EMOTIONS >>>> A CHIP A SA

Let's Meat

There was no food in the cupboard. No real foods.  Just the foods that augment other foods. A small packet of dried Italian herbs, some vinegar, a centimetre depth of soy sauce.
"We cannot live like this!" Diphthong wailed and slammed the cupboard door shut. "Those people are leaving us to die in the comfort of our own stains, living off memories of 50% more bran flakes"

'We' was Diphthong and Cornilio, two lost souls.  Two figures living in the high tower on the 4th floor. in their own slice of reality, a family above and two young professionals below.
"Let's lie down Cornilio, let us lick the wounds of our own demise."

Suckling on salted skin, Diphthong and Cornilio lay in the quiet of their flat hoping for each other's iodine to keep the rotten goiter at bay.  Two hours passed and Cornilio, the more subservient of the two friends lay there blinking in the afternoon light.

"We need food" whispered Cornilio. "We have to eat somehow"

At that, Diphthong pushed his friend off him and pulled on his boating shoes. Cornilio followed, blinking in wonderment at his friend's plan.

With conviction and determination, they trotted down the concrete steps to the pizza shop.  There was a hippy in the commercial bins picking out some old aubergine and chomping on the dregs of a margarita.

"Is she fully in that bin?"
"Seems so" said Cornilio. "I can just see the wind licking the backs of her oversized hareem African-print trousers"

Diphthong directed with gusto straight to her: "Hey lady, wouldn't it be great if we all shared the pizza rinds?  I mean Cornilio and I do love the delicious flavours the vehicle of pizza has to offer."

The lady's head rose fully our of the bin. She was smiling with her eyes semi shut, "No dudes, is it cool if I don't?" Her head went straight back in the bin like a duck bobbing for sunken bread.

"Fucking hippies, man!" Cornilio sometimes shocked Diphthong with his intolerance.  He was usually such a quiet fellow, but then some people would just push his buttons.

A figure approached; skinny, olive-skinned, snakeskin boots, furtive.
"Hey, you two hungry motherfuckers wanna chow down on something real tasty?  Something only few have eaten, a mind-trip brother.. Taste this shit and you will be lickin' those dehydrated lips of yours for days."

There was mystery rhythm about the fellow, a curious odour like barbecue sauce with a tang of funk and unwashed bodily secretions.

"We're starving man" exclaimed Cornilio, "We've been truffling each other's skin for potassium for the last two days"

"Follow me boys"

And with that, the three figures moved with vim through the backstreet debris of a gloomy evening,  quick-smart, with the finesse of a city veteran, the sounds of well-healed, well-worn shoes clipping the cobble stones and pavement edges. He took them to a doorway; European-style fancy-grot door, illegible graffiti-tagged, weathered into the century. He left them at the bottom with a hand gesture. Cornilio and Diphthong shared a passing glance and waited subserviently in the hallway.

The waiting bubbled up a hunger pang conversation between their guts.
"Eggs" said one
"Fondu" said another.

The small light-footed fellow came back with a white creased carrier bag in his arms.
"Truffle this right here boys, but not right here..." Like a cockroach he darted back out of the doorway and into the evening with the two friends in tow.

Leading with their watering mouths they scurried diligently behind, eyes wide and fidgety with the promise of food.

By now they had reached the dock.
"Lay it down brother!" cried Diphthong from behind.  Subsequently, the bag was lumped on a rock and lay open for the three to assess.

The carrier bag burst at the seams revealing greys and pinks in an vaguely homogenous lump.

"Meat cake?" They looked at each other. "Meat cake!" Without hesitation, the two began scooping the meatcake in rapturous appreciation, gorging hand to muscle, muscle to tongue. The farmyard of taste described itself in the mouths of the hungry.
"I got a chicken, no wait! A cockerel!"
"Is that pony-meat? Man it's been so long"
"A sausage, right down the sides of my palette"
"The nose says venison but the tongue says springbok...such a heady mix of complex umami offerings"
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Meat cake has been part of a long lineage of culinary traditions for centuries.  Everyone from the Scuttlers of Ancoats to the Dukes of Kensington would enjoy the mix of animal fat and muscle as composed in a meat cake.  And now the tradition has rotten and died, the spirit of meat cake fizzled and remembered by a select few.

