sadisticmika

SERIOUSLY wtf departnment: Okay, I'm not harping on the way anyone talks, not in the slightest... if you want to use the word wilst or SHED-yule in every day conversation, nobody needs MY opinion, especially... but trying to spesh-up an ad for frozen food by using that same stately english woman's voice that is used to sell just about everything of 'class' is just not going to work.

I think the Burger King ads are in an American accent because nobody wants to insult anyone about possibly eating at the BK (and who really would??),. Any how, back to Bird's Eye. For years I've known them flogging crap frozen food that was always badly burned by frost... apparently through some miracle of technology (the ad runs as if it were written by the PR department of Union Carbide), their engineering technology has lept into the far far future where almost anything is possible.

I don't care if you call it the 'Gent's', it's still a toilet, that's all I'm saying duder....




MORE crisp disasters... Walkers smoked bacon crisps, great! I like bacon, I do... then I thought, gee... how do they make it taste like this?? Hmmm... then I realised, eating a bag full of bacon wasn't really a good idea. Me 2, Walkers: 0.




Letters to the Disabused.

...Et ce fut toujours vindage pour ange,
-Artaud.

our entire existance, once
was restlessly spat out from
the mouth of a god, who wanted
nothing more to do with it.

there lies the whole of existence,
a foul taste in the mouth
but we don't need concern for that
just those sculptured girls down on
st peters street, out looking for
the exorcism of taste

& these fringes of our young god’s
mouth-hole, they were made only
for speaking of the non-moment,
the non-existance, the non-death.
It is a letter better left unread, It
only exists to tell you of your fortune
& quite simply, it reads:

here lies.

January 12th, 2005.
St. Albans, Hertfordshire UK.



Le ciel est le violet sombre marqu avec les pices brillantes. Oh ! mon petit ami j'est pourquoi pas dans vos genoux, ma face contre votre cou, pourquoi faire vous ne m'aimez pas ? Tout est dans l'obscurit. Sont ici les lampes, l'horreur de choses ordinaires. Ils m'oppriment. La nuit tombe comme un volet noir niant la possibilit de n'importe quelle faible lueur d'chapper de jour de lui. Est ici l'horreur de choses ordinaires, et l'insomnie des premires heures de soir, pendant qu'au-dessus de moi les valses sont joues, et j'entends le son discordant de plats tant rang dans une pice proche...
-Proust. 1888




you're leaving kid, says the scummy familiarity of Bardo,
and you're still there.
-Artaud.



That does not keep me from having a terrible need of -- shall I say the word -- religion. Then I go out at night to paint the stars.
--Vincent Van Gogh in a letter to his brother

The town does not exist
except where one black-haired tree slips
up like a drowned woman into the hot sky.
The town is silent. The night boils with eleven stars.
Oh starry starry night! This is how
I want to die.

It moves. They are all alive.
Even the moon bulges in its orange irons
to push children, like a god, from its eye.
The old unseen serpent swallows up the stars.
Oh starry starry night! This is how
I want to die:

into that rushing beast of the night,
sucked up by that great dragon, to split
from my life with no flag,
no belly,
no cry.
-Anne Sexton Starry Night.



YOU CALL THEM chips, we call them crisps... Yes, we know. Walkers, purveyor of fine alcohol-soaking crisps in pubs everywhere also makes their ill advised 'great british breakfasts' crisps.

Guess what walkers, not even british people want 'mint' flavoured crisps. Second, Great and British Breakfast is sort of like saying Military Inteligence, or Yahoo Serious... you know the words seperately, but together, it's an odd pairing.

What it should have been called: The Golden Age of Great British Crisps

What it will inevitably be called by drunk scallies: Shit Crisps.



The hills step off into whiteness.
People or stars
Regard me sadly, I disappoint them.

The train leaves a line of breath.
O slow
Horse the colour of rust,

Hooves, dolorous bells -
All morning the
Morning has been blackening,

A flower left out.
My bones hold a stillness, the far
Fields melt my heart.

They threaten
To let me through to a heaven
Starless and fatherless, a dark water.
-Sylvia Plath Sheep In Fog.





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



Evil spirits are not mental states but beings who never wanted to endure themselves.
-Artaud.



The rules of attraction.

Theresa Wayman, Food Service Girl
The Blood Jet is Poetry -Sylvia Plath

Dream Song 101

A shallow lake, with many waterbirds,
especially egrets: I was showing Mother around,
An extraordinary vivid dream
of Betty & Douglass, and Don—his mother's estate
was on the grounds of a lunatic asylum.
He showed me around.

A policeman trundled a siren up the walk.
It was 6:05 p.m., Don was late home.
I askt if he ever saw
the inmates—'No, they never leave their cells.'
Betty was downstairs, Don called down 'A drink'
while showering.

I can't go into the meaning of the dream
except to say a sense of total Loss
afflicted me therof:
an absolute disappearance of continuity & love
and children away at school, the weight of the cross,
and everything is what it seems.
-John Berryman Oct. 25, 1914, - Jan. 7, 1972




Sad(istic) Loada.