pupkin

Recent Works

2012-01-30T13:31:00.001-08:00

The profound profanity of the letter t around East London/ the meaning in the meaningless

2012-01-22T09:10:00.000-08:00

Firstly, they are not the best of photographs, they are not the worst of photographs. Once again they were taken around East London, that's part of the schema. To accompany the images is a story. It's a snuff story. It kinda had to be, it's about man being crucified. There is a photo of a crucifix, the light was good on the day and most images came out OK. That photograph was taken in Stamford Hill. Stamford Hill is a large Jewish area (yes, the area has decided to become a Jew). The man on the cross is an East End Jew. He is on top of a church. A church is a place where they peddle Jewish wisdom to shmucks. All wisdom is peddled to shmucks, it has to be, the first shmuck is the peddler himself, Buddha only became enlightened after inadvertently teaching himself something, the best advice is the advice you give yourself. He is a Jew for Jesus. He'd be a real mishugunah not to be. He's Jesus afterall. He's not really Jesus afterall, he's an it, it is metal.

*Disclaimer, by describing sacred icons as meaningless I mean no offence. I do not mean anything. Nor did Jesus. We're in the same boat, we're like the owl and the pussycat. It's good fun to alternate between these roles. Meaning is something forced on to something and it does not come from it. As Alan Watts pointed out, you are not born into this world, you are born from it like a tree. (like a dream, I add).

Furthermore, I do not believe in the notion of 'good light'. Let us go beyond good and bad light into light.*

Accompanying Story

Perspective from a hill

2012-01-08T07:36:00.000-08:00

Trees are made of tree. Angels are not made of iron. The wind has a saying, it's like blowing in the whistle. Dogs are always going to the dogs, they do not mind, why should they?

Final one, *7

2011-12-25T18:09:00.000-08:00

It's not really a story I guess. You'll see (if you read it).

Starry Eyes, Silent Night

6 of 7

2011-12-24T07:19:00.000-08:00

"it's christmastime in the mountains
everything is white
tonight"

I've been working at the airport bar
It's like Christmas in a submarine
Wings and brandy on a winter's night
I guess you wouldn't call it a scene

Oh what a strange time of year it is. Ecery day is a strange time of the year. Every day comes but once a year. They come but once a lifetime. However, we exist in minutes-hours-n'days as much as the universe exists in metres-n'yards-n'miles. That is, not to say we don't to a certain extent. Memphis in June. April in Paris. The suns will change. London is sometimes a hell of a town, someplaces a hell of a time. The lights go out in New Orleans, the city gets less red.

4 + 5 of 7

2011-12-23T08:35:00.000-08:00

I gave myself the day off yesterday. It was an early Christmas present. I've not been being too strict on myself. That's a present too. Too many presents. They're pasts now. I'd not intended to do that but the season was getting on top of me. Rather than rest in it we tend to get put under by it. At least that's what happens with certain people I know. The pressure to make something the best ever. There's nothing wrong with making it just something not bad. What do you reckon Paul McCartney means by making a sad song better? Remember that scene in Midnight Cowboy when Joe Buck gets all spruced up and he ask Ratso what he thinks, the response being 'not bad.. not bad'. That is what I think human beings should aspire to. That is the only response needed. When you reach the gates and ask Peter if you have led a good life and he responds 'not bad, not bad'. Wouldn't that be a bit of a relief. Anyhow, there is time for that yet. Human beings neither live in the opresent or the past or the future. Scrooge could tell you that. Dunno where we exist but not there. I bought my mother a soft toy this year. It is a donkey. It cost 79p, I'm not cheap but I do hate money. I got off the bus earlier than I expected to when I saw it in the shop window, I was already thinking of what I was going to do when I got home before it pulled me back into the present. It'll be a good present for her when she gets it in the near future.

Snow by David Berman

3 o' 7

2011-12-21T11:35:00.000-08:00

So all the best presents you've ever received probably mean diddley squat to you outside of signification, right. I don't think anyone is born materialistic, right. What would that kid want with gold? When a child's given this huge present what becomes clear is that the huge present holds little interest especially when it came in a huge box. We can not live in the present but if we want to we can live in a box. And for a while we do. We hide in it. Hiding's nice. Like a good painkiller. It's nice to give someone somewhere to hide. I know of a few people who have done wonderful things while hiding. I have read a marvellous book written by someone who was hiding. It is not shying away from existence, it is a taking hold of it. At least trying to. It's always night and we are in a perpetually cold universe but the earth lets us all hide in the sun for a while from time to time. God bless it for that. We've all got face the light of day sometimes.

A Junky's Christmas by William Burroughs

2 0f 7

2011-12-20T11:36:00.000-08:00

‎2 of 7:
Remember when you were a child on the beach and you said you were as happy as a sand boy and you probably were? Dylan Thomas talks about that in one of his nostalgic pieces. He looks back on childhood fondly, if not magically. At Christmas there is a lot of missing that goes. You know, people missing people. Though perhaps not necessarily missing other people. Ever thought how you were kinda better as a kid, kinder perhaps. Before they filled you with the problems they had and added some fresh ones just for you. And I miss, and I miss, and I miss your precious heart you might say. Maybe not. Plenty of folks have lousy childhoods. Seems that a worthwhile life would be to make the world a wonderful place for children. It is a wonderful place here and there and now and again. It could be a matter of pointing out things already here, you could show them a blue door knocker a midst a mist of black ones perhaps. It only takes a moment. There was this kid the other day who was ever so slightly excited by a malleable mountain made up by autumn leaves (this other day was in Autumn) equal in proportion to one of the big ones somewhere in this world, his mother was looking at her Blackberry, not a blackberry of course. Wouldn't be bad being worthwhile, to be OK while you're here, I wrote a play about it:

Walden. Wouldn't be bad being worthwhile.
David. Oh yeah, that'd be good. Yeah.
Walden. But just for a while. I can't be bothered building the Taj Mahal.
David. Oh yeah, I know. Yeah.

Just think of that child I was talking of yesterday who was born in a manger, that's a pretty wonderful thing. Look at all those animals etc. And didn't he get the chance to do a pretty good ramble, eh. Poor kid, he was only about 30 when they bumped him off. Just a baby.

