Type: art.visual.originalProduced by: Bye Baby
Notes: Birds
Friday, December 24, 2010
Monday, July 5, 2010
Friday, July 2, 2010
MFRH059
http://www.mediafire.com/file/tuznzttntmz/thewugsanothersummerep2010.zip
1. Running in Place
2. The Last of Him
3. Ithaca
4. I Saw Your Face (In a Film)
Type: art.aural.original
Produced by: The Wugs
Title: Songs From Another Summer
Notes: An EP
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
MFRH058
We were not children but spies
And we dared to draw our dreams on the skies
Now we keep them locked away
In a little book
In a drawer by our bedsides
We litter our plates with crumbs
And we pay the bank we borrow from
But our hearts still beat
And the little book itches
But we try our best to ignore the drum
The rays slice through the blinds
As I glaze over my daily grind
I come home to fill my little book
With trite, amateur words,
An attempt to shake it out of my mind
They tell me that they know what it's all about
As they spend their Saturdays waiting for theirs to sprout
But what use is a branch
When the roots fade away
And future spies, like me, will never reach out
Type: art.poetry.original
Produced by: The Bye
Notes: My letter of rejection
And we dared to draw our dreams on the skies
Now we keep them locked away
In a little book
In a drawer by our bedsides
We litter our plates with crumbs
And we pay the bank we borrow from
But our hearts still beat
And the little book itches
But we try our best to ignore the drum
The rays slice through the blinds
As I glaze over my daily grind
I come home to fill my little book
With trite, amateur words,
An attempt to shake it out of my mind
They tell me that they know what it's all about
As they spend their Saturdays waiting for theirs to sprout
But what use is a branch
When the roots fade away
And future spies, like me, will never reach out
Type: art.poetry.original
Produced by: The Bye
Notes: My letter of rejection
Saturday, June 19, 2010
MFRH057
"Haha, that's so funny! But yeah, you're right... I could really go for some cake right now."
"You crashin' the wedding, then?" I ask, trying too hard to be clever again. It's impossible to be witty in this place. This music siphons all intelligent thought from my skull.
"Nope, I'm the groom's best friend!" she answers with enthusiasm. "I've known him since kindergarten!"
"So, uh, what does he do for a living?" I finally ask.
I can't keep my eyes off that damned table. She yells something at my face, but her nasally voice is no match for the Black Eyed Peas.
"I'm sorry, a what?"
"An executive financial director!"
I excuse myself and dart straight to the table. What was I expecting? I grab one in each hand, two more to come. Maybe the bubbles will make it bearable. Goodbye, grating, scraping, solid reality. Please, please wash away now.
All four slide down my throat as I toss them back, one after the other. I cough, I sputter, I catch my breath. They aren't helping. I close my eyes, hoping to disappear. I wish for some sort of catastrophe -- an earthquake, a hurricane, anything. I want an interruption, something huge. Something to stop it all.
I sigh, pick up another glass, and stagger back to my seat.
Between sips, I concentrate waves of loathsome stares at each man and woman present. This is not for me, and it has never been. Here, my empathy is ineffective. Better unfiltered hatred than futile attempts at communication. I absolutely cannot imagine why she chose this, but here we are. First I will finish this and then I will walk among them.
I have to keep deeping breathely. My arms start to feel heavy and the floor starts to feel light. I think I am ready now, so I loosen my tie. Why are the lights so dim in here? Concentrating on my steps, I make my way to a circle of these intolerable imbeciles.
That's a phrase that I won't even try to say right now.
I approach the most expensive-looking suit I can find. There is nobody inside it. It yells over the music, "Wait, what you're saying is Monsanto's about to soar? It's a fucking bear market, man. Monsanto's not an exception. Have you even read their quarterly?"
"No, Carson, that's not the point. They just tripled R&D, and there's no reason--"
He flinches as I throw an arm around him. Don't act so shocked, dipshit. This is how I roll.
"What's up, knob-goblins?" I laugh.
