sadisticmika

"You show us how we are and let us tell our own story. Young people will only listen if society lets them speak too. Make sure that your work tells true stories, show people that they are not the only ones who matter, and that they do not have the right to categorise kids, for that won't make them disappear. On the contrary, their number will only increase." -letter written from a subject of photographer Jim Goldberg, who authored the photo-book "Raised By Wolves" and co-produced a multimedia exhibition covering the years 1985-1995 as he followed the lives of a small group of street kids, and chronicled their individual stories.

And here ends my journal on street kids, not RUNAWAYS, that's a mis-nomer, often these kids are THROW-aways, they come from troubled families and most do not choose to live on the streets, and do so only as their last means of survival. To learn more, click the Street Kids International link at the bottom of this page to find out information about homeless kids, kids without families often, (as in Rawanda), living in the street worldwide. Thanks. -Miike.

Artists involved: Unknown, Larry Clark (Tulsa), Jim Goldberg (Raised by Wolves). All writing by Michael McCarthy, (me), unless otherwise noted except for 'man you dont meet everday' - traditional irish.


Constantly Risking Absurdity


Constantly risking absurdity
and death
whenever he performs
above the heads
of his audience
the poet like an acrobat
climbs on rime
to a high wire of his own making
and balancing on eyebeams
above a sea of faces
paces his way
to the other side of the day
performing entrachats
and sleight-of-foot tricks
and other high theatrics
and all without mistaking
any thing
for what it may not be
For he's the super realist
who must perforce perceive
taut truth
before the taking of each stance or step
in his supposed advance
toward that still higher perch
where Beauty stands and waits
with gravity
to start her death-defying leap
And he
a little charleychaplin man
who may or may not catch
her fair eternal form
spreadeagled in the empty air
of existence

Lawrence Ferlinghetti




It is not her body that he wants but it is only through her body that he can take possession of another human being, so he must labor upon her body, he must enter her body, to make his claim. -Oates. Joyce Caroll.

I am taking some time out from the boards for a little while, because, because, because I can't seem to say what I want to say, in earnestness, without it being misconstrued, and that's status quo, so, it's not them, it's me.

Poor Poor Pittiful me, right? No, I've just to figure it out, for myself. What went wrong, when, and how do you fix it? That's the big big 10,000 dollar question.

I love someone very dearly, and everything counts in large amounts.




Farewell, ye Hinterlands!

for Stig Dagerman, & nameless units.


The restless runaway Streetcars nom Desire,
Wait, not named, but of derailed, submissive
Clack Clack Clacking their empty cargoes
to a place low in the lands and rent-free
With a light bulb, & a shallow pool of a room
that peels the walls of paint to slow the ticktock clocks.


An innately insane man would say:
There are Vampires about! Look left, Look right
Hes not far off, but colloquy makes good copy
and well take it as its laid, wrapt in its winding sheet.
A lingering doubt, a hope for liberation, a longing for extinction~
The towers to the east, a hive of living things
and Godblessum, Its not wrong to desire.


I was in a Squat, and I sat there, crying
I could hear the other kids crying, and I remember wishing
When I went to sleep, that I would never wake.
Solid dreams & loose connections, a poor reputation~
and the promise of one, made even worse.
But the Great white mountains are pure, endless,
They tower above your famine like a scolding mother.
The bent & empty smile of the three card monty.


Farewell ye Hinterlands! I have had enough of
Barking at your doors. A whining dogboy.
I have slept at your ridges, near the great Helcaraxe
the grinding ice of his & hers death by water.
I dont doubt your resolution, or your purity,
I know you to be pure, its simply not sane to be impure,
and everyone does what they think is right, Oh, And
Im stepping on the sidewalk now, for the first time,
Im seeing the sunlight, a dying blinded bird, for the first time,
Im crawling to the death-hole, unafraid at last, for the first time,
Im giving god his due, so we may play a deck of cards,
for the first time. And Im, Oh Oh
Oh, Good god man! Cover up,

you look like a common tramp!


September 19, 2004




Mr. President,

In 1972 Bobby Fischer became national hero. He smashed me in the match in Reykjavik. The Soviet chess hegemony collapsed. One man won against a whole army. Soon after that Fischer stopped playing. He repeated the sad story of Paul Morphy. At the age of 21, legendary Paul had beaten all leading European masters and became unofficial champion. He stopped playing and finished his tragic life at the age of 47 in New Orleans in 1884.

In 1992, twenty years after Reykjavik, there was a miracle. Bobby resuscitated and we played a match in Yugoslavia. But at that time there were sanctions against Yugoslavia forbidding American citizens any sort of activity on the territory of Yugoslavia. Bobby violated the instructions of the State Department. He became the subject of a warrant for arrest issued on December 15, 1992 by the US District Court. As for me, as a French citizen since 1978, I did not get any sanctions from the French government.

Since July 13, 2004, Bobby has been detained at Narita airport on immigration violations. Further events have been described by media.

