, I would hold you for a moment,
then surreptitiously look around and
slide you into my bag gently.
As soon as youre out of sight nobody
has any proof I took you,
that you were not always mine to begin with.
Even if you had a die tag I wouldn’t care,
I would try and remove it carefully,
but if you ended up half blue that would be fine.
I’m tempted just to grab you and run,
sirens and people screaming and me escaping,
then the rush of knowing I have you safe,
that you are mine.
Umm, do you mind if I ask...can you PM me your number. I'm working on doing another Subvert this year (I swear to GOD!ghetto kitty wrote:hehehe dunno bout MCing
but with my husky semi yanki/semi irish/aussie something accent ive done lots of voice over shit...
im being pushed by friends to do spoken word stuff, but i hate the whole old man pub soppy love poetry or intense shock value aspect of spoken word...
ive got soooo many words....want to do spoken word night at lounge maybe...but when it comes to that...kitty is shy...yes. shy.
) and I love chick MC's. 
Only the meek get pinched...the bold survive
-
ghetto kitty
- Posts: 13157
- Joined: Thu May 04, 2006 1:40 pm
- Contact:
-
Ag3nT[]0raNg3
- old boy
- Posts: 10001
- Joined: Thu Nov 25, 2004 1:29 am
- Location: There was a hole here. It's gone now
- Contact:
-
ghetto kitty
- Posts: 13157
- Joined: Thu May 04, 2006 1:40 pm
- Contact:
-
Lizkins
- Junior Vice President
- Posts: 17099
- Joined: Thu Nov 25, 2004 5:09 pm
- Location: Never never land
Citizen Smif wrote:http://www.battlemcs.net/media/beefy.wmvLuKo wrote:oh and beefy - i dont know what these peeps us eit for but we all call dope, pot grass - BEEF
but thats just us, there may be some DnB term I'm not down with!
http://battlemcs.net/media/taz.wmv
watch them
bahahahahaha kills me everytime i see it
-
ghetto kitty
- Posts: 13157
- Joined: Thu May 04, 2006 1:40 pm
- Contact:
nice to speak with you too...LuKo wrote:hey Ghetto Kitty,
nice to speak with you the other day, great stuff ^^
IC3 is an MC I believe
im onto the monitor thingie...think it will happen..
so youve still lost me mofos
IC3 is an MCI???
maybe im a luddite but
i dont fuckin get it!
and beef = pot
uuummmmm okaaaay roger that for future reference
heres more for you funny people
My friends name is molly
Shes been a junkie for ten years
She squats an old church in Footscray
With her man and her four year old named velocity winter fox.
One day I went to visit her
And she was cutting these beautiful stencils out of paper
That were blowing all over the crooked wooden floor of the church
Her man, Aaron works at the docks unloading coffee and car parts
Their money goes to two places, to their daughter and into their arms.
I took her to the hardware shop and spent
$25 on canvases for her to paint
she was thankful and touched and I left her with hope.
Six months later
I was curating an exhibition in Melbourne,
I went to her place to drink cups of tea and catch up.
She had done two of the canvases, one with a haunting geisha girl
And the other with intricate patterns like tapestry….
After much convincing she agreed to let me exhibit them
She thought they were crap and I convinced her otherwise
I encouraged her to come to the show.
Three weeks later
Opening night
Lots of people
A million things going on
Lights blowing out and plummeting the art into darkness
She appears through the crowd
She is black and angular and exotic and a bit insecure at being here
With the glasses of wine and small talk around her
She comes up to me with tears in her eyes
Hugs me tightly
Says ‘my art is on the wall over there with a red dot next to it”
Tears threaten to give her away
“I know your busy, but I just wanted to say thankyou, you don’t know how much this means to me”
and she snakes off through the crowd…
but I do know
-
sweetcheeks
- Posts: 1310
- Joined: Tue Dec 07, 2004 2:52 pm
here you go my lovelyghetto kitty wrote:nobodies telling me what IC3 and beefy has to do with shit.
cmon, if your gonna hijack, give me some ammo to join in!!
P.S: i think some of yours words are lovely too, thanks for sharing
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aBQ79FrHxmA
that's the beefy thing
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=it13mMTue9o
that's taz
i love those guys. beefy made me laugh more in one hour than i have in a whole week. fucking skilled.
-
ghetto kitty
- Posts: 13157
- Joined: Thu May 04, 2006 1:40 pm
- Contact:
okaaaay...funny...
the beefy guy is a crack up...and IC3 is kinda funny...
...i was tryin to be all intellectual and actually provide you all with some food for thought...but if youd rather joke....
(jk)
stickers?
i dont recall...but heres some visual kitty stimulation for those of you who dont like to read...hehehehe
the beefy guy is a crack up...and IC3 is kinda funny...
...i was tryin to be all intellectual and actually provide you all with some food for thought...but if youd rather joke....
(jk)
stickers?
i dont recall...but heres some visual kitty stimulation for those of you who dont like to read...hehehehe
Last edited by ghetto kitty on Tue May 30, 2006 1:42 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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sweetcheeks
- Posts: 1310
- Joined: Tue Dec 07, 2004 2:52 pm
whoops - yeah sorry, the tune i was thinking of is a skibba tune.
I have another tune thats breaks that has someone shouting IC3, tahts not skibba, i figured there was someone out ther called that.
wickid news about a monitor!
fingers crossed
so when you said you do street art I figured wall mural, maybe even one of tehse people who replicates the last supper or whatever on teh footpath as you walk home. Cant say I have seen anyone putting up poetry - very original idea
I have another tune thats breaks that has someone shouting IC3, tahts not skibba, i figured there was someone out ther called that.
wickid news about a monitor!
fingers crossedso when you said you do street art I figured wall mural, maybe even one of tehse people who replicates the last supper or whatever on teh footpath as you walk home. Cant say I have seen anyone putting up poetry - very original idea
Really like your style Kitty. Not scared to put your creative flow out there for us to savor. So often people just knock down those who dare to express, well you don’t even bother with that tired old re-press. Just getting your flow on, non stop, kinda rock, very ghetto, you just seem to let go. A welcome force on the creative tip to the Melbourne Beats way, hope your mad style is here to stay. It’s a positive force, this vibe that you brought, something about that level of expression, that motivated outlook, this thread is the perfect example, just a sample. So many creative people on here, so many that feed of each other, that don’t hold back. This is a point in Melbourne’s star, a little point, where on a tip of a silver meeting place, things happen, people express, people share, people don’t hold back, just scat, let it flow, take a page from the Ghetto, good stuff.