Produced by: Jove
Title: Four
Notes: based on a false story
Friday, June 18, 2010
MFRH056
A fresh blank leaf, and it can be anything
And with each new word you chop away possible futures
And create and amputate
And the words you caught seem worthless when you glimpse the ones you could've chased
But they've got one thing going for them, they exist!
And they lie on the paper in front of you
And you (try to) write carelessly
And end up with a poem -- the only one you could have written, the only one you have
And who cares about your unwritten volumes when you've got these twelve lines, black on white
You amputate many futures
But you create one present
And it is worth many times more
Type: art.poetry.original
Produced by: Kyrie Eleisen
Notes: none.
And with each new word you chop away possible futures
And create and amputate
And the words you caught seem worthless when you glimpse the ones you could've chased
But they've got one thing going for them, they exist!
And they lie on the paper in front of you
And you (try to) write carelessly
And end up with a poem -- the only one you could have written, the only one you have
And who cares about your unwritten volumes when you've got these twelve lines, black on white
You amputate many futures
But you create one present
And it is worth many times more
Type: art.poetry.original
Produced by: Kyrie Eleisen
Notes: none.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
MFRH055
I can't keep my eyes off that damned table. She yells something at my face, but her nasally voice is no match for the Black Eyed Peas.
"I'm sorry, a what?"
"An executive financial director!"
I excuse myself and dart straight to the table. What was I expecting? I grab one in each hand, two more to come. Maybe the bubbles will make it bearable. Goodbye, grating, scraping, solid reality. Please, please wash away now.
All four slide down my throat as I toss them back, one after the other. I cough, I sputter, I catch my breath. They aren't helping. I close my eyes, hoping to disappear. I wish for some sort of catastrophe -- an earthquake, a hurricane, anything. I want an interruption, something huge. Something to stop it all.
I sigh, pick up another glass, and stagger back to my seat.
Between sips, I concentrate waves of loathsome stares at each man and woman present. This is not for me, and it has never been. Here, my empathy is ineffective. Better unfiltered hatred than futile attempts at communication. I absolutely cannot imagine why she chose this, but here we are. First I will finish this and then I will walk among them.
I have to keep deeping breathely.
Produced by: Jove
Title: Three
Notes: based on a false story
MFRH054
01. Heart Insurance
02. Je ne crois pas au soleil
Type: art.aural.original
Produced by: The Wugs
Title: Heart Insurance / Je ne crois pas au soleil. A-side is original. B-side is a translated cover of a song by The Magnetic Fields.
Notes: Songs written, performed by Caitie F.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
MFRH052
"I'm sorry, a what?"
"An executive financial director!"
I excuse myself and dart straight to the table. What was I expecting? I grab one in each hand, two more to come. Maybe the bubbles will make it bearable. Goodbye, grating, scraping, solid reality. Please, please wash away now.
All four slide down my throat as I toss them back, one after the other. I cough, I sputter, I catch my breath. They aren't helping. I close my eyes, hoping to disappear. I wish for some sort of catastrophe -- an earthquake, a hurricane, anything. I want an interruption, something huge. Something to stop it all.
I sigh, pick up another glass, and stagger back to my seat.
Produced by: Jove
Title: Two
Notes: based on a false story
Monday, June 14, 2010
MFRH051
I excuse myself and dart straight to the table. What was I expecting? I grab one in each hand, two more to come. Maybe the bubbles will make it bearable. Goodbye, grating, scraping, solid reality. Please, please wash away now.