It is clear that the law is the law. But Fischers case is not usual. I am an old friend of Bobby since 1960 when we played in Mar-del-Plata and shared 1-2 places. Bobby is a tragic personality. I realized this at that time. He is an honest and good natured man. Absolutely not social. He is not adaptable to everybodys standards of life. He has a very high sense of justice and is unwilling to compromise as well as with his own conscience as with surrounding people. He is a person who is doing almost everything against himself.

I would not like to defend or justify Bobby Fischer. He is what he is. I am asking only for one thing. For mercy, charity.

If for some reason it is impossible, I would like to ask you the following: Please correct the mistake of President Franois Mitterand in 1992. Bobby and myself committed the same crime. Put sanctions against me also. Arrest me. And put me in the same cell with Bobby Fischer. And give us a chess set.

Boris Spassky
10-th Chess World Champion
08.07.2004




Where are my kin? O, Hell Kite! Where are my brother and sister, my father? Where are they that plod before me? Fetch them to me, I have need to tell them something dear...




Oh, loveliest throat of all sweet throats;
Where now no more the music is,
With hands that wrote you little notes
I write you little elegies!
-Millay. Edna St. Vincent.




I went to bed very early last night, and had some horrible dreams. I dreamt that my mother had come back from the dead, and remaried my father, it seems like we were all together again, and on some sort of camping trip, or at least we are driving, which is fairly par for the course in my youth, only my other siblings weren't around to experience the thrill of driving from florida to pennslyvania...

And my father, who is a fairly meek man, starts becoming psychotic, threating to kill us all, and I only remember that I somehow bonked him over the head with a tire iron (i keep a tire iron next to my bed ever since a homeless guy came into my house twice at night due to a faulty door... now he keeps asking to use my shower, it makes you not want to be nice to anyone ever again, and thats the conflicting part, but thats way off topic... anyways, we steer the carivan or whathaveyou to my ficticious uncle Robert's house. Uncle rob is somehow paterned after my other uncle who is indeed a doctor, and lives in Ohio, in a very nice neighborhood, with idylic trees blowing in the autumn, and a nice park, and surely good schools, and of course he doesn't ever talk to us, well, the rest of us remaining of kin from his family, being my mother's brother and whatnot.

uncle rob's house is a labyrinth (sp?) of rooms, like all houses are in my dreams, it's always patterened slightly after my grandmother's house, with an attic, and a scary basement, and in the same italian neighborhood in pennslyvania, yet everything seems modern, and very nice, and i'm playing piano, which i can do slightly enough to sound nice, and my uncle and i are talking, we seem to be the only ones able to relate, and he hatches a plan to remove a certain part of the brain associated with anger, which is actually at the back of the medula oblongata, or could be that, but I had read it was inlarged in lizards in general... in anycase, this is done, instead of some sort of lobotomy, and then the scene ends with my father being driven off in a white van, taken somewhere far away... so we are left in the big house, where it seems like 15 people live, cousins, aunts, everything, a huge yard, that is next to a naval base, and there are always planes flying over going so fast you can hardly see them.

inside the house we find out that my uncle has performed some sort of opperation on my mother to fix something or other, and it seems to backfire and makes her meaner... also, we learn that the medicine that my uncle was taking, he stopped taking due to advice from my mother, and has learned that he only has about 2 weeks to live, and he's very staid, and very nonplussed, and simply dignified, and he places his glasses down, and its a symbol of him losing his memory, and he asks form them, and i hand them to him, after having cried for the loss of somone immaginary, very hard.

so my mother is angry, and falling apart, and my father has come back, and all of us seem to live in the uncle's house who has gone... and i go into my brothers room, through my father's room and my father shouts at me, and i mumble something back, and then go into my brother's room who locks the door, and opens up a mini fridge and hands me one of those mocha type starbucks drinks which probably has a name that is nothing like what it really is in the bottle, and he talks about going into the navy to fly hypersonic planes, with a very far off look, and i think to myself, how does my brother have things so situated in this room, and i'm broke, or at least, in debt?

and the scene shifts again, and it's just my mother to whom i say 'you know, you've become a real bitch since you came back to life'... there is a friend of mine, whom is at the surf/skate expo who's employee's give me a hard time one of whom is 15, etc, and i wake up and tell him about the dream, while i am dreaming that i am telling him... and we walk around the neighborhood, and i see another friend skateboarding, and still i have a deck with no wheels and no trucks...

in the final scene, or the last i remember, there is nearly no body there except my sister, who seems to be acting deranged, or trying to distract my mother, talking about punk rockers having sex in the basement, or thats what she heard she says, from some other boys, and i'm trying to pick up everything i can cary, and i find a 38 calibre shell and throw it somewhere...

and downstairs in the kitchen, there is food everywhere, all italian food, and it seems as if it's been eaten or partially so, but there is so much of it, and i walk outside, to set the house on fire, to collect on the insurance, and i see my mother in a window, and she seems lost and distant, and somehow this makes me feel this is all okay, her hair is very gray, and she has lived a very long time, but only in madness...

and as the house goes up in flames, at the very last minute, i rush into it, and the boards, and beams fall about me, and i wake up.