-
ghetto kitty
- Posts: 13157
- Joined: Thu May 04, 2006 1:40 pm
- Contact:
aw shucks guys..
thanks for the props...just lookin to widen my creative circle a little..
many concentric rings make up the world, too often we are separated by nothing but air...
anyone else with words they love...
daily tidbits and realisations...
bring em on!!!
one more for you>>
(its cheesy, you have been warned)
Single white butterfly
is the same size
as the planes in the sky.
We have been waiting,
and now its time to fly.
Lifting wings above
the dirt of this world,
every person
opens the cage
and frees
thier little bird.
thanks for the props...just lookin to widen my creative circle a little..
many concentric rings make up the world, too often we are separated by nothing but air...
anyone else with words they love...
daily tidbits and realisations...
bring em on!!!
one more for you>>
(its cheesy, you have been warned)
Single white butterfly
is the same size
as the planes in the sky.
We have been waiting,
and now its time to fly.
Lifting wings above
the dirt of this world,
every person
opens the cage
and frees
thier little bird.
-
ghetto kitty
- Posts: 13157
- Joined: Thu May 04, 2006 1:40 pm
- Contact:
-
ghetto kitty
- Posts: 13157
- Joined: Thu May 04, 2006 1:40 pm
- Contact:
alrgihty then, your all shy, but i know you have words.....heres some more for your monday morning...
Overture De La Reality
Swirling rush of traffic
mixed with screech of bird.
Soaring jumbos overhead
slamming doors
and squealing brakes around.
Soft flapping of curtain
and sway of feathers
broken by loud male
proclamations.
Hum of electricity hidden
by the beating of hearts
in ribcages and breaths in lungs.
Each passing car moves
with its own personality.
Each new gust of cool
night breeze
holds more secrets.
Every sound an instrument
in this orchestra
that is reality..
Overture De La Reality
Swirling rush of traffic
mixed with screech of bird.
Soaring jumbos overhead
slamming doors
and squealing brakes around.
Soft flapping of curtain
and sway of feathers
broken by loud male
proclamations.
Hum of electricity hidden
by the beating of hearts
in ribcages and breaths in lungs.
Each passing car moves
with its own personality.
Each new gust of cool
night breeze
holds more secrets.
Every sound an instrument
in this orchestra
that is reality..
-
jude the obscure
- Posts: 76
- Joined: Wed Aug 24, 2005 5:42 pm
- Location: puddle
Hope?
I sang with her on the docks
while she designed changes
for the stylized body.
I blew her a fan and she noted
his name – claiming “many
abrupt things” into her
inbuilt microphone until
we could care, and
imagine the next scene.
too soon did I wake not to seize
the surrounding hours all lumped
on one side of my plate while
I tipped my tea down the sink
and ate a cherry.
I sang with her on the docks
while she designed changes
for the stylized body.
I blew her a fan and she noted
his name – claiming “many
abrupt things” into her
inbuilt microphone until
we could care, and
imagine the next scene.
too soon did I wake not to seize
the surrounding hours all lumped
on one side of my plate while
I tipped my tea down the sink
and ate a cherry.
-
ghetto kitty
- Posts: 13157
- Joined: Thu May 04, 2006 1:40 pm
- Contact:
-
Terry Tate
- Posts: 804
- Joined: Fri Mar 18, 2005 4:14 pm
- Location: come in! this is lonely soldier! my location is....bookshop!
im bored and thought id support ghetto k with some of my writing.
these are just the lyrics from my old band.
intifada and the politik of revenge -
I’ll argue you into the ground.
Six feet deep bunkers, coffins of concrete.
As the bombs come hailing down.
I wear my heart on my sleeve with a wired-up explosive vest.
Bomb blast sends my message to the heavens and you.
Mushroom clouds of confusion and hate hang over the cityscape.
Pallid dawns, ghost town streets. Won’t leave the house to eat.
What does it take?
Don’t look at me with bloodshot eyes. A (glorified) shouting match with no compromise.
bury me at makeout creek -
Trash compactor silences and I’ll punctuate my sentences with a slap across the face.
When my face is a bank vault and my mind works the room, I’ll slice through your tendons ‘til you can’t help but swoon.
Called out her name.
Left ignored.
Times change.
Flesh dies.
You watch her walk away. And a red wind blows.
going out on a high note -
When rubber bullets tickle your thighs and blood lust rises in your eyes.
Hopscotch trauma, shattered kneecaps. A rueful grin before collapse.
Trash. Life. Fuck. Money. Work. Sleep. Die.
moods like a guillotine -
There are a million liars and they all look like you.
A conspiracy of riches, a stock price in despair.
A created monster, mutated by time.
Thresholds are broken, homes lie in ruins.
Lightning tang taste in the air.
Jackhammer pounding inside your head.
Skipping rope noose, head in your hands.
Seeing visions, killing time.
Masked pain.
Skipping rope noose.
Hang your head in shame.
This is the end.
Echoing footsteps. Her breath hangs in the air.
I see your face. In my dreams. Everywhere.
mask of sanity -
Grey shadows move and sigh, fighting a translucent tide
Witches chanting, firelight dance
Lulling you into a trance
Chainsaw economics. Loss-making murders. Karmic belligerence. Crippling games.
Cries echo. A falling god
Derelict machinery faceless to you.
Cries echo. A rotting view.
Another office building rising through the fog
Glass and metal offering to your almighty commerce god.
Watch face broken, watch life die.
Wooden expression hiding the lie.
between the devil and the deep blue sea -
Transient soldiers, marching disease
The plague falls a thousand years
Festering ideals lurk along borders, hypnotised by spinning gold.
Demoralised. A cutting remark and she loses her head.
Life’s on a knife-edge.
Cattle cries in cities of sin. Shadows mask the horror we’re in
a piercing gaze -
A knife wound gaze and a needlepoint smile
One glance and you pierce my heart.
