provoke.
January 29, 2009
slice-a nice verse pie
MetalFace Doom
"All Caps" by Madvillian (MF Doom & Madlib)
Daniel Dumile (pronounced /duːməleɪ/) is a British born American hip hop artist who has taken on several stage names in his career, most notably MF Doom, standing for M(etal) F(ace) Dum(ile). He has also been known as Viktor Vaughn, Zev Love X, King Geedorah, Metal Fingers, and the Supervillain. He has appeared in several collaborative projects such as Danger Doom (with Danger Mouse) and Madvillain (with Madlib).
With the loss of his brother, Dumile retreated from the hip-hop scene from 1994-1997. He testifies to disillusionment and depression, living "damn near homeless, walking the streets of Manhattan, sleeping on benches".[3][1] In the late 1990s, he left New York City and settled in Atlanta. According to interviews with Doom, he was also "recovering from his wounds" and swearing revenge "against the industry that so badly deformed him."
Dumile began to rap at open mic events at the Nuyorican Poets Café in 1998 where he obscured his face by putting a stocking over his head. His new identity was influenced by Marvel Comics supervillain Doctor Doom. He wears the mask while performing and isn't photographed without it, except for very short glimpses in videos such as Viktor Vaughn's "Mr. Clean" and in earlier photos with KMD
"All Caps" by Madvillian (MF Doom & Madlib)
lower your hammers & drop your nails
somewhere between inevitable progression and a prophet as false as the white lie that has been pinned to the cross, barack obama is the indiscernible scapegoat of the american slob. i'm not much for a rant, however, the utter ridiculousness of the pedestal that this man has not but set on, but rather crucified upon, is as grotesque as the blind faith that teeters on his ideological showcase. obama is today's modern day bull god. i sympathize for the man, but i fear for the character that's manifesting in the child-like imaginations of broken pocketed adults. comparisons to jesus christ? it's a half sincere, half joking juxtaposition placed in the peripheral demand of a society desperate for the social, economic, and political quick fix; and baring the stability of a pre-911 world trade center waiting for the final straw to not only break the camels back, but double as the nail to national coffin before it's used to crucify it's makeshift jesus christ.
obama is a man. obama has promising ideas. stop neglecting the reality of the fact barack obama is not your miracle drug. personally i regret to stand firm in my initial belief that very few of his progressive notions with truly come in to the limelight, let alone assert themselves into the mangled mechanics of our american wasteland. there is so much ground that not only needs to be covered, but back tracked and re-trekked upon before the opportunity to present any new policies can truly be explored. it is unfortunate, however, it's a reality. and it's not even a pessimistic outlook, but rather a very real actualization. this isn't a fairy tale; and one man can't save the day. people need to step back and allow time for obama to tackle the existing issues that have been strewn across the oval office for him to sift through and resolve, before they can really expect dramatic change.
learn to support - not just follow.
- atti?
November 30, 2008
Nick Walker
Apishangel
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
After That (The Quiet World)
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 Ploughshares, The 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
misleading
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:
love.
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.
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
misleading
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:
love.
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
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.
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.
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