Produced by: Jove
Title: One
Notes: based on a false story
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
MFRH050
01. Say What You Will
02. UVB-76
Type: art.aural.original
Produced by: The Wugs
Title: Say What You Will / UVB-76
Notes: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/UVB-76
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
MFRH049
01. Up to Us
02. Hurts So Bad
Type: art.aural.original
Produced by: The Wugs
Title: Up to Us / Hurts So Bad
Notes: A single. The B-side is a cover of a song by the band Twa Toots.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
MFRH048
can't think loud next table literary criticism christicism -- nothing wrong with talking about *inaudible* nothing wrong with talking about nothing wrong. ummm, I really? on? same? wavelength? one person's feelings don't contribute to our general knowledge but they're important. tables wooden all about boxes on left, take out. pamphletsleafletszines. Let me eqscuse myself blurting out name. erin? erin? stealing a string, caught, scream. screamcaught. caught because she screaMED. randomness is not an option, unconscious motivations are always present they're saying it. ok, whatever. whatever. masculine language existing separately what? i think i want some juice do? i? reading for class all done. yes? yes. less than an hour left. annoying to go to class. would skip. should skip. can't skip. structures. this is the way language works. just read the essays. wish I could? they're ina class together, i see. people walk in. people walk out. have a little bit of courage to state a belief!!!!! people walk in. people walk out. phone says 1:49. time left. there is objectivity or not? hmmmm... laptop open, cool wallpaper! i don't know if I trust the people that come up with all the really mindblowing ideas, says he. "HIC CACAVIT BENE" witten in bathroom. funny thing, yes. hmmmmm. it's too sunny. too hot not as hot as in california. readings easy today. something about physical labour. hope no-one's eavesdropping. i am. wonder why they stopped those zines in the box? 2003, a long time ago. 2000 and 3. 7 ago. all out. do crossword? later. my facebook page is not an extention of me. st. john all you do is read great books? all written in geometrical proofs. 1:55 mom call later busy weekend? not really. one assignment, yeah. essay. should be planning now can't. planner. cross out ch 18, ch 19, already read. new music? must be something good don't listen enough. you just roll causality right down the street! fragments. frag ment. frog men. swim shoot OH GOD good job! so let's sit up. let's browse what? where? huh? is there such a thing as hmmm...nowait i should write it what i see they've quieted down reading? whisper. 7 feet a second. sound. not right. 2:00 i should go soon. i always get student evaluations with very clear handwriting. they're tas? oh. tos? ahhh, ey... simmering in the sun new horizon? new rising decay functions? linearized? what said she? no difference. people go in. study abroad? not this year.
Type: art.thought.original
Produced by: Kyrie Eleisen
Notes: a duet for thoughts and eavesdropping.
Type: art.thought.original
Produced by: Kyrie Eleisen
Notes: a duet for thoughts and eavesdropping.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
MFRH046
If planets were planned: net weight = 15
Stymied and stammering
Stamen and ring, gimme drink I'll go gammerin'
Gott, ach gott! I forgot 'snot the boat but
In a moatish moat goat findings are afloat
In a basket -- a floating watery casket
He's sitting can't forget what he saw
A see saw -- waves rocking
Don't come knocking, you'll drown.
Ophelia's no queen, Hamnet no king
Egypt sunrise rises raw 'tis to Jupiter we will go!
Putting putting on scaphanders
Shooting up like salamanders
Rising rising from the atmo, sailing up and up we go
Up to Jove for nay a reason, whither next and whence came fro
Banging hooves, hooves stand up in droves Karl Rove may
Be above listening, hisssning hiss hiss... so what now?
Hey there, brown cow = how ... can we say that it's lying?
To you front of cameras dying -- it's true!
President Poincaré in your face my rey...
My king! My liege! Le me lick the salt off your feet!
(I will be discreet :) )
Type: art.poetry.original
Produced by: Kyrie Eleisen
Notes: none.
Stymied and stammering
Stamen and ring, gimme drink I'll go gammerin'
Gott, ach gott! I forgot 'snot the boat but
In a moatish moat goat findings are afloat
In a basket -- a floating watery casket
He's sitting can't forget what he saw
A see saw -- waves rocking
Don't come knocking, you'll drown.
Ophelia's no queen, Hamnet no king
Egypt sunrise rises raw 'tis to Jupiter we will go!
Putting putting on scaphanders
Shooting up like salamanders
Rising rising from the atmo, sailing up and up we go
Up to Jove for nay a reason, whither next and whence came fro
Banging hooves, hooves stand up in droves Karl Rove may
Be above listening, hisssning hiss hiss... so what now?