Seasick mantras chanted by fey priests
Wind-chill maritime, romance decay.
One glance and you pierce my heart.
Rope-burnt love. Safe-word sex.
all too human -
They sucked the oxygen out of my lungs
Wounded soldiers desperately seeking a battle
What must be done is to save all
Self-amputations appease the gods that only I can hear.
She’s pronounced dead when she can’t fight back
Choking back on the bile that runneth over my chest
Eating pituitary glands and forecasting evil futures
As the smell of burning flesh invades my senses.
Degenerative outsourcing, sucking them dry. Injection of serotonin into her tear ducts’.
these are just the lyrics from my old band.
intifada and the politik of revenge -
I’ll argue you into the ground.
Six feet deep bunkers, coffins of concrete.
As the bombs come hailing down.
I wear my heart on my sleeve with a wired-up explosive vest.
Bomb blast sends my message to the heavens and you.
Mushroom clouds of confusion and hate hang over the cityscape.
Pallid dawns, ghost town streets. Won’t leave the house to eat.
What does it take?
Don’t look at me with bloodshot eyes. A (glorified) shouting match with no compromise.
bury me at makeout creek -
Trash compactor silences and I’ll punctuate my sentences with a slap across the face.
When my face is a bank vault and my mind works the room, I’ll slice through your tendons ‘til you can’t help but swoon.
Called out her name.
Left ignored.
Times change.
Flesh dies.
You watch her walk away. And a red wind blows.
going out on a high note -
When rubber bullets tickle your thighs and blood lust rises in your eyes.
Hopscotch trauma, shattered kneecaps. A rueful grin before collapse.
Trash. Life. Fuck. Money. Work. Sleep. Die.
moods like a guillotine -
There are a million liars and they all look like you.
A conspiracy of riches, a stock price in despair.
A created monster, mutated by time.
Thresholds are broken, homes lie in ruins.
Lightning tang taste in the air.
Jackhammer pounding inside your head.
Skipping rope noose, head in your hands.
Seeing visions, killing time.
Masked pain.
Skipping rope noose.
Hang your head in shame.
This is the end.
Echoing footsteps. Her breath hangs in the air.
I see your face. In my dreams. Everywhere.
mask of sanity -
Grey shadows move and sigh, fighting a translucent tide
Witches chanting, firelight dance
Lulling you into a trance
Chainsaw economics. Loss-making murders. Karmic belligerence. Crippling games.
Cries echo. A falling god
Derelict machinery faceless to you.
Cries echo. A rotting view.
Another office building rising through the fog
Glass and metal offering to your almighty commerce god.
Watch face broken, watch life die.
Wooden expression hiding the lie.
between the devil and the deep blue sea -
Transient soldiers, marching disease
The plague falls a thousand years
Festering ideals lurk along borders, hypnotised by spinning gold.
Demoralised. A cutting remark and she loses her head.
Life’s on a knife-edge.
Cattle cries in cities of sin. Shadows mask the horror we’re in
a piercing gaze -
A knife wound gaze and a needlepoint smile
One glance and you pierce my heart.
Seasick mantras chanted by fey priests
Wind-chill maritime, romance decay.
One glance and you pierce my heart.
Rope-burnt love. Safe-word sex.
all too human -
They sucked the oxygen out of my lungs
Wounded soldiers desperately seeking a battle
What must be done is to save all
Self-amputations appease the gods that only I can hear.
She’s pronounced dead when she can’t fight back
Choking back on the bile that runneth over my chest
Eating pituitary glands and forecasting evil futures
As the smell of burning flesh invades my senses.
Degenerative outsourcing, sucking them dry. Injection of serotonin into her tear ducts’.
New Hampshire's alright if you like fighting.
-
The Antichrist
- Posts: 45
- Joined: Thu May 18, 2006 11:41 am
- Location: Hollywood, LA
Have you thought about joining the army of the undead?? We could do with a cheerleader.Terry Tate wrote:im bored and thought id support ghetto k with some of my writing.
these are just the lyrics from my old band.
intifada and the politik of revenge -
I’ll argue you into the ground.
Six feet deep bunkers, coffins of concrete.
As the bombs come hailing down.
I wear my heart on my sleeve with a wired-up explosive vest.
Bomb blast sends my message to the heavens and you.
Mushroom clouds of confusion and hate hang over the cityscape.
Pallid dawns, ghost town streets. Won’t leave the house to eat.
What does it take?
Don’t look at me with bloodshot eyes. A (glorified) shouting match with no compromise.
bury me at makeout creek -
Trash compactor silences and I’ll punctuate my sentences with a slap across the face.
When my face is a bank vault and my mind works the room, I’ll slice through your tendons ‘til you can’t help but swoon.
Called out her name.
Left ignored.
Times change.
Flesh dies.
You watch her walk away. And a red wind blows.
going out on a high note -
When rubber bullets tickle your thighs and blood lust rises in your eyes.
Hopscotch trauma, shattered kneecaps. A rueful grin before collapse.
Trash. Life. Fuck. Money. Work. Sleep. Die.
moods like a guillotine -
There are a million liars and they all look like you.
A conspiracy of riches, a stock price in despair.
A created monster, mutated by time.
Thresholds are broken, homes lie in ruins.
Lightning tang taste in the air.
Jackhammer pounding inside your head.
Skipping rope noose, head in your hands.
Seeing visions, killing time.
Masked pain.
Skipping rope noose.
Hang your head in shame.
This is the end.
Echoing footsteps. Her breath hangs in the air.
I see your face. In my dreams. Everywhere.
mask of sanity -
Grey shadows move and sigh, fighting a translucent tide
Witches chanting, firelight dance
Lulling you into a trance
Chainsaw economics. Loss-making murders. Karmic belligerence. Crippling games.
Cries echo. A falling god
Derelict machinery faceless to you.
Cries echo. A rotting view.
Another office building rising through the fog
Glass and metal offering to your almighty commerce god.
Watch face broken, watch life die.
Wooden expression hiding the lie.
between the devil and the deep blue sea -
Transient soldiers, marching disease
The plague falls a thousand years
Festering ideals lurk along borders, hypnotised by spinning gold.
