La Decennie Brut 20s edition

 Scottish rite knee-jerky  Special raft, deep secret. Dark and tawdry. Bubbling. Gnawing. They complain. you see. They complain.  The pan-demic has frittered away our collective 'tension spans. well, mine has at least. No time for context no more. Only slogan. Only a string of characters.A gaudy minger of a string. Each character a deeply correct pang o' lodge. Mothers, breathing as usual, will wrap ye up into a little bundle, snug and tight and  gnarled, like a knob of gristle. Mothers, always were, always will be. And bands continue to play a type of ''blues' extracted music, 'rock' they call it. 'Rock' rewards hump thrust and diddle cum. Dribble ? no! Shoot!  Yes! A long yard-stick and white paste up 

OPERATION. special operation. A comment on people's kunst affect. 

 Writing. How to infuse it with actual energy. Stuffing it. How to lend it flavour. Perhaps that last review was a little drab? By-the-book? It did the trick, it was as I saw it and I didn't lie.  A complete, an absolutely complete re-organization of me lifestyle may be in order. A complete re-organization of the ins and the outs. The bits, the pieces, the ephemera. The distractions, the didactic pulser. The slurries. The cores and the chores. And Ireland. Whole countries. Whittle. Whittle stick. The palace. The castle. The moors.    The bores. The moors. The entangled photons. Tinny resonant encounters with sexuality as side-note. A type of sick inducing pee mould, encased around a piece of cotton. It stinks with familiarity that binds the mind tighter and tighter. Uric acid, our fave.  No, not quite. I didn't. I didn't mean to. Opinion and ego. Why uphold such falsehoods. Who wins? Is it a competition? Is it a fight ? And for what reason - truly I wonder - the...

My first mobile blog. Upward? But ho! Walked out to BEDLAM venue in Woolston to catch up with the Andrew o'Connell phenomenon.  Really pleasant evening and met some great chch locals. So bedlam is a Thursday night doo-dad that kicks off 5:45, an after work crowd enticer. BYO. A bonfire. Vehicles. Van's. What ho!  Simon Nunn christianed the night with a sublime set of hymns! Come all ye faithful was a personal highlight. Delicate yet transformational. Such liturgical plainchant warmed the cockles. To be at such an intimate venue was so pleasing post lockdown- so good just to see people. People. Actual people. My hermit days may be numbered. Nunn is a troubadour. Next O'Connell titillated with his off the wall 'centre left' comedy (as he called it). Obscure, small-bizz owner cynicism and laconic free range jocularity. A touch of mouldy breaded conspiracy, 'woke Hitler' a jab at the extremely sensitive hyperinfrastructure of our current slew of enlightened yout...

 Through the years I have posted several different blogs - 'the crude decade', 'la decennie brut' etc etc. This is the latest. This blog is home to my vague outpourings. Expect a lack of context. Watching for cognitive decline at this point - although I'm not quite old enough. Writing will be of varying quality and tone. Expect the odd poem, the odd reflection, the odd wack of prose. Some attempts at social commentary.  Currently we are experiencing a pandemic. Currently I am mourning the loss of rock and roll, in fact i feel rock and roll officially died when Lemmy Kilmister died. The 20th century and its post-war cultural revolution aka hippy punk youth culture et al  is fading fast from society's mind. Gentrification and pandemics and neoliberalism has strangled collaborative arts practise and we are left as wholly isolated nodes - alienated and removed from human context(s).  Will we see the death of art in this century? The death of 'alternative' cu...