Hey there, brown cow = how ... can we say that it's lying?
To you front of cameras dying -- it's true!
President Poincaré in your face my rey...
My king! My liege! Le me lick the salt off your feet!
(I will be discreet :) )
Type: art.poetry.original
Produced by: Kyrie Eleisen
Notes: none.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Sunday, April 25, 2010
MFRH043
Type: art.visual.fixed
Title: NA
Produced by: Monsieur Ybe Decuporde
Notes: Don't go burning your eyebrows off
MFRH042
A crumby hooray would have sufficed
Not even a climactic climatic climb-attic cry
But, by the herd, not a single word was sighed
And, by the herd, not a single breath was tied
As Ilsa floated away
As Renault said okay
As Laslow cheered hooray
Rick slinks today
As the fog eats walls from above
Down floats the down of Dove
The Angel of Peace steps on a beard
Hoorays round-and-round are heard
The herd cheers and leers
But he simply picks away
The crumbs on, of, and are the wall
I am a patient man, after all
Type: art.poetry.original
Produced by: The Bye
Notes: Unsolicited lamentations of the mirthful cynic
Not even a climactic climatic climb-attic cry
But, by the herd, not a single word was sighed
And, by the herd, not a single breath was tied
As Ilsa floated away
As Renault said okay
As Laslow cheered hooray
Rick slinks today
As the fog eats walls from above
Down floats the down of Dove
The Angel of Peace steps on a beard
Hoorays round-and-round are heard
The herd cheers and leers
But he simply picks away
The crumbs on, of, and are the wall
I am a patient man, after all
Type: art.poetry.original
Produced by: The Bye
Notes: Unsolicited lamentations of the mirthful cynic
MFRH041
I could hear everything in the room--the rustling of someone's coat two rows behind me, the sniffling of someone catacorner from me and the girl sitting just one row ahead, two seats off to the right eating potato chips, her damn potato chips. I fucking hate her. That damn crunching sound, like the crepitations of some poor hand caught in a machine. The rustling of the bag and the crunch of her teeth upon the chip fill me with the smoldering sensation of hatred for all of humanity, its vices and virtues concentrated upon the point of her bautiful white teeth, so delicate, so pearly white and beautiful and yet insistant and painful, their terrible sound tearing apart the noble silence of the examination room and squeezing my head. I look around the room and see three more people eating: two of them, potato chips, the third a sandwich -- the fucking cheek he has! "I have to get out of here," I almost moan, stifling my voice as hard as I can.
Type: art.prose.original
Produced by: Jan Osten
Notes: Short story
Type: art.prose.original
Produced by: Jan Osten
Notes: Short story
MFRH040
O! what a pompous, windsome arse
Thou art. O! what a torment I
Experience 'pon seeing thee
And what a grave worldweary sigh
I have to give when thou art near
And how I wish that thou wouldst die.
Ineffable! 'tis what it is!
No use that I should fuss o'er my
Words for they could ne'er express
How much I would like that you fly
Some distance from the slippery roof
Of your house -- better said, "pigsty."
Type: art.poetry.original
Produced by: Anton Jack-Off
Notes: none.
Thou art. O! what a torment I
Experience 'pon seeing thee
And what a grave worldweary sigh
I have to give when thou art near
And how I wish that thou wouldst die.
Ineffable! 'tis what it is!
No use that I should fuss o'er my
Words for they could ne'er express
How much I would like that you fly
Some distance from the slippery roof
Of your house -- better said, "pigsty."
Type: art.poetry.original
Produced by: Anton Jack-Off
Notes: none.
MFRH039
I
Swindler uncle gathers rocks and
Father plummets as he rises
And it's morning and around me
Sits a thousand brightly coloured
Birds on power-lines and
Treeleaves turn a lusciously green hue.
I look back on my decisions
And realize how I miss you
II
Vampires, snakes and snows and latkes
Fickle Finkelstein owes book fees
Sit upon my knee.