Demoralised. A cutting remark and she loses her head.
Life’s on a knife-edge.
Cattle cries in cities of sin. Shadows mask the horror we’re in
a piercing gaze -
A knife wound gaze and a needlepoint smile
One glance and you pierce my heart.
Seasick mantras chanted by fey priests
Wind-chill maritime, romance decay.
One glance and you pierce my heart.
Rope-burnt love. Safe-word sex.
all too human -
They sucked the oxygen out of my lungs
Wounded soldiers desperately seeking a battle
What must be done is to save all
Self-amputations appease the gods that only I can hear.
She’s pronounced dead when she can’t fight back
Choking back on the bile that runneth over my chest
Eating pituitary glands and forecasting evil futures
As the smell of burning flesh invades my senses.
Degenerative outsourcing, sucking them dry. Injection of serotonin into her tear ducts’.
-
Terry Tate
- Posts: 804
- Joined: Fri Mar 18, 2005 4:14 pm
- Location: come in! this is lonely soldier! my location is....bookshop!
ive already turned down offers from the church of satan, mormon and scientology.The Antichrist wrote:Have you thought about joining the army of the undead?? We could do with a cheerleader.Terry Tate wrote:im bored and thought id support ghetto k with some of my writing.
these are just the lyrics from my old band.
intifada and the politik of revenge -
I’ll argue you into the ground.
Six feet deep bunkers, coffins of concrete.
As the bombs come hailing down.
I wear my heart on my sleeve with a wired-up explosive vest.
Bomb blast sends my message to the heavens and you.
Mushroom clouds of confusion and hate hang over the cityscape.
Pallid dawns, ghost town streets. Won’t leave the house to eat.
What does it take?
Don’t look at me with bloodshot eyes. A (glorified) shouting match with no compromise.
bury me at makeout creek -
Trash compactor silences and I’ll punctuate my sentences with a slap across the face.
When my face is a bank vault and my mind works the room, I’ll slice through your tendons ‘til you can’t help but swoon.
Called out her name.
Left ignored.
Times change.
Flesh dies.
You watch her walk away. And a red wind blows.
going out on a high note -
When rubber bullets tickle your thighs and blood lust rises in your eyes.
Hopscotch trauma, shattered kneecaps. A rueful grin before collapse.
Trash. Life. Fuck. Money. Work. Sleep. Die.
moods like a guillotine -
There are a million liars and they all look like you.
A conspiracy of riches, a stock price in despair.
A created monster, mutated by time.
Thresholds are broken, homes lie in ruins.
Lightning tang taste in the air.
Jackhammer pounding inside your head.
Skipping rope noose, head in your hands.
Seeing visions, killing time.
Masked pain.
Skipping rope noose.
Hang your head in shame.
This is the end.
Echoing footsteps. Her breath hangs in the air.
I see your face. In my dreams. Everywhere.
mask of sanity -
Grey shadows move and sigh, fighting a translucent tide
Witches chanting, firelight dance
Lulling you into a trance
Chainsaw economics. Loss-making murders. Karmic belligerence. Crippling games.
Cries echo. A falling god
Derelict machinery faceless to you.
Cries echo. A rotting view.
Another office building rising through the fog
Glass and metal offering to your almighty commerce god.
Watch face broken, watch life die.
Wooden expression hiding the lie.
between the devil and the deep blue sea -
Transient soldiers, marching disease
The plague falls a thousand years
Festering ideals lurk along borders, hypnotised by spinning gold.
Demoralised. A cutting remark and she loses her head.
Life’s on a knife-edge.
Cattle cries in cities of sin. Shadows mask the horror we’re in
a piercing gaze -
A knife wound gaze and a needlepoint smile
One glance and you pierce my heart.
Seasick mantras chanted by fey priests
Wind-chill maritime, romance decay.
One glance and you pierce my heart.
Rope-burnt love. Safe-word sex.
all too human -
They sucked the oxygen out of my lungs
Wounded soldiers desperately seeking a battle
What must be done is to save all
Self-amputations appease the gods that only I can hear.
She’s pronounced dead when she can’t fight back
Choking back on the bile that runneth over my chest
Eating pituitary glands and forecasting evil futures
As the smell of burning flesh invades my senses.
Degenerative outsourcing, sucking them dry. Injection of serotonin into her tear ducts’.
but, do you have those pleated skirts that flip up and show off my ass when i jump around?
if so, im interested
New Hampshire's alright if you like fighting.
-
The Antichrist
- Posts: 45
- Joined: Thu May 18, 2006 11:41 am
- Location: Hollywood, LA
That's a big 10-4.
We'll see you on the evening before 6-6-6 for a dress rehersal. Do you mind if your skirt is made from the viscera of the undead, and your pom-poms are capilliaries woven together with the silk of spiders that have killed small children??
If not, we'll be seein' yo ass shortly, hot thang
We'll see you on the evening before 6-6-6 for a dress rehersal. Do you mind if your skirt is made from the viscera of the undead, and your pom-poms are capilliaries woven together with the silk of spiders that have killed small children??
If not, we'll be seein' yo ass shortly, hot thang
-
ghetto kitty
- Posts: 13157
- Joined: Thu May 04, 2006 1:40 pm
- Contact:
okay> terry that is morbid and full of sickeningly familiar imagery..
i cant imagine it being sung though, what kind of band was it?? and, did you write it?
and>>
ive been practising my cheers, windows break and my own mutilated spawn run and hide when i do star jumps, wings of death breath created on the sidelines...
the players are about to be played
six days to go
its no conicidence ive found you both
i cant imagine it being sung though, what kind of band was it?? and, did you write it?
and>>
jeebus christ, the antichrist, with tom cruise as your incarnation on earth, planning the final game of which i have dreamed of for so long, finally my black pigtails will be put to the use they have waited dormantly in 'cuteness' forever.The Antichrist wrote:We'll see you on the evening before 6-6-6 for a dress rehersal. Do you mind if your skirt is made from the viscera of the undead, and your pom-poms are capilliaries woven together with the silk of spiders that have killed small children??
ive been practising my cheers, windows break and my own mutilated spawn run and hide when i do star jumps, wings of death breath created on the sidelines...
