Rants & Raves
Monday, June 18, 2001
“Weasel” she shouted at the top of her lungs as the sealed carriage departed the platform. She scurried along the isles grabbing papers and other items discarded by long departed passengers. The cry of “Weasel” was once more hollered as she breached the train’s doors, flinging the rubbish into space. The detritus did a 90-degree turn when met the wind. The automatic doors beeped in protest. She returned to her seat, satisfied that the carriage was now void of the offending items.
Friday, June 15, 2001
Artists of this week:
Abe Offlet – A performance artist with a limp, who earlier this week was seen hunting down and killing several medium sized balloons. He then meticulously skinned and ate the balloons raw. Abe, you are the art legend of this week. **** (4 stars)
Thursday, June 14, 2001
Not knowing the exact height of the thing I stand before I decided it wasn’t a good idea to climb – I’d never reach the top I’m sure. Even if I did reach the summit I would most likely die of asphyxiation or freeze to death. So, instead I said excuse me and pushed past it on the way to the candy bar.
Friday, June 08, 2001
I re-wrote a work-mates poem and was told I was sick and twisted. Compliments get you everywhere:
Walk on me, in some twisted-semi-serpent dance…please please me!
I have something/nothing to tell you, that can penetrates deeper then the wounds you inflict.
Can you read my thoughts?
Slowly they disperse into what is an comfortable violence, as you walk on…
The great Troobadu relays a stone tablet as you dance naked; blowin’ in the wind, he can see you… a voyeur, dirty dick, peeping tom. He thinks the truth, just like I do, he is the truth, just like I am. Yet you stand on my thighs and the lacerations you administer are nothing like the truth.
In my mind I spank you… gently, I whisper ‘Naughty Boy?’ and then I defecate on you. I see you staring ahead, with this hallowed look on your face, everything is immaculate in your eyes, even the feces that now mars your bones..
A flaw develops under the shit stained punctures, my flesh begins to collapse. I love the pain of imperfection, it makes me feel. I am once more alive and pure.
The wind whispers through the gaping wounds in my flesh…can you hear it?
It’s hard to make sense of your whimpering. I think you're now done.
Can it be that the voyeur has had its fill?
Now leave me for dead, I am satisfied.
