November 30, 2008

Nick Walker


Born in 1969, Nick Walker is one of UK’s leading artists creating beautiful freehand work with the help of stencils. He worked in the field of advertising and also as an illustrator and tried his hands on film set designing as well. He emerged from the infamous and ground-breaking Bristol art and graffiti scene of the early 1980s.

As a forerunner of the British graffiti phenomenon Nick's work became a blueprint for hundreds of burgeoning artists. His work has constantly evolved and always remains innovative, modern and thought-provoking earning him the notoriety of one of the UK's most wanted artists.

It was after the continuous destruction of his illegal work that Nick transcended his urban surroundings and changed his angle of attack to one focused on the establishment and art world. His distinctive style adapted effortlessly from the walls of Bristol to canvases on gallery walls.

November 29, 2008

paris, je t'aime

Twenty acclaimed filmmakers from around the world look at love in the City of Lights in this omnibus feature. Paris Je T'aime features eighteen short stories, each set in a different part of Paris and each featuring a different cast and director (two segments were produced by two filmmakers in collaboration). Paris Je T'Aime received its world premiere at the 2006 Cannes Film Festival.

forgiveness parade

by Jeffrey McDaniel

These wonderful new poems by Jeffrey McDaniel are full of images that evoke pain and humor at the same time. Tragic and comic, utterly contemporary yet evoking the sure-handedness of the ancient masters, these poems give fresh, original voice to modern life. Whether he's tackling dysfunctional family memories in "Broken Toy Club" and "The Most Awful Lullaby," or broken-hearted romance in poems like "Orbited by Kisses" and "Another Long Day in the Office of Dreams," McDaniel's love of language is everywhere evident.

Jeffrey McDaniel (born 1967 in Philadelphia) is a slam poet who has performed in diverse locations such asLollapalooza 1994, the National Poetry Slam, the Globe in Prague and the Moscow Writers Union.

His writing has been included in anthologies such as PloughsharesThe Best American Poetry 1994, and The New Young American Poets, and on the National Endowment for the Arts website.

After That (The Quiet World)

five minute pornography

by atti?

this pornography gets me going
-with every clip
another falls and they're only wearing skin
behind the bed of glass,
that acts as the covers
they're not actually under
-unless this picture of lust is so transparent
i really can see right through.

every touch
i pretend its us:

-that filthy voyeur,
with his eyelids rippling;
the climax to the film
never quite became
-enough to wrap his jaw around
the silver linings of cloud 9.
an arsonist is left in the dust
with under achieving passion
in to the palm
of slut.

their love tumbles off their backs
with the switch of a scene
-slap of disgust, nudge of a strap.
squirming in there, naked
-two sets of lips
and a set of shriveling lungs
for each to bleed out of their mouths
as hollow screams seep through
their pale white masks
in act one scene two-
the decieving of:

back against the walls
-between each translucent moan
the ceiling topples over her smirk
and the two of them fall.
in a split second moment
-you can read the script lines
across her never open eyes
-until you hold
that brief second in disguise;

-not the originals given,
but her own revisions.
the screenplay she's saving in her kisses
for the one who'll listen.

between her broken flowers
and the stentch of winter midnights
-the bloom has died
and the tide has lost sight
of it's guide within the moon
-so the waterline rises between her thighs
and he breaks her heart some more
with another quick disguise
-he read that script in her face
from the gut like an utter professional
of the upmost gutter
with grace.

i'll watch with one eye closed
and the other ignoring through my fingers
as i remember a better stage.

this pornography got me going
-the most beautiful moment
in the introductions of a pornography only.
i'll watch the first five minutes
-where you can read the love
between the body lines
of the passionately explicit,
before she gags on the editors notes
and coughs up the back hand
of a directors dirty secret.

i watch five minute pornography
for six minutes at a time-
just enough to hear the subtle cries.
i watch five minute pornography
searching for love-
behind the hollywood that's giving it up.