the players are about to be played
six days to go
its no conicidence ive found you both
-
Terry Tate
- Posts: 804
- Joined: Fri Mar 18, 2005 4:14 pm
- Location: come in! this is lonely soldier! my location is....bookshop!
hah well it wasnt sung as much as screamed out at the top of my lungs. it was a grind band full of blast beats and awesome shredding riffage. similar to 'scum'-era napalm death, early void and nasum, pig destroyer, etc.ghetto kitty wrote:okay> terry that is morbid and full of sickeningly familiar imagery..
i cant imagine it being sung though, what kind of band was it?? and, did you write it?
and>>
jeebus christ, the antichrist, with tom cruise as your incarnation on earth, planning the final game of which i have dreamed of for so long, finally my black pigtails will be put to the use they have waited dormantly in 'cuteness' forever.The Antichrist wrote:We'll see you on the evening before 6-6-6 for a dress rehersal. Do you mind if your skirt is made from the viscera of the undead, and your pom-poms are capilliaries woven together with the silk of spiders that have killed small children??
ive been practising my cheers, windows break and my own mutilated spawn run and hide when i do star jumps, wings of death breath created on the sidelines...
the players are about to be played
six days to go
its no conicidence ive found you both
and yup i did all the writing and singing.
what i was trying to do with the lyrics is create a mental feeling of isolation and despair etc. not so much conjure images, just the vague notions of them. i dont really find them all that morbid. but other friends have been rather weary of me after reading them so i can see that point of view.
ill write a story about two happy caterpillars and their adventures through the library later
New Hampshire's alright if you like fighting.
-
cj the taniwha
- Posts: 1170
- Joined: Wed Aug 24, 2005 5:20 am
- Location: Melburn
- Contact:
i really liked your lyrics mr tate, they were cool, and i have to admit i was hearing napalm death style backing after i read them for a while, nice use of words.
props to dboy, jude and especially ms kitty, so good to read some interesting writing to stimulate my otherwise dormant work enslaved brain
props to dboy, jude and especially ms kitty, so good to read some interesting writing to stimulate my otherwise dormant work enslaved brain
Back from the desert to stir things up a little
-
ghetto kitty
- Posts: 13157
- Joined: Thu May 04, 2006 1:40 pm
- Contact:
hmmm knew twas thrash grind...i used to have a bf that would play rammstein and neurbauted at seven am every day, somehow i was never in a great mood in the morning, and i usually am!
heres anthoer silly one, almost like the caterpillars in the library>but a little more truthful/believable!
To find out who you are, and why you are here....dont try this lovely recipie for disaster, tried and tested the world over and a favorite of many families.
Take
1 executive position (stressed)
10 years of lost childhood
20 grudges
2 cars over $50 000
1 mortgage
20 thwarted love affairs (pounded)
600 visits to an analyst
1 or 2 religious beliefs (sifted)
500 arguments (diced)
50 self help books
100 broken resolutions
300 fights (punch ups, yelling matches or
household destructions will do)
1 negative self image or block of total self righteousness
2 bags of shit
1000 small fragments of hope
and 4 large walls of denial.
Mix together with tears and frustration to taste
and cook on high until you explode.
heres anthoer silly one, almost like the caterpillars in the library>but a little more truthful/believable!
To find out who you are, and why you are here....dont try this lovely recipie for disaster, tried and tested the world over and a favorite of many families.
Take
1 executive position (stressed)
10 years of lost childhood
20 grudges
2 cars over $50 000
1 mortgage
20 thwarted love affairs (pounded)
600 visits to an analyst
1 or 2 religious beliefs (sifted)
500 arguments (diced)
50 self help books
100 broken resolutions
300 fights (punch ups, yelling matches or
household destructions will do)
1 negative self image or block of total self righteousness
2 bags of shit
1000 small fragments of hope
and 4 large walls of denial.
Mix together with tears and frustration to taste
and cook on high until you explode.
-
ghetto kitty
- Posts: 13157
- Joined: Thu May 04, 2006 1:40 pm
- Contact:
-
Terry Tate
- Posts: 804
- Joined: Fri Mar 18, 2005 4:14 pm
- Location: come in! this is lonely soldier! my location is....bookshop!
haha i found the bio for my new band THE ALMIGHTY TROJAN WHORES!
my friend ro and i wrote our bio bits each, his is first. we use the pseudonyms binge and purge. no you cannot steal this idea.
Binge (aka R): Once hunted for his thick, luxuriant coat, Binge, aka “R”, has now settled in Melbourne, Victoria, under a shady witness protection program (reason classified). This slab of muscle (photos soon ladies) was raised by the Bayaka pygmies of Africa’s Congo, and considered to be a mythical, white giant who would bring hope and protection for a people plagued by rabid, Dutch businessmen, lost and stranded in the Congo after a hunting trip went terribly wrong. Revered for his ‘hands on’ approach to stalking and killing his quarry whilst in the Congo, Binge was worshipped by his little caretakers and consequently was groomed and stroked frequently. However, once it was known that Binge was servicing all the female Bayakas, his lush, green, jungle haven turned into a lush, green, hatred filled revenge festival. The Bayaka men attacked during the night, and no one has seen or heard of them since. Moving across countries and continents like a ghost since his time in the Congo, Binge became a hunted “man”, wanted for various crimes including, but not limited to mass destruction of cattle, man slaughter, and performing in the Broadway hit musical “Rent”. A life of crime lead Binge to his better half, Purge, aka “S”, already regarded as the worlds deadliest assassin and pastry chef. Purge managed to tame Binge, but only after going through fifteen cattle prods, 900 feet of thick metal chain, and 20 French lingerie models. The rest, as they say, is a bloody, sex filled history. Little more is known about this creature. The UN has considered him a threat to all nations and the worlds supply of edible mammals.