A Child's Christmas in Wales

Christmas project 3: week of Christmas 1 of 7

2011-12-19T08:13:00.001-08:00

For Christmas week 1 0f 7:

For Christmas week I've decided to put up some real good stuff focused on the season. This is Paul Auster's 'Auggie Wren's Christmas', it was commissioned by the New York Times for their Christmas edition 1990. Here's a sentence from it, "If you don't take the time to look, you'll never manage to see anything". Literature needs good readers as much as it needs good writers. It was the first piece of overt fiction commissioned for the Newspaper. Of course there had been plenty of covert fiction commissioned for the Newspaper before. I was going to write an essay accompanying but I'm slightly pushed for time. Give or take it was to be about the role of stories at Christmas, it would have been essentially about how season is formed around a story about a boy being born in a manger. I would have said how it is one of the greatest stories of all time. I would have said it is probably only second to the story of alchemy, how we turned paper and digital symbols into the worth of most things, for example a horse. That's the gist. As I said I don't have time to write it. Time is money and talk is cheap. That's a bit sad, eh; everything is worth money and money is worth nothing. What the Dickens is that all about!? Humbug in't it.

Auggie Wren's Christmas Story

C P 2

2011-12-02T03:46:00.000-08:00

I spent this morning in a government building, one where they interact with the public, soliciting arbritrariness. It's in these places where you see how up against it, blessedness be damned, the meek truly are. To be truly meek you wouldn't stand a chance. Maybe that's divinity. Jesus got a heavy screwing over, didn't he. I dunno. But you know, you'd think this time of year surely the people on the other side of the desk could be kinda kinder. But why should they? Why should they be kinder only this time of year? Surely kindness should be a year long thing. I can understand tis' the season to be jolly tralala, for reverie can only exist within the absence of reverie. The amount of good times you waste having bad times are the reason you can have good times. Perhaps this too applies to kindness, it only exists shining out of general meanness. I don't think it does. However, could you imagine Hamlet if Hamlet were kind, it would probably be a dull play. Still it is something to aspire to. There is a scene in a bad film called Holy Smoke in which Harvey Keitel writes the words, in the following sequence, BE KIND upon Kate Winslet's head. We should all have those word on our head at some point in our life, figuratively at least. Could you imagine seeing that written upon Genghis Khan's forehead? A few less villages would have remained unpillaged (at least by him), a few more lovely women would have remained unraped (at least by him). I'd be willing to bet on that at William Hill. Anyhow, they pay you not to be kind. If you want to be so it is something to keep under your hat if you wish to stay employed. But be brave and keep it up.

Christmas Project #1

2011-12-01T08:55:00.001-08:00

getting into the season, it's easier said than done; getting out of bed, smiling and being happy, however seeing a robin bobbing along would probably help. it comes in for a fleeting song then goes on. crows have the intelligence and vocal capacity to indulge in birdsong, however they do not. fair enough. you know what Fat Waller said at the end of a reveric gig? he said, 'Quick! Someone shoot me whilst I'm still happy'. That's one way of doing it I guess;

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SV7y_rk4_co

Crosses and Crucifix of East London project #1

2011-11-18T06:49:00.000-08:00

Introduction

Firstly: this introduction was composed in a period of moments between the night before and the morning after when my mind was an organ full of ideas and brightness and wonder. It played like the one on Highway 61 Revisited. As I play it out now on the keyboard in front of me that same mind is an organ of soft grey matter, if you dropped it it would smash on the carpet. It would probably stain. There were more ideas then but they have been forgotten. We musn't cry over spilt milk, however, even though there are many valid reasons for doing so. What a mess it makes.

The camera used to take these photographs was purchased in an emporium on Stoke Newington High St. from a woman wearing a burkha. She seemed nice enough. The idea was to fill it full of shots of crosses from around East London. There is a crucifix too which shall one day be recorded and uploaded. The photographs of crosses and a crucifix that were taken on this camera purchased from a Muslim woman were taken by me, one of those God is dead* kinda guys. That's Hackney for you, a bit of something for everyone and of everyone.

There were 27 exposures on the camera, the number of crosses that have sucessfully been developed into a legible representation of them upon glossed paper is 1. It would seem that my holiness is not that strong- and the camera was £2.99. As they say, blessed are the meek. Too right too, lest we forget. Luckily enough, it is a good place to start, it is a gate. Alchemy and photography are magical arts, they move in mysterious ways. I will have to try and get a legible likeness of my favourite cross on glossy paper again, another time.

You should have seen the young school children when they saw the camera. 'What's that?', they asked, they had never seen anything like it before. 'A disposable camera', I told them, 'you take your pictures and then you throw it away'. They were ever so slightly amazed at this relic of a bygone era, it was as if I were holding The Flying Scotsman. It's easy to travel back in time. Burn a newspaper and you will notice that the fire burns backwards. You can travel forward too. Put on 'Highway 61 Revisited' and you'll go forward 10 years. That's an album which is nearly 50 years old. I used to live with a somewhat Canadian guy who has travelled in time all the way from the upper echelons of Victoria's England to present day mild East End squalor. He gets a lot of stick for having done so. That's probably a testament to his character, the more stick the merrier.

Speaking of the future, and of the past; this project was intended to be put together as a quaint little material thing called a book. However, here it is on this vast and powerful thing called the internet. Inefficiency and quaintness have gone out of the window, what remains is efficient and unquaint. Steamtrains and abacuses. They may have been more reliable but they were less efficient. Reliability gave way. Consider that a lament. Consider that the human condition. Consider that bullshit. It goes many ways.

I once wrote a story about a photographer. It goes,

Most people cannot take photo said the foreign photographer as he passed me his portfolio, most people do not have eyes. I looked at his face. He had no eyes.

My eyes are brown and the camera was grey. Here they are..

Acompannying Poem

Let us pray

Oh Children

Let us not

and say We did

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

* He's in heaven now

only the truly tender

2011-10-28T08:38:00.000-07:00

Its gotten into my head of late

You were as tender as the ocean

You were as ferocious as the ocean

Any man loves the ocean

Otherwise it couldn't drown us so

All of us jumping ship

Either known or unknown

significant and insignificant alike

I once saw a telivision programme in which a blind man walked further & further into the whelming tides

He was doing it intentionally

Naturally

(Rona, the tv can be marvelous

These snobs don't know what they are missing

That look of a lack of signal*

, for instance

It's like the last broadcast from my soul

Hope you watch it sometime)

Yours sincerely,

lost at sea,

*no more words, no more images

only Blue Light

what prevails

2011-10-02T15:23:00.000-07:00

She liked sand

He liked the dusk

So they moved to Sandusky

And lived there til they died.

it doesn't mean I'm getting bored

2011-10-01T11:13:00.000-07:00

I met her in a Japanese car park

She was carrying a brand new carpet

And was a newly wed

tales from the funeral

2011-09-21T11:25:00.000-07:00

Ellie. She was dead sordid.