November 28, 2008

white winter hymnal

by Fleet Foxes

thanks jordan.

this isn't poetry

by atti?

last time i wrote a poem
the sink spit me up,
while my belt loops sat alone,
waiting for the notches around my throat
to let go.

the footnotes at the bottom of my heart
beat more readily,
than the body of my work.

i used to think it was poetry
-before the lines turned themselves into a noose
and haiku's that read like bullet points
started to back fire,
through the backsides of a few ambiguous
water lines,
that were just shallow enough
for me to try and drown myself in.

i used to think it was a pen
-before it made a better weapon.

a few metaphors and three broken women later-
this isn't poetry,
it's a battle cry
that started as tears and went to war with itself,
and never realized the field
was never actually a place to step-
but who knew hearts could eat tread just as easily.

everyone wants their signature poem
-it's supposed to mean i love you;
but this poets love stinks like lust
behind red-rose revolvers that get used like crutch.

one too many rest their heads
on my barrel of monkeys from your back
fired into the last place you'd expect
to be dead.

i used to call this art,
because i didn't see pain it made.
my own splinter ridden veins where the page
like a mask without the eye holes
to see who they bump in to.
this depression wasn't meant for display,
but the day my scars stumbled into your arm
you wore them like the neglect
to which you had always set the stage.

search my poems for your answers
-because i don't have them.

i used to think i was cutting my own wrists
with the margin of this half finished poem,
until i watched you bleed
-and assumed you knew what to do
if you had the will to reed.

still writing
-i'll take your life away,
while reaching for your breath.
these poems aren't made for praise;
they only frame regret.

i'm the martyr of my every word,
followed by myself as the rope tightens
before a crowed town of my own emotions-
each one standing as its own person.

it was all for me,
until i started to see the strangers
scattered across the executioners veil.
it was all for me,
until a few decided to watch-
and they didn't enjoy my death
as much as i did
-because the parts of themselves they had put in me,
swallowed the axe much slower
than i really took the blade.

that broken heart doesn't entertain you
the same as it does the reader,
but i still write it into the story
because this isn't poetry, it's the overly dramatic truth.
so keep reading until your stanza ends,
and the next begins with another name-
and you can't enjoy the read again,
if the last poem hasn't already pushed you away.

so, ask me to write you a poem,
and i'll slit my wrists and dedicate it to you
-because i don't write poetry,
i kill off pieces of myself, for myself,
regardless of the voyeurs
with hands over their eyes
watching through the gaps between their guilty fingers.

don't ask me to write you a poem,
because i'm running out of pieces to kill;
don't ask me to write you a poem,
because i never will;

this isn't poetry.

Philippe Halsman & Salvador Dali

In 1941 Halsman met the surrealist artist Salvador Dalí and they began to collaborate in the late 1940s. 

A famous collaboration between the two was In Voluptas Mors, a surrealistic portrait of Dali beside a large skull, in fact a tableau vivant composed of seven nudes. Halsman took three hours to arrange the models according to a sketch by Dali.


Halsman and Dali eventually released a compendium of their collaborations in the 1954 book Dali's Mustache, which features 36 different views of the artist's distinctive mustache.

the end of every poem.

by atti?

i'd be shallow if you could actually cry
.. if something more than sand
could tip
(h)our glass
to the point it truly was half empty,
no matter if you stand on your tippy-toes
and pier down as if you really thought it was an acurate depiction
to glance off the top of my shoulders,
and claim we've filled this ugly mug
with anything more than a few droplets of something
that resembles sober.

as if i really knew how to swim anyways
-you just wanted someone to test the waters
before you pretended to drown.

your greatest weakness is a poet
-mine is the literate;

if i could actually read my own words
i'd realize what it means to you
when i fall apart in your glass palms-
and count down to the end
while thinking that your math is strong:
everyone knows poets
use the other side of a half hearted mind-
but my reflection wears disguise
like you're trying to play along,


my relationship status is:

i'm good at reading palms,
but when you hold my hands
and i cup your face
-those smile lines contort the page.