Luckily, those select few, like our friend in the story, have managed to replicate the recipe from ancient scrolls.  You can now buy meat cake from a single purveyor at Spitalfield's Market for the price of a small family meal.  Let's meet and eat meat-cake.

The Crone

Slowly the old crone unfurled her hand from around the bus seat.  Everyone had stopped talking but there was still much volume coming from the sound of the engine.  She got up and walked slowly to the bus driver who was waiting diligently at the stop she had requested.

She spoke.

'You and I, we're exceptional people, we live in this humdrum world. Sure, we are droplets in the world of consciousness but there's something different about us.'

The bus driver looked through the bulletproof plastic which separated them and studied her face.  Her skin was spectacularly flaccid; cloth of jaundice and grey swathed over her bone structure, glistening with silver-tipped iridescence.  She had an unperturbed youthful look still chomping from within.  A wide, ridiculous grin of ceramic dentures jutted from behind the loose crepe of her lips.

'Many people don't believe in it anymore; the magic'

A dozen or so people could hear the woman.  

'Oi, get off the bloody bus, you old crank!' scorned a man a quarter of the way down the alley.
'Get a grip woman, move your rusty hips back to the morgue' said another.
A few of the people sneered, enjoying the carnival of the hubbub.

The woman turned to the congregation:

'Look at my claw, crippled from the miserable days I spent working to make you curtains and soft furnishings, your baby clothes and personal effects.  Look at the bus driver, with his one big leg, pumping the guts of this bus, carrying beggars, workers and the-like through the city.  And all you can do is scorn with porcine logic, round a trough of swill!'
The voices died down a little, to a mild suburban-summer level of sound.  With that the old lady edged slowly off the bus.

Moving little else apart from his head the driver watched the little crooked figure dismounting the bus, before pulling the hydraulic door mechanism behind her.

The driver revved away with volume, pumping the clutch with his fat leg.

There is no app to share smells

I am thinking about smells. Different smells swoop in and out of our heads, registered by the numskulls filing all our arbitrary experiences and linking them with thin-spider web like connections to form very complex patterns. A process too complex for you or I to understand. Nevertheless, the numbskulls are darning up associations and likes and dislikes no doubt by way of a chipper little algorithm.

Yesterday I smelt something curious from the suitcase I have been living from over the past month. I followed slowly, the cord from the nostril to the neurone soup of the brain. The smell was waxy, calcified. Plaquey like a Yorkie bar or a Brazil Nut. Sweet a touch, like milk. A delicious smell, haunting the reverie of my suitcase.

I seemed to like the smell. However, it's source was unknown.

Lols all round

Lol Goodman and his band of gypsies requested an album cover for their highly anticipated album 'Tautology'.  I think it's the Tusk of their epic career.

Opine

The Beatles, we all have an opinion on them.  "I hate Paul", "Ringo can't drum", "Lennon's a wife beater", "Which one's George?".

But do we actually have an opinion on them?  Think about work, when you're 'mad at someone for putting a file in the wrong place' or 'they've had the last tea bag' or 'they have fish for lunch'.  Are these genuine gripes pumping behind your eyes? Are you really summoning anger across the fabric of your brain? Or are you just deciding to talk about something. Deciding to ignite some sense of individuality in the now.  I think you'll agree that this is similar to having an opinion on The Beatles.

Daniel Bachman Phil Tyler, Irma Vep

A poster for Sam; good old Sam who lives with the other boys in the house.

Meeting Room

Poster for YPSF, focus group.

Cath and Phil Tyler

This was a storming gig.

Med Men

Poster for Crowfoot Records.  This is what happened.

The Black Worm

"Wait. No stop"

She stopped.

Fingers coiled up into her bag. Another hand felt the bone of her hip.

The hand smoothed over her arms and tentatively moved into the warmth of her armpit.

“If you feel anything is inappropriate you must nod.”