Angie. She wasn't sordid.

Ellie. Yeah she was. That magician sordid her dead.

Angie. That wasn't a magician, it was Garfunkel.

Ellie. He was dead sordid.

London to York: a play

2011-09-08T12:02:00.000-07:00

Scene: A roguishly handsome man in his early thirties holds the head of his panting horse as she lays dying.

Dick. You and me Bess, we we were as thick as thieves.

He holds her until she dies, which lasts a significant amount of time, and then carries on his way by foot.

Bawdy

2011-09-05T06:05:00.000-07:00

broads board boats on
east coast shore for Irish shore
to eventually arrive in Innismore
the land from where they got there hair
from their ma's ma and her ma and more

fish fish other fish deep beneath
fresher than fresh fish
unseen atop the sea

they are bound to pay the piper
for their papa

Nil By Mouth

2011-08-19T08:17:00.000-07:00

ravenous, she nicks a couple of sweets from her neighbouring patient's bedside table. "Death by marshmallow" she says to her nephew, over the telephone. he laughs.

Larry Grayson

2011-07-31T12:37:00.000-07:00

and furthermore
I shall love you more
when you shut that door!

letter to Rona, today of all days

2011-07-31T06:36:00.001-07:00

Rona,
I received your Chrysanthemums
They died yesterday
They're in heaven today

I'm still stuck in Bedlam
All the kids have ear-hole sized speakers in their ears
Martians
You stick something into your ears and your fucked
Everyone knows that

Anyway,
One day I shall be released
and We can have a lot of fun in the planetarium
again
Like we used to do
Remember that, huh?

Love ad naseam
To Suzy Q too
Rowdy Roddy Piper

open A Play For The Garage invite

2011-07-11T14:35:00.000-07:00

''es a rambling man say the locals. He rambled til the butchers shot him down they say. Old Maude reckons he hunts the plains looking for revenge round here. It was in this town where they gunned him down, head to the wall'... Oh dear... 'Jack, behind the bar, he says his last words were, you mark my words I'll lust your blood, I'll lust your pretty little blood under the harvest moon, you will all be spilled. And tonight, tonight was the night of the harvest moon and he would have his harvest of blood and lust fulfilled.'

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Kue1E5YqcImAn3lInnSwNieIdcrJyjiFZzpmbobuwNQ/edit?hl=en_US

Letter to Rona, July, 2011

2011-07-01T06:46:00.000-07:00

Dear Rona
It's me
I feel quite alone
The world's imploding
or Avalanching
or Something
Maybe

I've been reading Nancy Mitford
She reminds me of you
Sane men can fall in love the same woman
as an insane man can
Apparently
So they say here
Maybe it's easier to be decent in print
than life

Wake up little Suzy
And pass on my love
And if she now accepts kisses from girls and women
Give her a kiss
From me

Love as always
and always,
Zorro

fiddles

2011-06-29T08:32:00.000-07:00

Fine fiddle Fiona
It's the nicest tune
In town

Fine fiddle Fiona
You're not welcome there anymore
Dear

Marx Poem

2011-06-17T08:14:00.000-07:00

But what about Engels?
What about him?

up the ladder, through the window, the raining night sky

2011-06-13T09:57:00.000-07:00

the funny pages

2011-06-07T06:26:00.001-07:00

He hated the newspapers. The broadsheets even more so than the loathsome tabloids. However, he was obsessed with the newsagent. Something about his eyes and voice and stature drew him to him. So everyday he would go in to his shop to buy one of the day's publications. It did not matter which to him and which one he bought differed from day to day according to his want. His want changing according to which title he wished him to say out when he put the publication on his counter; The Sun, The Guardian, The Telegraph, and so on. This went on until one day he read in the obituary section that he had died. He had seen him that morning in the shop when he bought the paper he was now reading but there he was dead. There in black and white. He never went in to his shop again. It was the last newspaper he ever bought. He was awfully young.

the best of both systems

2011-05-26T10:13:00.001-07:00

Another heart warming story from the dole que/ care system..

birds flying. written after midnight

2011-05-20T20:15:00.000-07:00

I was walking with two friends and I saw all these starlings flyin' together, made me feel good, like some things do for a while. Eventually they'll fly away from each other, never to fly together again, taken away by other winds, through no other intention beyond wind.

Fashion

2011-05-16T05:36:00.000-07:00

Dear Mr Vuitton,
We do not know each other but I was hoping that you could help me with a question that I have been pondering of late: How is it that some ghosts wear clothes? Are these clothes the ghosts of clothes? I know clothes dye, but d' they die?
Hope all is well on the other side,
Your pal,
Samuel Kastin.

extract, including song, from an abandoned play

2011-05-12T09:50:00.000-07:00

A country lane. 3 boys sit by and on a wooden fence. 2 whistle. 1 sings;

Marvin (along with the guys' whistling tune). Oh what a day for daydream
What a day for a daydream, oh boy
You can dance by barbed wire
You could fall down and broken your button nose
A trickle of love songs will drip down onto your blouse
Before your heart's break by kisses from all the sad clowns
Oh, it's the loneliest Saturday night.

The circus is in town.

Peeking

2011-04-28T06:22:00.000-07:00

The sun is shining and it is HOT.

Shot of man's eyes looking at something directly in front of him. They are pained, tears well up to the point of running down his face. A woman is talking to him, pleading as the camera zooms out into a shot of his whole face and the top of his shoulders..

Molly. Stop peeking please. Come on, don't just sit staring Fats, just give me a bit of privacy for once and respect my wishes.

From the shot we can now see that there is a trail of smoke rising above the man's left shoulder. He is in a restrained agony.

Molly. I don't peek with you, do I. Stop being a funny guy Fats, don't be scum.

He puts his right hand above his right eye, dropping something when it is covering his eye.

Cut to: Shot of magnifying glass smashing on the floor.

Cut back: Man holding his right hand over his right eye.

Molly. That's better... Hey! Don't be sneaky! The other 'and 'nd all.

He puts his left hand above his left eye. There has been a hole burned into it, so that it goes all the way through his hand. He looks through the hole in his hand. There is a gasp.

Molly. You bastard. You always have to peek!

We hear the sound of a door slamming as she presumably leaves.

Fats. (to us) You should see her when she cries.

We continue this shot with his hands over the eyes for a while.