maybe i'll love you along,
or maybe this is just another heroes tales
i've used as a napkin
to wipe away those tears again-
either way

i'll let it happen.

don't think of me as an asshole..
i'm the poet you've always quoted-
i'll help you fill your journal pages
so i can steel
a moment.

you can be my ambiguous
warning letter-
that just can't keep its hands off of heartbeats,
because i'm a poet before a reader,
and those palpitations make better endings
then new beginnings.

i'm sorry, truly
-this is the (heart)est part,
but will you help me write
the ending?

i've got another poem
to start.

1000 apes in a room

double emcee and producer team of, K-The-I??? and Michael Nhat.


November 23, 2008

live for a living

by Buddy Wakefield
Live for a Living, the new collection of poetry from Seattle author Buddy Wakefield is sweetly refined with honesty and more striking than ever. Live is loaded with non-preachy cultural awareness and a sensibility that blasts the reader with gut punching love power and soaring beauty.

About the Author
Buddy Wakefield is the two-time Individual World Poetry Slam Champion featured on NPR, the BBC, HBO s Def Poetry Jam, and signed to Strange Famous Records. In 2004 he won the Individual World Poetry Slam Finals thanks to the support of anthropologist and producer Norman Lear then successfully defended that arbitrary title at the International Poetry Festival in Rotterdam, Netherlands against the national champions of seven European countries with works translated into Dutch. In 2005 he won the Individual World Poetry Slam Championship again and has gone on to share the stage with nearly every notable performance poet in the world in hundreds of venues internationally from The Fillmore in San Francisco and Scotland s Oran Moore to San Quentin State Penitentiary, House of Blues New Orleans and CBGBs. In the spring of 2001 Buddy left his position as the executive assistant at a biomedical firm in Gig Harbor, WA, sold or gave away everything he owned, moved to the small town of Honda Civic and set out to live for a living, touring North American poetry venues through 2003. He still tours full time and considers recent tours with Ani DiFranco, I Am A Lagan, and Solomon Sparrows Electric Whale Revival to be the highlight of his career thus far.

her's for his vandalism

by atti?

i loved you before you were trendy
.. before you wore alleyways
on the topsides of your feet;

a filthy blonde
in argyle moral-
but before the floor made it yours
i remembered open sores.

you wear your designers like your long lost heart:
to someone elses beat.

the art in your face never used to be so abstract
-that dead canvas
only knows the eraser marks
that didn't take away
the past.

.. provocateurs aren't supposed to move,
so every tear you spit
in deaf ears
adds another shaky stencil mark
to that crooked portrait you wear.

you're your own fault.
-these backstrokes through your slate colored hair
only trace the gaping flaws
that were already there-
those flimsy stares and offwhite fears
will just keep fossilizing
in that stone face, behind a logo
you hold so dear.

so keep crying
-beauty is in the eye of the beholder
and love is blind,
so lust just doesn't try.

contemporary lovers laid to waste
-beneath the 21st centaur we've
not the color wheels to frame
your oval maze.

you're an ugly duckling
all grown-down-
outside in, in-perfect pastel wings.

a face not even your own artist
could love.

you're the doodles of Picasso
unripened in the after birth of Escher's
pale of rotten seeds;
a bad apple could still be painted
but you are the core that was
given to me.

this vandalized heart
that beats in 3/4's under stolen loops
on my contemporary walls-
is as hideous as the idea
you will ever be more than the downfall
of artistry-

those dirty stones,
so filled with indecency and lack of respect-
your grafitti glare in my bare-
you're hideous;

you're not art.