Purge (aka S): A strange, curious beast. Described by some as a puzzle wrapped in an enigma, swathed in confusion and doused liberally with existentialism. Purge has gone by many names and identities over the years as part of an increasingly bizarre attempt to remain hidden from the various governments; warlords and drug barons who have sought to cause him harm. Rumours abound that he was raised by ex-Soviet cosmonauts who were themselves in hiding after stealing a vast majority of the moon money when last on an intergalactic space mission of dubious motives. Fleeing through several countries, the family settled in rural Belarus in an effort to live comfortably with their ill-gotten gains. This nomadic lifestyle resulted in the wide-eyed and influential young man learning not only a half-dozen languages (some now extinct) but also helped in developing a wide repertoire of unarmed and small-arms combat styles. Upon reaching the tender teenage years, Purge decided to further explore this wide world and joined a travelling acrobatic troupe that also dabbled in the seedy world of eastern-bloc espionage. They also had a pet bear that would only answer to the name “Rapunzel”. It was during a brief stay in the mountains of Kathmandu, after performing for a hidden sect of monks with the ability to levitate, that Purge became friends with a remarkable although slightly disturbed young man who had dubbed himself “Binge”. Although at first the two were slightly wary of each others amazing prowess in almost every area of human endeavour, they soon realised that they shared not only a love of fine Eurasian women, but also the ability to telepathically control the more simple-minded people who walked the earth. Joining forces, the pair studied with the monks for a few months before embarking on a journey that would see them cross the Ural mountains before getting involved in the Nepalese struggle against the British. Helping to hone the already deadly skills of the Ghurkha’s won the people’s admiration and were declared living gods. Although the mighty continent of Eurasia held many more mysteries and adventures to explore, the pair had by now consumed most of the alcohol and cattle that inebriated and fed the continent. Fuelled by a desire for new lands and hearing tales of woe from the Native Americans on the other side of the planet, the duo built a sturdy pirate ship out of giant sea-turtle bones and the hides of woolly mammoths they had killed for food. Plundering vessels from all lands along the way they eventually reached their destination loaded down with vast amounts of booty and captured mermaids. Upon arrival in the North of the Americas, our two intrepid adventurers found the plight of those poor native souls to be far worse then either had realised. Quickly utilising their fearsome skills in the black arts, Binge and Purge created a terrifying succubus to ensnare the warped souls of those who would dare to persecute the indigenous peoples and try to steal their land. They moved like a tornado over the continent leaving a path of tortured evils and blooding moons that tore through mountains and shattered the vicious dreams of the invaders. After a glorious annihilation of all who stood in their path, the pair went their separate ways, agreeing to meet up in the long-fabled continent of Australia. Binge headed North to tame polar bears and perform genetic experiments on their humbled forms whilst Purge travelled to South America to resume his studies amongst the Aztecs. After months of intense psychological training, Purge was able to master the ancient art of using the power of the mind to influence the stars positions in the sky and in turn control people’s destinies. Once he knew the ways of the Aztec, Purge took a deep body breath (this breath is part of an ancient Inuit technique that involves filling every cell in the body with oxygen to be released slowly over time) and began the arduous underwater swim to Australia. Upon arrival the telepathic connection between the two enabled them to find each other within hours. With no real plans for the country, Binge and Purge decided to utilise their musical knowledge gained over time to form a band that would come to be known and feared throughout time and space. Pronounced in the simple tongue as “The Trojan Whores”.
my friend ro and i wrote our bio bits each, his is first. we use the pseudonyms binge and purge. no you cannot steal this idea.
Binge (aka R): Once hunted for his thick, luxuriant coat, Binge, aka “R”, has now settled in Melbourne, Victoria, under a shady witness protection program (reason classified). This slab of muscle (photos soon ladies) was raised by the Bayaka pygmies of Africa’s Congo, and considered to be a mythical, white giant who would bring hope and protection for a people plagued by rabid, Dutch businessmen, lost and stranded in the Congo after a hunting trip went terribly wrong. Revered for his ‘hands on’ approach to stalking and killing his quarry whilst in the Congo, Binge was worshipped by his little caretakers and consequently was groomed and stroked frequently. However, once it was known that Binge was servicing all the female Bayakas, his lush, green, jungle haven turned into a lush, green, hatred filled revenge festival. The Bayaka men attacked during the night, and no one has seen or heard of them since. Moving across countries and continents like a ghost since his time in the Congo, Binge became a hunted “man”, wanted for various crimes including, but not limited to mass destruction of cattle, man slaughter, and performing in the Broadway hit musical “Rent”. A life of crime lead Binge to his better half, Purge, aka “S”, already regarded as the worlds deadliest assassin and pastry chef. Purge managed to tame Binge, but only after going through fifteen cattle prods, 900 feet of thick metal chain, and 20 French lingerie models. The rest, as they say, is a bloody, sex filled history. Little more is known about this creature. The UN has considered him a threat to all nations and the worlds supply of edible mammals.