Cut to: Man's POV, through the hole in his hand. The television is on, to the left of the shot where the camera would have originally been located, it shows a Man covering his eyes with his hands.

Blackbird

2011-04-23T07:12:00.000-07:00

Sarah. So, yeah, he's just had a child with that black bird.

Hope. A blackbird?

Sarah. It's funny 'ent it.

Hope. A blackbird, really. Are you being serious?

Sarah. Yeah, last week.

Hope. Well I'll be. Miracles never cease.

Sarah. I know. I didn't know they were his type either.

Tautological Poems 1 & 2

2011-04-22T07:42:00.000-07:00

when ya drink ya drink

when ya eat ya eat

when ya piss ya piss

Chris's letter to Santa

2011-04-19T16:00:00.000-07:00

life(1)

2011-04-09T16:40:00.000-07:00

my lif's a misprint
my life's a four letter word suffixed into five

----------
(1) my life's a footnote to everything else, like the weather in Winter or Spring

Curriculum Vitae

2011-04-05T12:20:00.000-07:00

What more do they want?

as Ginsberg said to America, I say to Britain, 'I'm sick of your insane demands'

the grass is a nice place to lay and think

2011-04-02T13:36:00.000-07:00

Talking about an ultra scan pic, human being fetuses in the womb look like waves, I say, human beings are like waves. The picture is waves, she says, low frequency sound waves, you're boring me again. Ach, I used to think of myself as interesting, thought that that observation was interesting. Delusions of grandeur. Just look at my ouevre, it's all I, I, I. I can't help it. No, all I can sometimes hope is to hope that somewhere somebody doesn't really mind it too much.

poem #73

2011-04-02T06:54:00.001-07:00

Broodin'
Moodin'
Stood in dogshit

2011-03-31T08:50:00.000-07:00

a kitten from Great Britain

a glimpse into the future

2011-03-31T08:35:00.000-07:00

"What a load of bollocks" says the guy when he is told the rigmarole he will have to go through to get his buspass. "What a load of bollocks" says the lass as she passes the jobcentre. There wasn't so much as a second's gap between them both individually saying it. Pretty soon these words, in that order, will be the only ones ever to be spoken. I'd be willing to bet on it at William Hill.

two pages from the red notebook

2011-03-31T06:28:00.000-07:00

a poem for the tenth anniversary of the fall of the twin towers etcetera, a realisation and the opening stage directions to a play.

friendship

2011-03-18T08:22:00.000-07:00

Giving an interview a few years before his death Luis Buñuel is asked about whether he now speaks to Salvidor Dali again, a man with whom he famously fell out, slapping him to the ground, down to a New York pavement, in reaction to Dali slandering him, costing him his job at MoMA, the Museum of Modern Art, some forty years prior. To this question Buñuel replies that they have not recovered their affinity. However, nonetheless, he would very much like to think that they may get together once more one day before he dies and share a glass of champagne. When this is relayed to Senor Dali he responds by saying, with all simplicity, sincerity and innocence, that he too would very much like that but unfortunately he no longer drinks. This, Senor Buñuel, as you can garner from reading his autobiography, found quite amusing, indicative of his old friend.

Pretty story, huh.

Venus

2011-03-06T11:27:00.000-08:00

She's locked out in the hallway, being punished

for knocking the toilet paper in to the toilet bowl

like a child

Which can be a real distress on a Tuesday

when you don't get paid until Friday

Why don't you put the toilet seat lid down

I ask

That's a good idea, ma says

before thinking, You know what'll happen then,

she'll tear it into snow

That cat can be a real bastard

it would be easy to drown her in the sink

perhaps at Christmastime

But it is Christmastime

and they get on most ' the time

The Origins of Genius

2011-01-18T09:36:00.002-08:00

He had dropped out of school by that time, and spent most of his time staying at home. His girlfriend lived in the house, and his grandmother lived in the house, and his aunt and his uncle lived across the street. And his father had had a heart attack; his father drove a Helms bread truck, part of the time Don was helping out by taking over the bread truck route, driving up to Mojave. The rest of the time he would just sit at home and listen to rhythm and blues records, and scream at his mother to get him a Pepsi.

Frank Zappa on Don Vilet- Captain Beefheart.

2011-01-17T07:49:00.000-08:00

My head is full of bad news and ideas.

She likes that television program Shaun The Sheep. Me too. It's good show.

Helicopters hover in my window outside. This all seems very unnatural. Possibly a waste of money too.

But is there such thing as a waste of money? What is it that we are really wasting when we are supposedly wasting money? I've wasted plenty of things but never money.

2011-01-10T14:13:00.001-08:00

it's all he keeps saying, when will it end? when will it end? until one day he doesn't.

we're not sure why
but tomorrow's another day.

to dust

2010-12-28T06:49:00.000-08:00

It's a symphony
Played on strings of dust
A-choo, a-choo
We all fell down
God bless

then,
'Play it again Sam'

the sky at night

2010-11-29T08:35:00.000-08:00

On a big ship far away
Sailing on in to eternity
The stars will fall beneath your feet
You better wear some shoes

Rhymes (just because)

2010-11-26T17:44:00.000-08:00

I like the city and I like trees
I love wellness and don't mind disease
Now I think I'm gonna sneeze
Oh, it happens all the time

My mother told me that it was all rot
She said, Mick give it another shot
No, you don't know what you got until you know what you got
There's wilderness in the plains

When the moon shines it reflects the sun
But we all know that moonshine's the one
It's good to be a hick in these modern times

You picked a fight and she picked her nose
Now the blood starts to drip onto my clothes
Just more redness upon white

...unfinished...

Near

2010-11-26T07:31:00.000-08:00

Hey, hey, hey the end is near
Cries a man or a woman
But the end has always been nigh
Even a million years away is near when you think about the universe
Infinity makes it all small

I suppose I mean don't worry about it

Or at least that isn't significant

2010-11-18T04:55:00.000-08:00

He's strange
He's the strangest stranger
What kinda guy is born in a manger?

alright

2010-11-18T04:47:00.000-08:00

It's very sad
A sad, sad situation
The saddest I know,

I've known sadder,

Don't get me wrong,

But it's very very sad

God story

2010-10-15T12:57:00.000-07:00

It had been over a year since I had seen it at the BFI on the Southbank and I had mostly forgotten about it, but it came back to me in a dream, that line from that film I saw; Diary of a Country Priest, All Is Grace.

escapade

2010-10-15T12:48:00.000-07:00

The breeze from outside cools my feet
Which wear five day worn socks
In a thick shoe

They shed a tear
But do not say a word,
It stings their broken rib

You're very brave,
A mother might say, or a grandmother
Or subsequently a lover

I am taking them to the museum
by the sea
Where it stands in all its glory
Proud, being the world's largest

and then,

Just like a snowflake
says the alien
As the diamond melts
In her small infant hand.