She stood frozen in obsequious delight. Inside, a wealth of excitement bubbled and gorged through her system.  The hand in her bag groped her keys and shuffled passed the loose change in there.

The mystery of other people's belongings, the filth of the fluff of someone else's pockets.  The men moved in to the light. 

"Miss, you seem to be carrying A Voucher" 

"Really?  This was given to me just now by a taxi driver, foolishly, I didn't check and assumed it was change"

"Clearly.  I will exchange The Voucher for the experience, in accordance with legislation”

"Please… I remember the driver's code, perhaps you would like me to reel it off for you?"

She knew they were not interested in how she obtained The Voucher, nevertheless, she was keen to extend the conversation before the unavoidable consequences. 

The man removed a pock-machine from his pouch.  As he leaned his head in the light, it appeared dented; the skin over his skull was soft boiled, no hair then eyebrows. The machine head was placed on the woman's forearm and he pumped the switch.  In an instant, the woman was wailing horrendously and her right knee had dropped in concert with the shrill scream.  It had removed a disc of flesh from the horizontal layers of skin, revealing raw tissue in a perfect circle.

"Voucher will be replaced with experience" 

The woman gripped her elbow with her left hand, she had quietened; gulps of breath punctuated soft whimpers.

A second figure revealed carrying a small foil-topped plastic container, with the diagonal corporate branding of a pharmaceutical company.  The man popped the foil with a knife to reveal a strange black worm, moving horribly as if formed from hot solder; morphing into itself as a continuous flail of liquid.  With precision, he scooped the worm from the plastic and into the woman's wound.

The woman began to nod.

"Oh?  Inappropriate? OK we'll stop. You're done now anyway"

"Did the worm go in?"

"Yes, enjoy the experience!"

The woman scurried out of the room clutching her arm. The worm had formed a hard black cap across the circular hole in her flesh.

Once home, the changes began to happen. Seated on the chair, her gaze softened, her head tilted towards the window. Her teeth began to feel bruised in her gums; her tongue swelled between her bite.   Skin around her wound was turning grey, pulsing gently from the black worm in her skin.  Scratching the chair with her fingernails, she waited, surrendering to the worm's will.

"Squeak.  I'm inside you, I'm the worm inside your arm, releasing chemicals of experience into your body." 

Her tongue began furiously rubbing the roof of her mouth. Pump went experience; rushing up her central nervous system grappling with memory cells and liquidating into her brain. Tubes of phantom food memories collected in her gullet and slipped into her stomach.  Leg muscles twitched spasmodically, implying months of imagined journeys. Emotions splurged over her, at once, attacking her frontal lobe. With the lack of grace that comes with complete sensory assault, she stiffened in her chair; her fingers became brittle poised claws and her left leg cocked away from her body.

Half an hour passed, she was mumbling incoherently, her eyes flicking left to right. 

"Ah! I see you have spent the Experience Voucher I purchased for you for your birthday. Ho! Ho!"  Her husband had returned home from work, and was watching his grey wife squirming from her stiffness.  Her eyes could fix on him by this point; she formed a smile through the grimace of the worm's muscular contractions.  "I can see you must be nearly done... I'll just wait and you can tell me all about it"

Gradually, florid pools of colour returned to her skin and her frame became looser, returning to a normal pose.

"Wonderful!" The word passed lightly out of her skull.  "What a wonderful experience, thank you so much"

The black worm had returned to its original shape and the teat of its head was searching to the best direction to move in. Slowly now, the worm shifted clumsily over the skin, down her arm and fell onto the floor.  The husband moved stealthily towards it and crushed it under his black semi-patent loafer.

“So, has it given you something to talk about?”

“Yes, the worm decided I could have all the experiences we anticipated, the cream of happiness and the belching crux of dilemma and pain.”

“Amen!” The husband’s eyes revealed their whiteness and as he thrust his right arm into the air, his suit folded between his neck and shoulder.  “Happy Birthday, my love!  Now we can get to know each other all over again.”