Jon Yeston

Me by jon yeston

^ truly love his eye for photo.
ri by jon yeston 
New York by jon yestonmv 2 lol by jon yestonClouds by jon yeston

born in the year of the butterfly knife

Derrick C. Brown

Derrick C. Brown, a poet/performer and former paratrooper, travels the world performing his written work. He has gained a something of a cult following for his performances, which incorporate spoken word, music and even magic.

kurosowa champagne

come alive

book i've currently reading from Brown, is Born in the Year of the Butterfly Knife. an amazing collection of Brown's works. instant favorite for me.

A wit as sharp as Sedaris, a sensibility as poignant as Sexton, Brown manages to blur the lines between cult writer and poet with remarkable ease and grace. ---Anthem Magazine

He is probably America's greatest unknown literary talent. Derrick has blown honesty and humor into the darkness and has somehow made poetry cool again. ---Nylon Magazine

I Love Derrick Brown for the surprise of one word waking up next to each other. Truly an amazing talent. ---Janet Fitch, author of White Oleander

Product Description
This poetry collection includes Derrick's best poems from the past 5 books. 1994-2004. Includes A finger, two dots then me and Kurosawa Champagne. A Classic. National Bestseller.

wolf parade

he rolls his tongue like a bullwhip
through the grooves of her curling spine-
her toes crumple
-eyes sea red
as an ocean coughs up the moans
from the agony she wore between her legs
to fill the sky
for another son-set

jigsaw stares
and his jaw bare-

she shows her teeth
-her pearly off-whites
to the giant negro of her eye:
the midnight sky.

they spit civil rights
into latex resevoir tips-
hate crimes with sheets and slipknots
parade across the bedroom floor
with the promise of a kiss.

she grips his nappy head
and lifts the veil between her legs-
his fingernails flee the scene
and rape the gashes on her inner thighs;

the bed gives out-
the blood for her to curdle
in scream ripe enough
to dare and dream!

her eye's roll back; the room fades to black
and blue hats with filthy voyeurs on their minds
grip their pants in anticipation-

it's not snuff, it's just enough!

his hips ride the Amastad between puddles
of blood, lust, cum, and whiskey trade
as one last thrust drives through
her underground, and rides her tracks until the two rails meet
at the same place to a difference destination-
and the blareing sirens rip through her throat
as the air horn rides the crooked sound waves like a prostitute
and the blue hats bare the badges
of their guilt as the zippers split, foundation rots
and jaws all drop as they witness
the climax of two trains of thought!

her eyes rip open her own eyelids and suck the flames
of his forrest fire-
as her neck gets caught in her tethered wrists!
as she bites at the open air for a taste of
and her sulfer ridden eyes swollow the opaque
glimpse of that rusted cross-
covering its eyes
above her bed!

he pulls his shackles and eats her lashes
as her eyes bat burning desire-
glistening in the reflection
of that crosses blistering ashes.

the hate in this lust
could fracture all of us!

he hand slips from his head-
holding his last straws in the air like a trophy
as his tethers tighten and her lips turn blue!

the blue hats sit on hind legs
with saliva dripping off their fangs
onto those curiously shaped billy clubs and batons-
they've been waiting for their chance all along

.. even voyeurs like a happy ending.

her eyes roll back on last time
-the sky turns black and the stars burn out,
his hands go limp and her legs walk away
from where they locked mandibles
for that walk along his spine..

the wolves throw their blue hats,
as the sheets blow through the air
while the billy clubs accept new members-
the streets fracture, the curbs grow cold
-the backs of buses explode!
the wolves, worked up so sexual
race the clock beneath the sheets!

until, it all.. stops.

the sheet grows still-
the stench spills from out of the covers
like fire hoses-
subtle grins form in the silhouette of this climax..

the blue hats brushed under the mangled bed frame,
with the sheets worn like a badge of honor
-one with out serial numbers or the idiocy of selflessness.
the wolves don't wear thier sheep skin anymore-
only the voyeurs coat of arms;

the thought of more sex- or,
weighing heavy on the mind.

