bike for three

Bike for Three! is a "cross-continental collaboration" between Canadian hip-hop artist Rich Terfry, also known as Buck 65, and Belgian producer Joëlle Phuong Minh Lê, also known as Greetings from Tuskan.^[1][2][3]

Their debut album, More Heart Than Brains, was released by Anticon on May 26, 2009.^[4] While Buck 65 and Greetings from Tuskan have ongoing solo efforts, they say the band "should not be thought of as a side-project", and the album "NOT a one-off affair".^[5] Though the two have never met in person,^[6][7] they have been making music since 2007, and the album has been "finished" since June 2008.^[4][10] The album marks the first time that a Buck 65 album features completely electronicproduction.^[9][11]

"lazarus phenomenon"

The boy was an old cat and the girl was a clever mouse.
Didn't matter where they went, in whichever house,
Motel, suitcases and rental cars,
Photos and empty bottles memories and mental scars.
Raising heck, surveying damages, appraising wrecks.
Long nights and fights that ended with amazing sex.

Moments that were equally quiet and uproarious.
Frequently slow dancing in the kitchen, it was glorious.
Unknowns, they broke each other's bones and built camp fires.
They jumped out of windows and lived like vampires.
They'd bathe in the same water, same anguish.
They spoke bad French but laughed in the same language.

The boy was an old cat and the girl was a clever mouse.
Unswimmable waters and flames they could never douse.
One minute they were millionaires, the next they'd be the poorest.
What he liked about her was that she could see the forest.
Steering clear of some troubles and averting wrongs,
They drew curtains and died together over certain songs.
Opposites, theirs was a friendship of the rare sort.
They'd steal books and talk dirty at the airport.
Evangelists amongst themselves, it was scandalous.
Company was kept by Joan of Los Angeles.
Diamonds and crying eyes, short tempers and fast drives.
Promises and unsolved mysteries and past lives...

I can't help but wonder,
Will you recognize my face?
I hope so...
Here it's perfectly dark.

The girl was a clever mouse and the boy was an old cat.
Diamonds are forever, but they were never told that.
He'd lay there beside her, awake for safekeeping
While she'd ask questions to the river while she was sleeping.
And who by accident? The emptiness had grown quick.
She stood on his shoulders but for heaven he was homesick.
Long before the end came he already missed her.
She went slowly out of focus and he died without a whisper.

And I can't help but wonder,
Will you recognize my face?
I hope so...
Here's it's perfectly dark.

where the cockroaches kiss

by Atti?


struggling to smell the difference
between the pefume she wears behind her ears
as you teethe at her quivering neck,
and the stench of the motel where you fuck like strangers
but later call it sex;
where you forget whether it's dusk or Dawn
and just remember you'd forgot to call her.

her throat opens wide
as the moans bleed into traffic horns,
police sirens, and mouths as filthy as their children
spit glass across the mattress
filled with eight naked body bags,
and of course you two-
squirming as if you knew what you were doing,
with his forearm pinning down her greasy hair-

she pretends she likes it rough
just because she thinks he does.

they rock back and forth like infants
trying to remember what it was like
to sit in their mothers arms and feel
what love really is-
without the crooked smiles that forgot
the difference between disgust and lust
just because it's always so painful
that the corners of her mouth have just learned to lift
with her skirt to make the tears look like his work
paying off,
without showing the shadow of a doubt
-that is still trying to figure dusk from dawn
so it can decide wether or not it's time
to make an appearance.

if home is where the heart is
-it makes sense they'd be so hollow.

they lock eyes,
but only because neither has the key
to what the other is really looking for.
they stare so deep that the room blurs;
their pupils grow so wide they swallow each other whole
-they stare so deep into each other's eyes
that they just look right through to the other side,
and feel just as alone as they did
the day those dusty old vintage motel sheets
started to collide.

they've been fucking in the same rotten room
for so long
that their standards for the outside too
are gone.

he'd of never known he climaxed
if he hadn't fallen out of her broken spirit
and into the pages of the bible
that wasn't even placed in room 12's cracked nightstand.
it would have served no purpose
to the two who'd stoop so low as to continue spending
eachother when knowing all along they were
worthless.

so they smoke the broken roach clips,
left in the ashtray
from the moment they noticed-
neither one of them even smoked.