With that, a tickle of sorrow wriggled in the woman’s brain, and a small pump twitched the base of her spine. She looked down to the black stain at her feet then to the black loafer of her husband, then spoke: “Experience is a worm, coating the wheels of my mechanisms, burrowing through the logic of my decisions.   The worm is dead and I am left with visceral traces of imagined glories and filth.”

The husband knelt next to her, holding her hand, “Look how interesting you’ve become!  Tell me everything!  Drench me in opinions!”

The woman softened her gaze once more and looked back toward the dead worm.

The ideas ruptured inside her brain and tweaked neurones into giving him word-sounds.

“Pump pump” she mouthed, “pump, pump…”

Turn, Turn, Turn

This is mainly about getting the Metrolink during rush hour.

Old Timey Foods

Hot Gore

So here's the finished poster for the night that hangs in the reverie of a small clutch of people who communicate by flexing their pelvic floor muscles. 

Big Plate

Look at all these edible friends; some bewildered, some poised in merriment at their anthropomorphic reality.  All of them excited to be scoffed by a punter of West Didsbury's 'Mary and Archie' Cafe Bar;  their punters have particularly good table manners and know not to talk while they guzzle delicious food combos down their gullets and into their intestines.  You will often find their guts have been well maintained by eating fibrous cereals in the morning and at least 2 of their five a day, which makes it all the more pleasant-a-journey for our gang.

camera 1, camera 2

http://flisshorro.tumblr.com/

New work, dbh: Time Flies

Look, here's the cover for dbh's album 'Time Flies'. 

The Sleeping Brain

Sleeping through the hours; a natural phenomenon that we can appreciate, but when was the last time you considered this in all its perplexing glory?  You may have some idea of how your brain disengages with your conscious mind; it knows not to pull the plug totally of course! Regulatory systems keep the lungs receiving and distributing friendly oxygen and a pump at the back of your neck releases some sticky-stuff into the blood: hormones.  Pump, pump go the hormones as you sleep like a slug on your pillow with silvery catarrh forging with plaque from the bowl of Cheerios you ate before you hit the hay. Potassium and sodium are the salty brothers deciding who can or cannot pass through the cell membranes.  Brain is now recuperating delicious energy from mitochondria. Keep on keeping on!

PEACH PALS

We love the taste of peach this week.  In your mouth, with its vibrant constitution of delicious nuances, it tastes like the idea of summer.  A flavour so strong that it should be illegal.  PEACH. EAT PEACH>>>

Johnny Sack

in progress......

Here's a grainy snap of a poster im working on.  One day it will be complete.

"happy time" time

Surgeon Sage

weep

Living in M8

Bell: card-carrying communist

'We were all doing it' said paul, squeezing out his best diplomatic tones. 'We were all chasing the dragon.'
'Now now Paul, I don't think Timothy and Felicity were chasing the dragon,' said Mrs B with a sigh, 'it doesn't look good for you this time Paul, I saw you, behind the Wendy house, chasing the bloody dragon.'
'Yes they were! At first it made them sick but then they really liked it.  I told them "no!" but they had already reached the point where you're not bothered about what other people are saying..'
'Come on Paul' said Tim, urging Paul out of the room.

Mrs B furtively looked at Tim, 'You two go home... and take your rancid rotten fermented soya bean paste with you!'
'OK, OK, Tim, get the Miso. It's in the fridge' piped up Felicity from behind Paul.
'Right I'll get the Miso, but I bet Bell has drilled it'.
Bell was an overweight, blonde Labrador who knocked around the kitchen eating whatever came her way.
Tim went into the kitchen.

'She's dead!.. Quick, Bell's dead!'
Sure enough, she had eaten the Miso.  She was rife with good bacteria.  Good bacteria was oozing from every pore, the stench of fermentation was pickling the room and seeping from each hair follicle on her back.
'Oh Jesus, poor Bell' grimaced Felicity, 'no Paul, don't look!'
By now the bacteria was pumping silently out of her teets like heat erupting through a pan of porridge.
'You and your fucking Miso bullshit!' wailed Paul on seeing the dog.
'Hang on a minute' interjected Tim, 'isn't it society's fault for making Bell want to consume everything in sight?'
'Tim's right, as a mother, you want your dog to have everything that the other dogs have, to the point where it's never enough.' admitted Mrs B.
'Miso is an ancient Chinese foodstuff.  Funny this really, considering China's political history' added Fliss.
'It's actually called the 'Peoples Republic of China' now, dickhead'
'Alright Tim, she's just saying that perhaps Bell was trying to communicate to us that communism is going to usurp our western model of capitalism.' said Mrs B.
'Maybe, or maybe she just couldn't get enough of that cold unami flavour!' chuckled Paul.
Everybody laughed.