November 2, 2008

realeyes, you're not

her shotguns barrels wore that tinted iris
like a velvet exhale,
loaded questions - fired guesses;
her gaze was the suicide marriage
in the distant veil 
beyond the dead man’s grave.

back hands in reverse - even worse poker faces.
they made love in a house of card
hearts and shitty whisperers on windy days
-they made lust in a house of card
sharks and falling spades 
swollowing every papercut, he made
her concieve the abortion
of his rotten egg.

before she batted bullets
there’s was the soul that folded;
before he shot his mouth off;
the day irony went and pulled it.

the cloud went spoiled and shit it’s tar ridden lining
across the wedding bells and ivory sighs.
the bride dined on rape 
as the honey-moon grew full of ego.
she reached for stars
to help her find her way to heaven
but they were too dim to light a blackening wife.

her eyelids pinched his filthy stare so tight
that when her eyes split the terror blind
rubies rained from down her eyes…
and spilled down into
her decaying chest
-to form a rosary between her breasts.

she never hurt a man,
but she murdered flies.

picked every shard of fragility up
and made an art of plots to kill
-benieth the miniscus of what use to be a heart
shaped vase 
she watched his face eat the sun she couldn’t save
as the blisters start to raise!

guilty murder, filthy burners
-faulty eyes killed a husband dead without a quarter
to guide his slut wide eyes.

her skeletons wore whiskey bottles for slippers
as hollow ribs sang like wind chimes;
while they tip-toed through alcohol wishes
and panting land mines
to find their way back in to her closet.

she never hurt a man,
but she murdered flies, she murdered rats
she never hurt a man,
she never met a boy-
who could look into her eyes
without collapse.


reaching quiet - slow polardoid

daedelus - make it so

November 1, 2008

simplicity is key.

Haiku (俳句 haikai verse?) listen , plural haiku, is a form of Japanese poetry, consisting of 17 Japanese on (a phonetic unit identical to the mora), in three metrical phrases of 5, 7, and 5 onrespectively[1], and typically containing a kigo, or seasonal reference. In Japanese, haiku are traditionally printed in a single vertical line, while haiku in English usually appear in three lines, to equate to the Japanese haiku's three metrical phrases[2]. Previously called hokku, it was given its current name by the Japanese writer Masaoka Shiki at the end of 19th century.
"the photosynthesis of a skyskraper-rose"

stems slip the surface
a nectar to be beauty
blossoms like children. 


a single pedal
dawn of new aesthetic noon
sips in the sunset.

beauty multiplies
one thoulsand arms reach the sky
-roots twist through shadows

blackness fills the ground
beauty blocks the sun with greed
-industry is born.

"jesus christ shot down the towers"

the nails sipped his palms,
poster child of folded hands
gift of martyrdom
-hang your crooked thief,
feet float from the only child;
our gemini death
brings a world to its two knees;
another to feet.

"trying to catch a circle's tale"

yesterdays regrets,
never forget tomorrows
-will become todays.

i'm just a fucking artist

holding an empty stomach in my hands
so it can’t fall any farther than my heart,
that landed on the cellar floor,
i can’t help but to cry at the scenes
that roll by-
with my hands too full to cover
the staring eyes
from just what they’ve been waiting to see.

i sit in rubbernecks 
holding slow motion memories of the accident
in dusty palms,
awe struck at how close 
the road to where we were heading was
before my shrapnel slit the rubber
as we slid to cover
under the lips that twisted 
with the moments rupture-
and the bumpers mangled around the framework
of the bridges
that stripped themselves across the rivers
that dripped from your eyelids
beside the slivers that i wore
like a metal of honor to cover
the bleeding from my sores.