they'll make it routine and call it adventure
as the habit forms and the love becomes indentured
-two slaves wondering which is the master
as they both eat the leather
and clentch their teeth reaching up towards the rafters.
she used to call for jesus
and now she's call for me
-she used to call for jesus
but she never believed,
it's just what she thought you're supposed to do.

and we'll keep fucking like we're siezing today
while tomorrow giggles behind the curtains
and the night masturbates
in the room next to ours with his first date.
and i'll keep telling this story in third person,
and i'm sure she'll do the same
because we never loved, we lusted
but we never knew the way-
we never trusted ourselves to get there,
so we stopped at a motel along the way;

with each stop we take,
we get a little closer
to getting further away.

you're not that beautiful

by k-the-i???

you’re not that beautiful
nope, you’re not that beautiful
you are not that beautiful

(but I'm lying to myself)

by k-the-i???

you’re not that beautiful
I see you, you seem shallow, what comes next:
the rivers separate, thunder storm performing tipple bypass
unless your heart sees, some sunlight on the situation.
great ideas staying away from, I’m not, ready to play any more games.
what’s your name?
and aren’t you ashamed of your attitude acting all rude for no apparent reason?
seasons change,
so I guess if you would just open up your heart instead of being close minded,
and disrespectful,
leaving me with no actual answers to why we never got together.
so I’m making up my own answers to why is seems,
like everything was perfect one night,
then next morning feelings change.

I could never cater to the pussycat,
granted that I still like you, and that’s a fact...
Miss Portland Maine universal Jersey girl.

my heart is fucken bro-ken;
still I think I fell in love with you too quick.
all I wanted to do was get to know you better,
our bodies felt so good together.

so whether or not we could make this work,
that was one night of a connection made so I’m still waiting to see
this answer- please talk to me.
actually you don’t just act like nothing ever happened.
but it’s true,
we felt energy and I’m asking you to remember me (asking you to remember)
I’m asking you to remember me.
giving me no other chances to the melody.
seriously (seriously)
when I’m in the same (same)
when I’m in the same (when I’m in the same)
when I’m in the same room with you,
I can never stop looking at you;
you seem to do the same,
so what’s up with this lame way of taming lions?
all I ever wanted to do was give you the world.

the day you avoided my phone calls
I felt so, I felt so vandalized
so I went out to the city destroyed it with graffiti.
met up with JD Walker, and we sat down with a long conversation about reality.
he explains to me, don’t worry.
but my biggest weakness is a girl:
my emotions jump ship, hit bone,
outta place, without my subconscious thinking mutual friends.

thought we matched
or maybe it isn't true,
all but this, all but this..
it couldn’t even make that sense.
we had to fall into the abyss.
it’s now another day and all I wanted to say is, why?
why can’t we establish a relationship?
I care for you; you care for me
we combine to form a perfect family (yeah that’s funny).
talking to me, stop ignoring me
I’ve finished to diminish myself, from this story

you’re not that beautiful
you’re not that beautiful
no, you’re no that be
but imp lying to myself
but imp lying to myself
really, you’re not that beautiful
no you’re not that beautiful
you’re not that beautiful
but really, imp lying to my self
you’re not that beautiful
no no no no
you’re not that beautiful
you’re not that beautiful

fuck outta here

word up

the artist

Hailing from Cambridge, Mass., but a musical nomad of sorts, K-The-I?? has traversed the USA pushing sonic boundaries with his unique brand of densed-out boom-bap. Armed with a commanding voice and a gritty production aesthetic that recalls Bomb Squad-era Public Enemy and signature Def Jux recordings, he crafts tracks that swell and pulse with an immersive gravity. Making an appearance on Bigg Jus and Orko Eloheem's recent NMS album, Imperial Letters of Protection, K-The-I??? has earned the respect of many of indie hip-hop's elite, including Thavius Beck, who offered to produce his latest full-length. Whether writing epic love letters or harnessing bugged-out electric currents, K-The-I???’s music has a personality and urgency that demands your attention.

run on, run-on...

by Atti?