Children come, Children go

2010-10-05T04:26:00.000-07:00

I walk to school
The path coldly glitters
Jack Frost has been out
Leaving his white shadow
In the cold
Which makes my ears burn,
(Dizzy)
And drunk on childhood
I stumble into a flower
Covered in fine frost
With ever so delicate a trace;
A fingerprint in ice on petal

The flower, not a rose,
Fore it should not be a rose,
I suppose was the same colour as her varnish,
When she pressed it,
A light green

But now, here, drunk on beer
It reminds me of you
It was your fingertip
And, with the songs I now know,
The colour of your colour,
... and
However many ___s later
It turns pale blue in the snow.

The old art critic

2010-09-09T07:06:00.000-07:00

The old art critic
to me
There's no beauty
it's horseshit
There's no ugly
it's pixiedust

Swindles

2010-08-11T03:01:00.000-07:00

we snort twenty pound notes up
through rolled up fifties
and laugh at those who get caught
and subsequently punished
for swindling the system
punished like jerks
whilst the chancellor makes me cum
with his hand

I get so bored sometimes.

death story

2010-08-05T14:49:00.000-07:00

BOY. An' then death hit 'er like a sledgehamma.

GIRL. How'd she die?

Boy. Got hit wi' a sledgehamma.

love story

2010-08-02T06:29:00.000-07:00

Good night, says Gienevere turning her back, good night good knight. My knight after night, after knight after night, after knight after knight after knight after night.

2010-07-30T08:35:00.000-07:00

Sometimes one feels compelled
To go to the Ireland of the late 1800's
And drink one's self to death

But it's not very feasible
No, not really realistic
Not in this day and age.

poem

2010-07-23T08:33:00.000-07:00

All's well
Well,
Well for me
By my standards.

temple

2010-07-13T04:12:00.000-07:00

nothing's sacred
says Christ,
he's right
an' all

Coming Out

2010-06-20T03:49:00.000-07:00

a short comedy by Sam Kastin

Living room: a father and son;

SON. Father, I'm gay.

Father. Oh... Fancy a fuck?

The Sea, amended

2010-06-16T04:08:00.000-07:00

When I was a little girl
a short play by Samuel Kastin

A man and a woman stand in front of a burning house. Their small child is with them, they hold her little hands. From the house we can hear a telephone ringing as it melts (this continues to the end).

Woman- John dear, it would appear that we are now homeless.

Man- Yes dear. Very much so.

They carry on watching the fire.

Daughter- (turning her head to us, she takes a step and consciously faces the the audience, this is all very sweet, like a curtsey. Eyes like Bambi); Just think, in the distance a s-sad sold'er and his lover...

They fade out.

In the distance;
We fade in:
A soldier holds another soldier, who is sobbing, in his arms. He sways, forming a melancholy and defiant waltz.

Soldier- (singing); Is that all there is, is that all there is/ If that's all there is my friends, then let's keep dancing/ Let's break out the booze and have a ball/ If that's all there is.

This fades out, he can speak part of the first verse if needs be, the words fading out, as it were, with lighting.

All we now see is the glow/ afterglow of burning.

There is the sound of an explosion offstage; what it is that is exploding, or has exploded, is unclear. The sound of the sea can now be heard as it draws nearer.

Running Water; end and epilogue

2010-06-15T11:27:00.000-07:00

We are in the middle of the ocean. By the size of my beard I surmise that it has taken us a long time to get here. By Clarence's decomposition you can tell the heat of the sun. It pains me to see the sun burn him so. I cannot take it and so he is soon gone. We will never reach home, there is no home for men like us: our home is the sea and it is all we've ever known. I kiss his dead cheek and push him over the side, into the sea, burying him at sea. He is in heaven now.

Epilogue.
You can feel the waves beneath you, like the earth's pulse beating. Like a child being rocked in its crib. Those vultures come back. They become again their coil of death, my death bed's mobile. They have not forgotten me. The sun is in my eyes.
Drowsy and lulled, I close my eyes. In death's half-dream, I see her one last time. She rocks me in her arms softly, singing softly. Slowly the vultures swoop and waves gently crash. As this happens I hear that I have been singing my last words, accompanying the dream, "Que Cera, Cera".
The End.

Runing Water- end of Act 2 and start of Act 3.

2010-06-10T05:32:00.000-07:00

End of Act 2
Falling, falling, crawling toward infinity the forest comes to an end. We find ourselves upon a pebble beach with black and blue and crimson stones. It is no white sand tropical relaxing beach, it is one steeped in the isolation and alienation of the souls of heroes and heroines. My wife took a photograph of it, before I knew her. The raft is still there, by the sole white rock.

Act 3
On
the raft, out at sea, salt in the lungs, the sun shines down on me. I
think of the birds above in the blue sky who migrate riding sea winds
who keep on flying. I think of the fish beneath in the bright,
sometimes dark, blue sea who are circumspect to current and must go
with tide who keep on swimming. I think of myself who is fatalistically driven by the action of self & others as I keep on floating.

Conclusion will hopefully be this weekend.

The Sea

2010-05-25T11:15:00.000-07:00

A man and a woman stand in front of a burning house. Their small child is with them. From the house we can hear a telephone ringing as it melts (this continues to the end).

Woman- Dear John, it would appear that we are now homeless.

Man- Yes dear. Very much so.

There is the sound of an explosion from offstage; what it is that is exploding, or has exploded, is unclear. The sound of the sea can now be heard as it draws nearer.