and as that twisted heap 
of you and me
rippled in the salt seas-
the fires tripped the spark
that started the entire 

runaways with broken matchbooks
black with ash and snapped 
in half would have done
if i had just learned to breathe
when we became such 
hardened arsonists;

and below the bridges i set fire
i’ll keep catching wire 
waiting for the hook to take me in
-even if it’s only for a minute
above the surface of cinder,
that i wish would just burn before the rain
mats down the ashes 
just enough to hold a shape of way to walk
in the stalks of disillusion
too high pitched to walk this broken strip 
of music-

tunes too deafening
for my ear drums to beat along with;
and as the mallets begin to forget
right from left from wrong to fucked,
an offbeat heart started to forget the steps
-as the ringing in my ears
split the house of glass i had built
around the tears;

the shards spilled like the water
that had started to kill-
without a gasp to last the sills falter;
every bit of glass left its kiss
below the surface of my calloused lips
before they slit your balance
and we both began to slip-

that single handed mantis 
praying for a gentile standing
didn’t have half the chance he put up
on the very landing
-that didn’t happen.

shattered benieth the histories
all the scribbled dumb fucking metaphors
can only pretend they don’t remember
where they came from-
every abstract nothing finds home
the second i open the wrong door
and you’re still there

-only, you’re not,

and i can’t feel in metaphor
before what’s real begins to seethe 
through the bullshit
and the sailor knots that choke the fuck out of my stomach
shake hands with my broken fucking heart!
and i want to feel hurt through burning bridges
and images of falling glass shards
but too quick do i just fucking hurt
before i think in art.

there’s no art to break-up,
and the metaphors that play band-aid
to the bullet wounds 
can’t wrap themselves around
the fact that they were made.

i’m only and artist
because i can’t really be honest,
and you broke my heart
but only because i was being an artist-
and the paints still monochromatic
because red is all i use-

cuz if i let blue be itself
i would have been able to keep you

-but i’m just a fucking artist!

Gustav Klimt

brilliant austrian artists. Egon Schiele's tutor, ever apparent in his own works. Klimt is probably the most prominent of the vienna succession artists.


brass knuckles and studded head wounds
chew the guts of busted pews
-where the stares split the prayers
that now reside under the cellar stairs.

the vomit spills through her fingers
onto the flimsy pages,
until it soaks down to the cover-

it’s been a long, 
long fucking night. 

under the reek of rotting cattle
that stained the chain holding her rosary beads
between her pushed up tits
below the slutty biker jacket
-where the body of Christ could sneak a peak,
the alter bit her knees 
as she touched the velveteen
and she grinned her tar filled teeth.

the crucifix sat on the floor face down
-he doesn’t want to see us like this,
so he can look the fuck away.

her knuckles wore more scars
and rotten scabs then her dirty heart
did beneath the tattoos on her crass
-one too many broken edges from just the right
amount of stabs to the back;
better to let the vitals blister over 
than let them eat another dagger

-sorry Jesus, 
this one aint yours.

she takes too many sips of wine
to handle the next set of prayer,
because she cant cross her legs
unless the beer bong 
and last night’s fuck subside.

her knees still in the music-
beat the shit out of each other
as she tries to stand 
another movement-
her stomach spits the mosh pit
across the confessional
and hell fills her steps.
as the combat boots rip the tiles off the floor
before her bullet belt
fills their heads with a vision
of true religion!

-and as Jesus eats the asphalt
her boot looses tread
and his head slips off the curb
before her jagged words rip apart his head;

his hair sweeps his pale white face-

and as she spits in it,
his tears smear the paint that raped
her mother and slit her brothers wrists.
dirty brown baby under the tread,
another curb to crush-
one for the punx 
before body of Christ was beaten,
til’ it bled all over the streets-
and washed away unmarked graves-

that dragged with them the mask 
he wore as he hung the nation
in blind faith drowning below the slave ship!

and he gazed at her gutter mouth,
bound with steel and barbed wire-
car tire tread for a weathered face
that wore like ’slut’
on the stage of a neo-nun
-that had begun to lead the way.

love in abstr/acting

The Brown Bunny

The Science of Sleep