Cry and say to me, who cares?
Never did I see your tears
So insightful feels this moment
May I never see you drown
Who believes and who recovers
Whom we see and who's afloat
Going down the Ganges brightly
Brisky bristling on your boat.
Fennel chew crunch chew crunch skrmplll
Eaton eating Shakespeare's brew
Who's insightful by polemics?
Niezsche's nostrils: I breathe you
Breathe you, beef chew, feel blue, ingrew
Toenail of Miles Davis cuts you
Blood pours, mouth sores old man snores snores
Poor blind friar go off go off
Save yourself a honeyloaf
Instigate what you believe in!
Let it wrinkle up and fail
Disappoint you might as well
No more chance without deceiving
To prepare a future now
Instigate what I allow!
III
Block my nasal passageway ...
Can't inhale a thing today
Love you, turn blue, see you (maybe)
Type: art.poetry.original
Produced by: Kyrie Eleisen
Notes: none.
Swindler uncle gathers rocks and
Father plummets as he rises
And it's morning and around me
Sits a thousand brightly coloured
Birds on power-lines and
Treeleaves turn a lusciously green hue.
I look back on my decisions
And realize how I miss you
II
Vampires, snakes and snows and latkes
Fickle Finkelstein owes book fees
Sit upon my knee.
Cry and say to me, who cares?
Never did I see your tears
So insightful feels this moment
May I never see you drown
Who believes and who recovers
Whom we see and who's afloat
Going down the Ganges brightly
Brisky bristling on your boat.
Fennel chew crunch chew crunch skrmplll
Eaton eating Shakespeare's brew
Who's insightful by polemics?
Niezsche's nostrils: I breathe you
Breathe you, beef chew, feel blue, ingrew
Toenail of Miles Davis cuts you
Blood pours, mouth sores old man snores snores
Poor blind friar go off go off
Save yourself a honeyloaf
Instigate what you believe in!
Let it wrinkle up and fail
Disappoint you might as well
No more chance without deceiving
To prepare a future now
Instigate what I allow!
III
Block my nasal passageway ...
Can't inhale a thing today
Love you, turn blue, see you (maybe)
Type: art.poetry.original
Produced by: Kyrie Eleisen
Notes: none.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Thursday, April 15, 2010
MFRH037
I walked all the way here but it's gone. In its place stands a gray field, clean as a bone. Rays of yellow filtered through filaments of green float lazily on the warm concrete. It doesn't speak to me like it did before, so I silently stare. Where is the carpet, the lunge, the towers? I'm still here, it answers. I'm hiding in your throat, staring silently out.
Type: art.prose.original
Produced by: The Bye
Notes: in retrospect
Type: art.prose.original
Produced by: The Bye
Notes: in retrospect
Thursday, January 28, 2010
MFRH036
"Punctuality"
Three shadows ‘neath a pavorous night
Through eldritch fog did wade
Their eyes abeam with rank delight
Dressèd for masquerade
Six wooden clogs: clip-clop, clip-clop
In sottish syncopation
Outwith a house did stop, did stop
Feart with anticipation
Wherefore do cease the men beside
This tenement drowned in slumber?
…a SHRIEK they did hear from inside
Its barr’cades’ soggy lumber!
“What ghoulish gasp is this?” one quizzed
“Shall we not aid her in her stress?”
But he stood still, by horror seized
His blabb’ring mouth a blubb’ring mess
“My goodness!” cried the second one,
“You fiend! Yes, you inside, desist!
Or I shall go to fetch my gun!”
He, wildly quaking, did insist
The third, a bold and worthy knight
Did on the door proceed to knock
And did, after ‘round taking sight
Pick up a slightly sharpened rock
Just then, however, when their feet
Were a l m o s t willing to go forth
A nightgowned shape across the street
Issued a thunderous, rolling oath
“Pipe down, ye bleedin’ oafs! Go home!”
An elder couple on a balc’ney.