Running Water: penultimate section, On The Farm

2010-05-11T05:55:00.000-07:00

xv.
(parts missing. In brief: still not slept, not since leaving the wife, and an irksome digestive system). There is a cow upon the farm. A quiet animal which they call Inga. When it looks at you with those big brown eyes it has a calming effect. The farmer's daughter, Trudy, milks it at dawn. I think she talks to it as well. I wonder what she says.
xvi.
On the table there is a postcard from the farmer's brother. On the back there is, written, a poem: Dear God/..../There used to be three dots/But now there are four. On the front is the old holidaying sentiment, written in red, WISH YA WERE HERE. The return address is the nearest prison, miles away. Papa never has been able to forgive himself over that, Trudy says as she pours more wine.
xvii.
He falls asleep in the corn and in the morning there is a Scarecrow present on the farm that I have not seen before. Trudy asks me if I have seen her father, I say that I have. She asks me where to find him but I do not say. Flustered, she criticises everything I have ever done since being here and leaves me alone. With my fear I go to hide in the cow shed where Inga treats me kindly.
xviii.
My head is in my arms when I fall asleep but in her hands when I wake. She tells me that I must leave, that her husband is soon back from the war. That I can't I say kisses me we accidentally knocking over a pail of milk in the furore. Before departing she gives me this advice: oh, my dear, try not to be so lonely all the time. I go into the forest. I find Clarence by the stream.

A joke?

2010-04-23T04:08:00.000-07:00

- Doctor, doctor I feel so sad in my broken heart and I'm so lonesome, I could cry. *sob*

- There, there my dear, here, take a tissue.

Pause.

What are you waiting for? Get out. I have cured you.

Running Water contd

2010-04-22T06:28:00.000-07:00

xi.
What a beautiful pumpkin patch, she, C., exclaims as we drive past it. I force myself to agree. I do not tell her that amongst the potential Halloween lanterns lurks Nosferatu and MarvinTheMartian and a blood stained Ted Bundy; it is getting late and we needn't, both of us, be scared like me.
xii.
If you want me, I'll be in the bar, she says as she kisses my cheek goodbye. I take the time to watch her walk away along the railroad tracks, and, without my noticing, she is gone. I question if she ever existed, except for a tingling sensation felt in my cheek, her existance in my life passes with no trace. Nonetheless, She'll be ok, I say to myself, hoping that the Gods will consent.
xiii.
The wheels of the car fall off from either pathetic fallacy or inadvertent telekinesis or the bump in the road. Knowing that I will now have to walk many miles, carrying my dear dead friend, I ram my head into the steerinwheel, harmonisin with the cacophony. After hours of this, I fill my pockets with as much amphetamine from the glovebox I can carry and we leave. I realise neither of us have eaten since I shot him.
xiv.
Up there, on the top of the hill, I notice a farm. I climb the driveway. What you boys doin on my property asks the owner. Sir , we are on a pilgrimage, weary and hungry and willing to work for keep I explain. Him too he inquires of Clarence, the hardest worker I ever knew. I shrug. There is a pause.Come in and wash up and stay away from my daughter, she's bad news, he tells me. You too, by the looks of things, he observes.

Running Water (the story formerly known as: The Possibilities Are Uninfinite) parts 7-10

2010-04-11T07:41:00.000-07:00

vii.
it's only gonna get worse before it gets even worse, she jokes as she serves me another beer. I am about to make good on her flirtations when a group of locals compliment me on the dead nigger. I fly at them with a broken bottle but no amount of Achillean rage can save me from the savage beating I take. I wake in the gutter alive; How did this happen? Who saved me? Was she my guardian angel? Is Clarence?
viii.
After what seems like days, I finally find a car that works. An old one made to last. Clarence takes the back seat, chauffered, and I get behind the wheel. It is Vinyl Thursday, playing all your favourite albums in their most physical form across the digital airwaves. Today it is the White Album on loop. With my first brandy of the day, I start the engine and put my foot down on the pedal. HeltEr SkelTer.
ix.
By the stone wall I take a right. She sits on the edge with her thumb in the air. Twenty metres of thought away I decide to stop. She slides off the edge and runs to the car as I open the door. Before she has even seated herself properly, she asks, in regards to Clarence, What happened to him? He slept with my wife, I answer. Musta been a heck of a time she says. And it still is.
x.
After a long while of open road I put my hand on her knee. She shoos it off, telling me, I once knew a man like that and I really hated it. She looks at me with sorrowful look, pleading something. Excuse me, I explain, I'm rather drunk. All the more reason to keep both hands on the wheel, she snarls. Don't worry Cleo, it'll be ok, the road goes on like this, straight on, and on, for miles and miles, I tell her. Looking ahead, we both sigh.

Cinema

2010-03-28T15:57:00.000-07:00

Controversial film
Bunuel film
Black & white
I think of you while watching the manipulated light.

Running Water (episodes 1-6)

2010-03-25T09:48:00.000-07:00

1.
We were drunk. The house had guns in it and I shot him. He was my best friend and I loved him dearly. As he died we made amends. I was to take him back to his hometown to be buried amongst his ancestors. My wife, of course, would be, at best, nonplussed by the notion. She has no comprehension of honour, at least not in the Homeric sense.
2.
She doesn't take it well. It's the other side of the world, you have no car, you have no money; she tells me, as if I do not already know. Why can't you bury him here? she asks. Because this land is a shit-hole, I tell her. She crys and so do I. It is our last night together.
3.
Is uncky Clarence a-sleepin' pop? he asks. No Maurice, Uncle Clarence is dead, I shot him in the stomach, I tell him, Beware the fury you have inherited from me son, it will be your downfall and is about to leave you fatherless. I make to leave. Where you going with dead uncky Clarence? I must plant him under the tree of our childhoods'. Oh, he say and goes to bed. I do leave, heart broken.
4.
The sun's burning is today articulated through the amber shade with which it colours the sky. I pass the men setting their crop ablaze and, they hope, with the flames, destroying the locusts devouring it. The fire becomes the afterglow of my presence in this town. I leave to become just a memory signified by the ash on the plain.
5.
Vultures circle themselves into a jagged coil up above my head. They goad me, they want me to hand over dead Clarence. They beseech me, they will make it easier upon me when my time too does come if I comply. I cannot, I throw a rock skyward, scraping one of their formidable wings. Before flying away, until another day, they prophesise my death; their shrieks indicate that it will be unpleasant.
6.
It's midday, or at least it appears to be, when I arrive in the city. The sun beats down on the streets, and upon building after building. Arrakis, I say to Clarence.

-----
* Running Water is a serial of Facebook status updates telling the story of Joey Joe and dead Clarence. A sort of barmy idea to up the quality of stuff on there. Please bear in mind that with the intended medium of the story, live feeds et al., and whatnot, there is an ellipsis of time, and usually space, between the episodes.
Warm Regards,
S.K.

An open letter to Earth

2010-03-18T07:05:00.000-07:00

Dear Planet,

From my observations, I am led to believe you were once a thing of around about infinite beauty. On behalf of my people I would like to apologise for disfiguring you so.

Sincerely,
Sam Kastin.