 STIR GENTRY

Rimonim

NyEve10 at the mill

Weep and Luco. Who best?

Weep is An Elder.  Weep sees string theory and shadows in the room. Weep is living in a monochrome rhythmic sensory orb.  Weep has grim dog-grill for a mouth.

Fav band: suzanne Vega
Fav meal: Nuggets
Fav haunt: Alky hall


Luco became a contender when she got a number 1 all over.  Weep's eyes and ears.

Fav band: Styx
Fav meal: fondu
Fav haunt: Trafford centre

Lauren Kirk

LAuren Kirk.

Lauren Kirk introduced me to music, namely the outhere brothers x-rated version of boom boom boom.  We would play two crude dudes whist eating super noodles instead of veg.  I was on a weedy iceberg lettuce vibe at the time, so "chicken-esque" monosodio flavours made me pop. My concept of Lauren Kirk lies somewhere between squid and the voidoids. We would march round the playground in unison chanting "har ha ha har ha" wiggling our hands in prayer position,  saying hello and goodbye to Mrs Kenderdine and tim;  it was well proto-hardcore. 

White Pee/Pandiscordian Necrogenesis et al.

Whole Voyald Infinite Light: NON TELEOLOGY

Brother Jon and Brother Barry summoning angels, archangels, the elders, four living creatures, the Gentiles, the Redeemer, a Mediator and all the company of heaven.


They are currently touring in the current economic climate in Euro::  take them some 70% - 75% choc darkness and a couple of Jonagold apples.

Euro soup

 Brussels. Everything from Brahms to Dylan.  Abba to Zappa.

Beechwood 56789

Records are being played by me at the bay horse the third friday of every month.  Generally the vibe is repulsive so any good company is welcome.   i am downstairs by the toilets, bored out of my brain killing tracks I once liked as people peck me for "fergi", no,  not the royal, the one out of the black-eyed peas that wet herself.

Eta Ebetkar Psychic Reality White Pee ... Poster

Andy Jarvis - Astragalas

Tenners Euro Trash

Kum by Ya Records talent scout took us to Tenerife in search of the avant-garde. We didn't find it there.

Some rushes with brushes.

Slicing the midweek.

35 second viddy. Old Hall BD FH axis on the audio.

Aaron Moore/Alan Courtis Film Poster....

Geeek Magazine/ Kraak Po-Po shutdown

Above: Kraak Poster exhibition. It existed for a good 4 hours before the dibble whiffed the skiffle and decided shoot rats in barrel and shut the shop. Still, here's the proof. Some of my old posters on the right complete with two of the post-it posters from the heady days of the 9-5. No frames here, would be like framing Marsbar wrappers...

Go and behold Geeek Magazine a downloadable Manchester zine with illustrations from this kid, straight from the offal on this blog (issue is winter 09).

dinner party 'mare

Nothing to report.

My pound of flesh is featured in Benoit Grimalt's current exhibition/book "Do you know Syd Barrett" available from here. England through a very Frenchman's yeux. A good pair of yeux though.

Also a nice review of A Wake tape on Foxy Digitalis.

The Admiral

Nose Friend

CSNY

Crosby Stills Nash and the other one, kindly posed for a photo the other day whilst they were having their usual xmas pint meet up in The Olde Boar's Head, Middleton. Stills plumbed for his favourite half a Fosters with a lime top, Nash stayed faithful to his packet of cheese and onion Walkers, saying "for the record, you just can't get these o'er the pond". Everybody laughed.

Huey, Dewey, and Louie