Rain Down like Fire.

Happiness consumes itself like a flame. It cannot burn for ever, it must go out, and the presentiment of its end destroys it at its very peak.
--- August Strindberg


I have an awful or wonderful dream,
I am in front of the expensive restaurant
near me, and I, like an aged monk
sit, still; Im in love, the trees caress me
& I finally know where I will be
when Ive crossed the water
falling down into it, in love with the water
And, as the not too posh for royalty
eat their this & that, I immolate, a firecracker
burning incredibly hot, my body
Burning so hot, that only my heart
is left, in the end.


Lying in bed, my eyes cant even reach you
Im dumb like this, I cant speak, dumb.
And Im thinking of the little mistake
they made inside of my house
A little pipe, in a little corner, hard enough
to hold a little bit of weight, I think of it
more than my mother, whom I know
I wont meet. Its sweet, it lures like candy,
And S---- I wont meet her either,
Shes Burned herself so hot, that there is
nothing left to touch any longer.
And I think you wonder if Im lonesome,
perhaps, what you can nurse away,
But one of the happiest moments I knew,
was the gash that landed me there
I remembered the pour to the floor,
All those little bits of me
everywhere I walked, pouring like fire
shocking me into a life.


Perhaps there is a god there waiting, to
judge you. I dont think so--- gods ashamed
Whatever you name it, its there, but
Heaven is closed, indefinitely.
Its too big for a god to manage, like a
Fire, uncontrollable, consuming the heart
But thats okay--- I dont think its much fun
playing dress-up, and wasting the days away
Eternity sounds so so so dear, doesnt it?
Its the only way some make it day to day,
but Im like god, I think,
When the fire burns its fuel, and I have
no more strength to say the words,
when Ive fallen in love with the Poplar
& the Oak, and these stupid things that
will burn just the same as I,
and when youll be left with a heart,
to wrap it up in a butchers paper
Though not an idol, or tomb, So, dont pray
Well know that, god is so far away,
hes so lonesome, like so many,
he wraps us up in paper,
he gives it all away
hes got no advice at all
but he knows what it means
to burn out our awful
lights so bright.


September 17, 2004




But it is always a question whether I wish to avoid these glooms... These 9 weeks give one a plunge into deep waters... One goes down into the well & nothing protects one from the assault of truth. -Woolf. Virginia.




September 04th's journal was getting a bit too long in the teeth, so I had to take her down by the river and shoot her. Ya heard me lassy! Then I ate her, mmmm good! Every animal that I eat, I consume its power.

So come fill up your glasses with brandy and wine, whatever it costs, I will pay. So be easy and free when you're drinking with me--- I'm a man you don't meet everyday.




It's the thrid thursday of the month, where my neighborhood tries to show off how hip it is... but winds up looking like Froggy from l'il Rascals in a propeller beanie.

Outside the world is crisp and blue, refreshing fall weather, beautiful weather. I feel like hell, trapped in a black free-fall. The contrast between the two makes both seem more extreme. -annonymous

the calm cool face of the river asked me for a kiss. hughes. langston.




More Morte Moribund music of the 70s, Shut the fuck up about that novice Mike Patton, oookey!?

...Shoot out the lights, and pour down like silver.




If subconscious anger had a parallel in Buddhist writings, it would have to do with what is called mental unhappiness or dissatisfaction. This is regarded as the source of anger and hostility. We can see subconscious anger in terms of a lack of awarness, as well as an active misconstruing of reality.
--His Holiness the Dalai Lama





When I first came to london I was only sixteen
With a fiver in my pocket and my ole dancing bag
I went down to the dilly to check out the scene
And I soon ended up on the old main drag

There the he-males and the she-males paraded in style
And the old man with the money would flash you a smile
In the dark of an alley youd work for a fiver
For a swift one off the wrist down on the old main drag

In the cold winter nights the old town it was chill
But there were boys in the cafes whod give you cheap pills
If you didnt have the money youd cajole or youd beg
There was always lots of tuinol on the old main drag

One evening as I was lying down by leicester square
I was picked up by the coppers and kicked in the balls
Between the metal doors at vine street I was beaten and mauled
And they ruined my good looks for the old main drag

In the tube station the old ones who were on the way out
Would dribble and vomit and grovel and shout
And the coppers would come along and push them about
And I wished I could escape from the old main drag

And now Im lying here Ive had too much booze
Ive been shat on and spat on and raped and abused
I know that I am dying and I wish I could beg
For some money to take me from the old main drag
---Paddy Rolling Stone.



We got here yesterday, we're here now, and I cant wait to leave tommorow. - John Giorno.

"Who You Staring At?"
(1982), GPS 025

 


Glenn Branca - Bad Smells 


 John Giorno - Stretching It Wider 


 John Giorno - We Got Here Yesterday, We're Here Now, 


               and I Can't Wait to Leave Tomorrow

The Shanti Project. Prividing assistance and home care to the victimcs of HIV & Aids.