After all

2010-02-05T04:33:00.000-08:00

J- But, you know, really, after all, you can't really complain too much.

Pause.

R- After all what?

J- What?

R- Forget it.

Slit

2009-11-11T09:04:00.000-08:00

If you make your mother ill again, like that time you did when you slit your wrists, I'll bump you off, said her auntie.

The night cheese won the Oscar™

2009-07-20T11:06:00.000-07:00

...Of course we all remember, fore how could we forget it, that wonderful night when mediocre (at best) film maker and not-so-good nuclear physicist Albert Eisenstein announced that the winner of the year's Academy Award for Best Motion Picture was to be a lump of cheese. The world forever changed by the unfolding moment within the Kodak theatre, LA.
For me, the communal gasp still rings in my ears even after all these years. Not only was the cheese not in competition, it was not a motion picture. Surely, I heard people say, there was some by law in the Academy's guidelines disallowing cheeses the winning of such awards. A-list hands rubbed A-list ears in disbelief. It seemed so impossible. However, even doubting Peter Bogdanovich had to concede it was really really happening when he saw Hilary Swanky carrying the still supermarket cellophaned Cheddar up onto the podium, perched upon its tray of human enamel. The silence was, as you'll notice if you ever truly hear it, audible when the cheese got placed in front of the microphone to make its speech. It spoke nothing for the whole minute as the lights reflected off of its see through attire. At first, it seemed obnoxious to us there but by the time the cheese had been taken backstage with its Oscar many, including Sean Pencil'n, had been moved to tears by the cheese's unspoken dignity. What had started off adversely became for us all; you, me, him, her and probably God too, our best cherished and most enlightening, not to forget broadcast, moment.
However, it all may have never happened. As you can probably imagine (too bad if you can't) persuading the panel was no easy deal. There he was, vice president of the academy, Adam McCadam frantically arguing cheese's claim to the award. To him it was simple: cheese more than film deserved the Oscar. Conventionally, they weren't willing to go with it. As the bookies had predicted, many wanted the award to go to the year's prestige piece; a five hour biopic of Stalin with Keanu Reeves as the lead man. Indeed, it was, and still is, the best film of all time. ButAdam McCadam was adamant. Eventually, after five drunken days culminating with the firing of a bullet into the black laced pale teenage thigh of his secretary, with more were that came from, he managed to persuade his peers that cheese was worthy. Many thought he'd gone nuts but, as time went on to prove, he had merely turned genius.
Testament to the man's beautiful mind is that when, on the morning of the ceremony, the Academy's president asked him which cheese he proposed to win the award His Holiness Sir Dr Adam McCadam M.D. merely laughed and spoke the ever eternal line Cheese, my dear oh dear friend, transcends such petty notions as of competition. And finally it got the credit it so richly deserved.

political correctness gone fuckeries

2009-06-03T04:57:00.001-07:00

The Outsider: a poem

2009-04-23T10:31:00.000-07:00

The outsider
Went out
For cider.

Crying all the way to the bank

2009-03-24T11:04:00.000-07:00

Max Clifford sheds a golden tear in remembrance of Jade Goody.

An observed scene

2009-03-13T11:40:00.000-07:00

Today I observed a rather poignant scene. It was on the road outside of Angel tube station, in London. For those that don't know, it is a fairly busy road despite it being fairly calm when I was watching it. Specifically viewing two black men riding their bikes on the street. Significantly, they had begun to ride a round in circles on this usually busy street. I was engrossed. After a minute or so of this they started to ride on, somewhere bound. They had been waiting for a pal to catch up with them. Waiting in circles.

A suggested slogan

2009-03-12T12:25:00.000-07:00

The Jobcentre. Where all advice is malicious.

Jim Davidson coming out of the closet to Roy Chubby Brown on a northern pier.

2009-02-05T15:25:00.001-08:00

Reading Ogden Nash on the number 38

2009-01-29T13:09:00.000-08:00

2 Poems- part inspired by Hackney (Well, Victoria to Clapton Pond).

Reflections...
Knife crime
is fine
But a gun
Get's it done.

The DJ
The idea of music on a bus
Does not put me into a fuss
Actually, I like it in theory
But reality, alas, is dreary;

Sounds from phone speakers,
It doesn't get much bleaker
Predominantly dance and rap
And more predominantly crap

So please prevent my under-duress, stress headache
Put in a pair of headphones, thanks, for fuck's 'ake.

The Cynic

2009-01-21T14:12:00.001-08:00

A pound for a pint makes the whole world drunk

2009-01-18T12:58:00.000-08:00

Actually it's ninety nine pence for either a pint of IPA or a bottle of San Miguel at Wetherspoons.
News which fills me with a happiness that I haven't felt in a very long time. Not since finishing off the Brandy with breakfast.

One of the lads

2009-01-12T05:59:00.000-08:00

Whether or not Harry is a racist is about as significant as the royal family themselves. (If you believe the British monarchy to be significant you need to get yourself a sense of perspective- columns in newspapers are irrelevant, as you know). An Eton boy feeling ethnically superior to all kinds of men who are not white, upper class, or male should not be, and isn't, very surprising. Because of his high status Harry, in spite of being a ridiculous ignorant pomp much like his father (the one with the red hair rather than big ears), is taking the brunt for a much wider issue. And whereas he has rightly, sincerely or not, apologised for his racism the army has not. It is the armies' institutionalised racism which is significant.
"Our little paki friend" and not just Prince Harry's.

It's spooky

2009-01-06T07:23:00.000-08:00

2008 in a sentence

2008-12-31T08:00:00.000-08:00

A good year for festive lights on trees, especially just outside of Hackney town hall.

Harold Pinter- a moment's pause

2008-12-26T10:16:00.000-08:00

It's always a bit of a mystery what work will endure the tests of time, as they say. I suspect Pinter will be one of those artists who endures. For the best part of fifty years Harold Pinter has been one of the outstanding talents in British theatre, a platform where other writers have come and been forgotten but he has remained. The only playwright still living to have enjoyed, perhaps not enjoyed, this kind of longevity is David Hare, who I would expect to be largely forgotten within a couple of decades. Whereas Hare is working within current issues Pinter engaged in something much more existential and what could perhaps be described, when referring to certain plays, as timeless. Throughout his body of work there is a constant struggle between human conventionalism and the truth- it is somehow knowable and understandable but is lost-hidden-dizzied through cliche, courtesies, straight bullshitting (think along the lines of Tony Blair), failure to communicate, oppression... ad nauseam. It is of course all very well written, which is perhaps its best advocate to the future.
As a man I admired him quite greatly and found his Nobel speech to express a level of integrity, honesty and courage posessed by very few and articulated well by less. Judging from the films I have seen him in he was also a very fine actor with a superb comedic timing- as well you could probably imagine if familiar with his work.
There will be a slight ache in the worlds of literature and intelligent thoughtful discussion, and me, for a fair while.