the golden goose skips the page
-conjunction ripe with verbose poets
at the tip of every would be ink dipped
feather light
brick,
that lifts his neck
with the sexual dialect of third person
narrative-

disillusion:
the gift of flight for featherless
rejects,
that don’t even carry the pens
they’ve been said to scribble
the drunken rants of starving artists
across the sunsets with;

you were really a paper tiger all along
-siberian adjective draped in the nouns
that slid down the soggy cheeks
of opaque pages written in past lives
through tears by better name:
alcohol;

and as those stripes wash away
from the tiger’s back,
his noun held hostage by slang
triggers
fired like broken bones
at sticks and stones shaped like denial,
his beloved labels race against
running finish lines
as they melt away before every finally stride
-and that final mark of identity
fades into new age jabber,
and he can’t tell if its positive or not to be left
a plain old, ordinary,
pussy.

run, run on kitty catastrophe
-the denumonte is just around the margin,
before the indentation
that makes these writer’s blocks less than perfect,
despite thier beautiful structures
that are metaphormed with the source
of your stumbling paws.

keep running paper tiger..
keep chasing the foot note
as the fingers of bitter creators
pinch awake
every dream you could ever have
to make their own-
thier, there, here, i
am so sorry paper tiger-

this story has grown boring;

better yet than happy,
is the death of a hero for an ending-

keep fighting for your write to live
and i’ll write every twisted turn
that you think you’ve earned
below that wasted piece of paper you call home.

art is the red root of death
that fed the leaves that turned into your roof
before the fibers of your very being
bound into a noose,
that dangled your life story
off the limbs of a rotting poet tree
before your eyes stared into my bark,
waiting for a heart in the crooked eye of conclusion…

sorry paper tiger-
i’m great with words,
but better with lines.

the end.

Egon Schiele

Egon Schiele (June 12, 1890 – October 31, 1918) (German pronunciation: [ˈʃiːlə], approximately SHEE-luh) was an Austrian painter. A protégé of Gustav Klimt, Schiele was a major figurative painter of the early 20th century.

Schiele's work is noted for its intensity, and the many self-portraits the artist produced. The twisted body shapes and the expressive line that characterize Schiele's paintings and drawings mark the artist as an early exponent of Expressionism, although still strongly associated with the art nouveau movement (Jugendstil).

In 1907, Schiele sought out Gustav Klimt. Klimt generously mentored younger artists, and he took a particular interest in the gifted young Schiele, buying his drawings, offering to exchange them for some of his own, arranging models for him and introducing him to potential patrons. He also introduced Schiele to the Wiener Werkstätte, the arts and crafts workshop connected with the Secession. In 1908 Schiele had his first exhibition, in Klosterneuburg. Schiele left the Academy in 1909, after completing his third year, and founded the Neukunstgruppe ("New Art Group") with other dissatisfied students.

the highway of eden

by Atti?

the barrel spit a seed through the marrow
that grew into a leaf,
and bloomed on the backside
of his head-
his final thoughts were roses,
and the crown of thorns
that had circled round his door
before they plucked the buds from his skull

and buried him in the pricker bushes
-because the flowers are too dirty
to hold his contradiction
in the bosom of this rotten soil.

he died in the music of a soft suicide
where the razor gently kissed his lips
and his wrists
stared into the sky for prayer
-and under the headstone
his heart broke as he slipped
the silken silver
through the ill form of its dinner;

he swallowed the bumpers
and twisted steel
through a hollow dream sequence
that replayed on backside of the blade,
before it began to play-
he still chokes on sirens
before the headlights trickle down
his jagged face

-still remembering his first,
where the sunset on his forehead
and his fragile eyes
shattered on glass that proved to have
a thicker head then his.
his first,
where the scream ran
from the back of his head
to the swell of his lips
where the angel had forgot to kiss,
before it wrapped itself around his breath

.. it was his first death.

as his parents fell to their knees
he grew well on his feet,
in a coffin coughing on, support,
that threw the covers back over it’s lazy fucking head
to go back to sleep
after scribbling R.I.P. on the screens
that learned to double for a heart
with a bass line that could hardly
beat.

the airbags bloom
in a field of glass shards,
where twisted metal
grows from debris on the first day of spring,
and nature is mechanic tragedy
where jersey barriers
wear the blood stains like fresh fruit
as the bush in a massacre
that spilled it’s guts on Eden’s highway-

and prayers stumbled into the bone yard
sponsored by your local
internet provider-
along the cold steel
that doubles for a monorail
as the weekday starts.

the fiber optic cable
puke’s hopes and dreams at his feet,
as the news cast covers the story
with a funeral
live on TV.
his headstone is engraved
with his death date followed by “News Channel 8,”
and a microphone sent
to the homes of family and friends,
to catch their final words
of the dead.