Purge (aka S): A strange, curious beast. Described by some as a puzzle wrapped in an enigma, swathed in confusion and doused liberally with existentialism. Purge has gone by many names and identities over the years as part of an increasingly bizarre attempt to remain hidden from the various governments; warlords and drug barons who have sought to cause him harm. Rumours abound that he was raised by ex-Soviet cosmonauts who were themselves in hiding after stealing a vast majority of the moon money when last on an intergalactic space mission of dubious motives. Fleeing through several countries, the family settled in rural Belarus in an effort to live comfortably with their ill-gotten gains. This nomadic lifestyle resulted in the wide-eyed and influential young man learning not only a half-dozen languages (some now extinct) but also helped in developing a wide repertoire of unarmed and small-arms combat styles. Upon reaching the tender teenage years, Purge decided to further explore this wide world and joined a travelling acrobatic troupe that also dabbled in the seedy world of eastern-bloc espionage. They also had a pet bear that would only answer to the name “Rapunzel”. It was during a brief stay in the mountains of Kathmandu, after performing for a hidden sect of monks with the ability to levitate, that Purge became friends with a remarkable although slightly disturbed young man who had dubbed himself “Binge”. Although at first the two were slightly wary of each others amazing prowess in almost every area of human endeavour, they soon realised that they shared not only a love of fine Eurasian women, but also the ability to telepathically control the more simple-minded people who walked the earth. Joining forces, the pair studied with the monks for a few months before embarking on a journey that would see them cross the Ural mountains before getting involved in the Nepalese struggle against the British. Helping to hone the already deadly skills of the Ghurkha’s won the people’s admiration and were declared living gods. Although the mighty continent of Eurasia held many more mysteries and adventures to explore, the pair had by now consumed most of the alcohol and cattle that inebriated and fed the continent. Fuelled by a desire for new lands and hearing tales of woe from the Native Americans on the other side of the planet, the duo built a sturdy pirate ship out of giant sea-turtle bones and the hides of woolly mammoths they had killed for food. Plundering vessels from all lands along the way they eventually reached their destination loaded down with vast amounts of booty and captured mermaids. Upon arrival in the North of the Americas, our two intrepid adventurers found the plight of those poor native souls to be far worse then either had realised. Quickly utilising their fearsome skills in the black arts, Binge and Purge created a terrifying succubus to ensnare the warped souls of those who would dare to persecute the indigenous peoples and try to steal their land. They moved like a tornado over the continent leaving a path of tortured evils and blooding moons that tore through mountains and shattered the vicious dreams of the invaders. After a glorious annihilation of all who stood in their path, the pair went their separate ways, agreeing to meet up in the long-fabled continent of Australia. Binge headed North to tame polar bears and perform genetic experiments on their humbled forms whilst Purge travelled to South America to resume his studies amongst the Aztecs. After months of intense psychological training, Purge was able to master the ancient art of using the power of the mind to influence the stars positions in the sky and in turn control people’s destinies. Once he knew the ways of the Aztec, Purge took a deep body breath (this breath is part of an ancient Inuit technique that involves filling every cell in the body with oxygen to be released slowly over time) and began the arduous underwater swim to Australia. Upon arrival the telepathic connection between the two enabled them to find each other within hours. With no real plans for the country, Binge and Purge decided to utilise their musical knowledge gained over time to form a band that would come to be known and feared throughout time and space. Pronounced in the simple tongue as “The Trojan Whores”.
New Hampshire's alright if you like fighting.
-
ghetto kitty
- Posts: 13157
- Joined: Thu May 04, 2006 1:40 pm
- Contact:
jeebus...you guys must of had fun writing that...nutcases...
heres one for wednesday...
Fridays when the beasts are unleashed.
Nine to five and barely alive.
Tearing off work clothes
guzzling beer like the world is ending.
Running rampant in the streets
in the hope of temporary chaos,
entropic weekends that end
with declarations of sobriety
and one more week of denial.
Everyones out,
shaking their balls and roaring
with false laughter.
The point of going out seems to be
to get laid,
friends and art and life and beliefs
all cast aside
for the one you see
that you can’t have.
Flirtation more addictive than heroin.
Women no better than men.
All just beasts,
subjugated children at the mercy of
the machine.
heres one for wednesday...
Fridays when the beasts are unleashed.
Nine to five and barely alive.
Tearing off work clothes
guzzling beer like the world is ending.
Running rampant in the streets
in the hope of temporary chaos,
entropic weekends that end
with declarations of sobriety
and one more week of denial.
Everyones out,
shaking their balls and roaring
with false laughter.
The point of going out seems to be
to get laid,
friends and art and life and beliefs
all cast aside
for the one you see
that you can’t have.
Flirtation more addictive than heroin.
Women no better than men.
All just beasts,
subjugated children at the mercy of
the machine.
-
ghetto kitty
- Posts: 13157
- Joined: Thu May 04, 2006 1:40 pm
- Contact:
just found this one....
Ode To McKean
The warehouse is falling apart, beanbag balls blow listlessly around the living room, being kicked aside by numerous feet. Walls coming down each day, opening studios up to become the giant shell it was in the beginning. One minute there’s twenty people around you, you blink, and there is only the wind whistling, cats sleeping, nobody in all these thousands of square feet.
There has been moments here of pure belongingness, pure bliss. One night as I left the bathroom, the hall door downstairs slammed shut, and the round window in it made tears of beauty erupt in me. Mornings when you get up with a thousand goals in mind, and before you know it, it’s three or four, you’ve had ten coffees and just talked the day away with all your housemates.
Having the weirdest family on earth, full of power trippers, artists, cooks, adventurists, comedians, performers, filmmakers, strippers, couch surfers, sword swallowers and drug dealers. From all over the world, with a million connections, experiences and aspirations. All of them living and learning, eating and drinking, striving and playing under the same huge asbestos roof. Relationships born under this roof, destructive ones and ones I hope last as long as forever means. Friendships formed every day cause there are so many people passing by...
Jumping the abyss from window to roof to lie outside and look at the city skyline, buildings tall glistening monoliths, blue lights contrasting with the few stars that survive the orange glow. People arrive home and join us, and before you know it there is ten of them jumping and singing and playing and talking about all kinds of stuff.
Dinner parties that start with four people, and by the time the tacos, roasts, salads, wine and desserts all arrive on the table, there’s thirty hungry little mouths and sixty sparkling eyes feeding like its so good to be home.
The ping pong table is dusted off and set up, and the fiercest tournaments go till all hours of the morning, screams and groans echoing throughout as another arse is whipped. Boredom is pretty much non-existent here, if there’s ever a lull, its time to do washing, pay bills, read..............all those things that get put aside when theres fun stuff happenin.
The sound of coffee brewing, the endless dishes, the weird music and movies that get showcased..........the ones we make ourselves too. The echoes of footsteps through wooden floorboards, and stagger up stairs. Belly dancing, kick boxing, painting, sculpting giant heads and spheres, and daleks and pieces appearing on the walls in the dusky hue of night.
Jams in the living room, drums, double bass, guitars, flutes, mouths and tapping toes all round. A fleet of vehicles coming and going, docking at the driveway and bringing more stories. A bus that is as big as a ship, with bed, spa and crankin sound system rollin out the front, caravan, three vans, ten cars, and twenty bikes movin through, blocking doors and cruising around the warehouse.
Just as half your stuff goes missing here, amazing things turn up as well, rotating in some kind of twisted beautiful way. So inspiring to see all these people have successes, so intriguing to glimpse into their lives, even if only for a day, a week. So reassuring to help, comfort, have impact, when it all seems lost to them.
When that big world out there is all too much, and you can retreat to your own. When there’s always someone laughing, or crying, or eating, or playing, or challenging, or suggesting, or fucking, or leaving to go somewhere exotic.