Season special

2008-12-24T08:13:00.000-08:00

My childhood..

2008-12-15T11:11:00.001-08:00

I don't remember much of it, I was pretty drunk at the time.

Confrontation; a play

2008-12-13T09:30:00.000-08:00

Confrontation.

THUG. What the fuck you looking at, prick??

HUMMER. Nothing.

THUG. Oh right, is it nice?

HUMMER. It fucking better be, pussy.

Metabus

2008-11-01T07:26:00.001-07:00

Whilst sat on a coach the other day reading I caught glimpse of what my fellow passenger was watching on his laptop, raising the question Just what does Phillip Roth think of the Adam and Joe show?

A modern day lovestory

2008-10-23T10:52:00.000-07:00

Having just read an article on the imminent death of the love story I will try to readdress the situation with a modern day love story all of which is partly true.

Skinnyman and Hassan
Skinnyman had been shot. Fuck knows why. He lived on a council estate and that's reason enough. Could be a cocky bastard as well when he wanted to be. Anyway who gives a shit why, blood was gushin from his neck mate, believe, and no amount of why was gonna change that. Ya fockin cunts he says holding onto his pierced flesh. The dumb bastards hadn't killed him and rule number one about shooting Skinnyman is if you do try to dead him up then you better fuckin dead him up all the way. Due to their lack of shooting skills these two liabilities were now facing one pissed off and bloody mad bastard his eyes bulging in their direction. To add to their troubles he now had a stick. The liabilities ran like the pussies they were which wasn't any help to them, no way were they gonna avoid the hard lashings of Skinnyman's stick. Mad whippings and Stick licks. Boys were probably mortally wounded.
A bit knackered from exerting himself so much in his condition Skinnyman decided to have a little knees up. Already seen this fockin episode he observed. Not being arsed to move he sat there for a good fifteen minutes unable or unwilling to really follow the chat show. Fockin bored he commentates. Luckily at some point the Microwave from the kitchen pinged and as if it were his theme music Hussan swiftly entered carrying his lunch and breakfast. Alright mate. Alright. Shit Skinnyman you're bleedin. Ah know mate. Hussan sat down and ate his rewarmed pepperoni pizza slice, he'd long stopped caring about whether or not his diet was Halal. After taking his final bite Hussan lets out a big and hearty burp which cracked them both up and Skinnyman slapped his index finger against his middle one to make a loud cracking sound. After they both stop laughing Hussan asks Skinnyman whether he's alright. Hurts a bit actually. Does it mush? Yeah. Shit, I'll build a draw. Nice one mate.
Hussan makes the best joints, renowned for it. The boy's got a reputation. This one that he rolled was excellent work even for a master roller, master-rolling-piece. Stuff of legends. A blunt which was fatter than gluttony; F and PH. Piping up was sweet and so needed for the pain and so needed because skinnyman was plain old gasping for a joint. He didn't say thanks though. Tried to get the smoke to go out of his neck wound instead the funny bastard that he was.
Both men sat in stoned silence for a about fifteen minutes. It was a nice chilled ambience until Hussan caught another glimpse of Skinnyman's wound.Ya still bleedin blud. Am I? Yeah bad man, we better get you to the hospital. Fuckin 'ell, just what ah need. Hussan was the first to get up. He stood there for at least a minute, just staring in Skinnyman's general direction not noticing that he was standing right next to him. We out then? Oh shit man, yeah course. And so they left the flat. Wait man put on my scarf, don't want you bleedin to death. Huh? Hussan silently but snugly wrapped his scarf around his friend's neck who was a bit too dazed to really notice.
The bus took the piss in arriving like it always does so they both puffed down a rolly which was nice cos it fills you with a warm feeling on those cold days. Finally it arrived and Hussan took care of both fares. Four quid mate! Skinnyman just walked past him, climbed the stairs and took a seat at the back of the top floor where he put in his head phones to have a little listen to the sweet mash-up he'd been working on. Hussan followed him and sat nearly but not quite next to him before leaning his head on the metal rail from the seat that was in front of him. Smiling as he vibed to the music Skinnyman started to nod, shake and move his head until noticing his pal. His head stopped still. You alright Hussan mate he asked while pulling out his ear phones. Yeah. The one word answer, too cold. No ya not, I can tell bredrin. Am fine. Don't gimme that blud, how long we been tight Wassup mate? Hussan sighed and gently told him you don't appreciate me. You think that mate? Hussan just nodded unable to move, just looking straight ahead. There was a long hard silence between the two of them, probably five minutes, until finally it was broken by the query of the fuck ya doin!? Showing you how much I appreciate you. He finished unbuttoning his friend's fly. I love you Hussan. I love you too Skinnyman!
*****

Burning a million quid

2008-10-22T11:53:00.001-07:00

Makes for pretty dull viewing.

Found Art

2008-10-18T06:26:00.000-07:00

A pedestal for all those under appreciated word artists.

"On October 24th....The SAW shall be GASMED"
Sex and death, pleasure and pain are some of the key binaries explored within GoRnKyDuDe's message board based poetry.
"Personally I think it's one of the best films 1980s... Ever."
Notions of time are questioned and era consumption critiqued in Pruane2Forever's all too prescient reappraisal of The Terminator.
"And just when you think that the fever pitch cannot possibly get any higher, that the hight of Rock and Roll decadence has been reached- there it is- Iggy's manhood in all its fabled glory"
Marion Gardner on Iggy pop getting his cock out.

Tabloid Journalism

2008-10-08T08:32:00.000-07:00

For page three stunners and Madeleine McCann
WE LOVE IT
The Sun.

The rise and recline of America; 3 short crass political poems by Sam Kastin.

2008-08-15T10:31:00.001-07:00

New, young Labour.
It's easier to be debtor
Than work for Nike
Ticking their Sweater
Taiwanese children stitching Gap
Wish the wages were better.

The Real Thing.
American CEO’s become high rollers
While Latin workers stay poor
Always Coca Cola
Ever more, ever more.

Superpowers.
I drink my coffee, lounging
Lay-z-boy recliner,
Redwhiteblue beaker
It isn’t fine China.