.. and he dies again
-a suicide dive for the end,
where the eyes really tear
before the mourning has raised,
and the shoulders for a fallen family
aren’t connected to the back of an acronym!

so he tries to die;
enough to where he’s reached an afterlife
where touch isn’t lust,
and love isn’t digitally rebuffed
-rolling in his grave in disgust
to tighten the rope,
in hopes of finding a life where the feeling is
real.

swoon

SWOON is a street artist from New York City who specializes in life-size wheatpasteprints and paper cutouts of figures.

Swoon, real name Caledonia “Callie” Curry, studied painting at the Pratt Institute in Brooklyn and started doing street art around 1999. Swoon is also a member of the Justseeds Artist Cooperative.

Swoon's worlds are often populated by realistically rendered cut-out street people, often her friends and family. Riding bikes, talking on a stoop, going grocery shopping - these people traverse a cityscape of her own unique invention. Bridges, fire escapes, water towers and street signs create crisscrossing shadows and spaces through which her figures move. Inspired by both art historical and folk sources, ranging from German Expressionist wood block prints to Indonesian shadow puppets, Swoon uses cut paper to play with positive and negative space in a conceptually driven exploration of the experience of the streets.

the rat : the writer

by Atti?

i theologized reincarnation
between adolescent angst
and a mid-life crises thirty years in the making
of a twenty year old canyon dweller
in the state
of mind that has been said by many to be
"grand, er"

i've constructed monuments of my own failure
on each side of this exit way;
while i feed the city of garbage where i play,
i'll keep throwing sour love songs
tangled in last nights leftover-
dones'
and wish i could see the sun
just once,
as if i'd even know what to do with it
other than close my eyes until
it was done;

then write some ambiguously coherent poem
that doesn't even end about it,
on the backside of a napkin,
who's backside grins with jovial idiocy,
who's for-side is a notebook,
who's backside is a tragic epilogue
regeneratively:

i am the rat
who packed all his belongings in to a poem,
and bothered to recycle for the sake
of a more conducive environment-

but i'm beginning to see more saturdays
in these rotten heaps,
than fridays to be their predecessors:
TGIF - yes, Thursday Goes Infinitely Forever
between misplaced clocks
in a lot of rusted suffix where the pre-fix
apparently,
is not.

trace my own circumference
until i walk a circle around my own misdirection,
trying to justify the end
of every poem i've thrown
into the construction of this second-hand home
-with out the means
to remember what it is i wrote.

i'm the trophy wife of beautiful words,

who can't even count to the sum
of his own accomplishments
without a second hand
-who can scribe for the first.

i've subscribed to my own literary magazine
of half concluded exposays-
from the first issue in Novemeber of 1988
up until the presently future day
-where again i'm writing the past
because i've already forgotten of today.

i know
i'll throw this issue away too
-help build a solid foundation for my adobe hut.
my own bullshit makes for the best mortar;
even if its backside starts to grow flowers,
and its for-side can cup a coward,
and its backside can be picked for hours
by its for-side's half-fully empty coward;

i make two cent's of every message in a bottle
i recycle after sending it adrift to myself.
i've lost it all and earned it back with every poem,
and chanced it every time again
in hope that it will always come back to me

in the very end.
.Or the very beginning
depending on where it starts..
.. or it's ending?

???

two days in paris,

"they made frogs smoke 'til they exploded"

by Mum

Quasimoto - Come on Feet

Antony Micallef

Antony Micallef (born 1975 in Swindon), Englishcontemporary artist and painter.

Internationally acclaimed artist Antony Micallef appeared on the art scene in 2000, winning second prize in the BP National Portrait Award. Since then his mix of political imagery fused with contemporary expressionism has won him world wide acclaim. Recent exhibitions include group shows at the Royal Academy and the Tate Britain. It’s reported that collectors of his work include Angelina Jolie, Brad Pitt and Damien Hirst among others.

http://www.antonymicallef.com/