When the backyard decking gets removed by the landlord and a jungle of weeds sprouts, reaching to the sky, flies and little bugs swirling in the sunlight. The drums sound great out there, concrete walls and open roof rebounding the beats till there’s a whole orchestra echoing, filtering up to the kitchen where smoothies are goin down.
The debris scattered around me has many stories to tell, rollerskates left abandoned till someone gets that disco urge again, remnants of a billion art projects, some past their moment of glory and left to gather dust and decompose, some in the middle of years of process, some hoarded with visions of their future glory in mind.
Wisteria that has found a gap in the high windows curls and grows down, feeding on the heat and stretching in to the rehearsal space, cascading green and purple flowers.
I could spend a week wandering, touching the walls, breathing of the dust and pain and memories, eyes drinking of the dents and patches and art and this little industry we have. Only eight months have I spent here, and fear overcomes me at the thought of forgetting any of it.
And now we all go our separate ways, some back into little suburban homes, others hit the road, unwilling to commit to anything, unsure where they fit into the world out there.
And we will remember for a little while the politics, the edges fraying, people yelling and being totally selfish. And then as we grow older, walk different paths and gain perspective, we will forget all that. What will remain are the reasons we were all here in the beginning, the reasons for excitement at the thought of waking up, or coming home from work. Well cherish the visions that occurred here, pine for the moment we shared. Mc Kean Street will be frozen in time, in memories of a thousand people, an oasis of beautiful chaos that can never be recreated.
And well all take a little bit with us, a small piece of this place, and carry it somewhere deep inside, smouldering, quietly glowing, reminding us gently of this time we had, this twisted family we’ve left behind.....................
aw i miss crazy warehouse life....
Ode To McKean
The warehouse is falling apart, beanbag balls blow listlessly around the living room, being kicked aside by numerous feet. Walls coming down each day, opening studios up to become the giant shell it was in the beginning. One minute there’s twenty people around you, you blink, and there is only the wind whistling, cats sleeping, nobody in all these thousands of square feet.
There has been moments here of pure belongingness, pure bliss. One night as I left the bathroom, the hall door downstairs slammed shut, and the round window in it made tears of beauty erupt in me. Mornings when you get up with a thousand goals in mind, and before you know it, it’s three or four, you’ve had ten coffees and just talked the day away with all your housemates.
Having the weirdest family on earth, full of power trippers, artists, cooks, adventurists, comedians, performers, filmmakers, strippers, couch surfers, sword swallowers and drug dealers. From all over the world, with a million connections, experiences and aspirations. All of them living and learning, eating and drinking, striving and playing under the same huge asbestos roof. Relationships born under this roof, destructive ones and ones I hope last as long as forever means. Friendships formed every day cause there are so many people passing by...
Jumping the abyss from window to roof to lie outside and look at the city skyline, buildings tall glistening monoliths, blue lights contrasting with the few stars that survive the orange glow. People arrive home and join us, and before you know it there is ten of them jumping and singing and playing and talking about all kinds of stuff.
Dinner parties that start with four people, and by the time the tacos, roasts, salads, wine and desserts all arrive on the table, there’s thirty hungry little mouths and sixty sparkling eyes feeding like its so good to be home.
The ping pong table is dusted off and set up, and the fiercest tournaments go till all hours of the morning, screams and groans echoing throughout as another arse is whipped. Boredom is pretty much non-existent here, if there’s ever a lull, its time to do washing, pay bills, read..............all those things that get put aside when theres fun stuff happenin.
The sound of coffee brewing, the endless dishes, the weird music and movies that get showcased..........the ones we make ourselves too. The echoes of footsteps through wooden floorboards, and stagger up stairs. Belly dancing, kick boxing, painting, sculpting giant heads and spheres, and daleks and pieces appearing on the walls in the dusky hue of night.
Jams in the living room, drums, double bass, guitars, flutes, mouths and tapping toes all round. A fleet of vehicles coming and going, docking at the driveway and bringing more stories. A bus that is as big as a ship, with bed, spa and crankin sound system rollin out the front, caravan, three vans, ten cars, and twenty bikes movin through, blocking doors and cruising around the warehouse.
Just as half your stuff goes missing here, amazing things turn up as well, rotating in some kind of twisted beautiful way. So inspiring to see all these people have successes, so intriguing to glimpse into their lives, even if only for a day, a week. So reassuring to help, comfort, have impact, when it all seems lost to them.
When that big world out there is all too much, and you can retreat to your own. When there’s always someone laughing, or crying, or eating, or playing, or challenging, or suggesting, or fucking, or leaving to go somewhere exotic.
When the backyard decking gets removed by the landlord and a jungle of weeds sprouts, reaching to the sky, flies and little bugs swirling in the sunlight. The drums sound great out there, concrete walls and open roof rebounding the beats till there’s a whole orchestra echoing, filtering up to the kitchen where smoothies are goin down.
The debris scattered around me has many stories to tell, rollerskates left abandoned till someone gets that disco urge again, remnants of a billion art projects, some past their moment of glory and left to gather dust and decompose, some in the middle of years of process, some hoarded with visions of their future glory in mind.
Wisteria that has found a gap in the high windows curls and grows down, feeding on the heat and stretching in to the rehearsal space, cascading green and purple flowers.
I could spend a week wandering, touching the walls, breathing of the dust and pain and memories, eyes drinking of the dents and patches and art and this little industry we have. Only eight months have I spent here, and fear overcomes me at the thought of forgetting any of it.
And now we all go our separate ways, some back into little suburban homes, others hit the road, unwilling to commit to anything, unsure where they fit into the world out there.
And we will remember for a little while the politics, the edges fraying, people yelling and being totally selfish. And then as we grow older, walk different paths and gain perspective, we will forget all that. What will remain are the reasons we were all here in the beginning, the reasons for excitement at the thought of waking up, or coming home from work. Well cherish the visions that occurred here, pine for the moment we shared. Mc Kean Street will be frozen in time, in memories of a thousand people, an oasis of beautiful chaos that can never be recreated.
And well all take a little bit with us, a small piece of this place, and carry it somewhere deep inside, smouldering, quietly glowing, reminding us gently of this time we had, this twisted family we’ve left behind.....................
aw i miss crazy warehouse life....