The shout did chill them to the bone
And forced they were to soon agree
“Apologies! My dear good sir!”
“She started it! We meant no harm!”
“You must forgive us, all’s a blur…
We’re rather drunk, you see, so… errr….”
“Tis not our business, I suppose”
Decreed the hatted second man
“Although the shriek *was* quite a noise
We should go on… as we began…”
And so the three illustrious chaps
Forwent to save a murdered soul
And rightly so! To them three claps.
For, t’s’not their business to patrol…
The streets and seek to stifle crime
Such parts are best by others served
And anyway, ‘bout half the time
Is murder probably deserved!
And don’t you know it, though they spent
Some time upon that awful route
Straight’way to the soiree they went
And had an anecdote to boot!
So on this tumultuous old earth
No virtue can I e’er decree
More noble, gentle, and of worth
Than simple punctuality!
Type: art.poetry.original
Produced by: Jan Osten
Notes: none.
Three shadows ‘neath a pavorous night
Through eldritch fog did wade
Their eyes abeam with rank delight
Dressèd for masquerade
Six wooden clogs: clip-clop, clip-clop
In sottish syncopation
Outwith a house did stop, did stop
Feart with anticipation
Wherefore do cease the men beside
This tenement drowned in slumber?
…a SHRIEK they did hear from inside
Its barr’cades’ soggy lumber!
“What ghoulish gasp is this?” one quizzed
“Shall we not aid her in her stress?”
But he stood still, by horror seized
His blabb’ring mouth a blubb’ring mess
“My goodness!” cried the second one,
“You fiend! Yes, you inside, desist!
Or I shall go to fetch my gun!”
He, wildly quaking, did insist
The third, a bold and worthy knight
Did on the door proceed to knock
And did, after ‘round taking sight
Pick up a slightly sharpened rock
Just then, however, when their feet
Were a l m o s t willing to go forth
A nightgowned shape across the street
Issued a thunderous, rolling oath
“Pipe down, ye bleedin’ oafs! Go home!”
An elder couple on a balc’ney.
The shout did chill them to the bone
And forced they were to soon agree
“Apologies! My dear good sir!”
“She started it! We meant no harm!”
“You must forgive us, all’s a blur…
We’re rather drunk, you see, so… errr….”
“Tis not our business, I suppose”
Decreed the hatted second man
“Although the shriek *was* quite a noise
We should go on… as we began…”
And so the three illustrious chaps
Forwent to save a murdered soul
And rightly so! To them three claps.
For, t’s’not their business to patrol…
The streets and seek to stifle crime
Such parts are best by others served
And anyway, ‘bout half the time
Is murder probably deserved!
And don’t you know it, though they spent
Some time upon that awful route
Straight’way to the soiree they went
And had an anecdote to boot!
So on this tumultuous old earth
No virtue can I e’er decree
More noble, gentle, and of worth
Than simple punctuality!
Type: art.poetry.original
Produced by: Jan Osten
Notes: none.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
MFRH035
Mainly, Ainley was a good boy
Plainly clothed but mannered well
Gravely, stared he o’er the table
Gave Leigh notes he did misspell
“Wherefore sayest thou this, Ainley?”
Prayed the girlchild, looking vainly
At the bairn across the table
Tearing up his lovelorn cable
Which he’d sent her from the war
Which he’d sent in fourty-four
In a time t’was not so certained
When his life was nearly curtained
Boy, was he now in a mess
Love unshared one shouldn’t confess
Torn up hearts can turn derangèd
Torn up love must be avengèd
Mainly, Ainley lives alone now
Plainly housed in grey abound
Gravely, stares he at the brickwork
Gave Leigh a bed in the ground
Type: art.poetry.original
Produced by: Anton Jack-Off
Notes: none.
Plainly clothed but mannered well
Gravely, stared he o’er the table
Gave Leigh notes he did misspell
“Wherefore sayest thou this, Ainley?”
Prayed the girlchild, looking vainly
At the bairn across the table
Tearing up his lovelorn cable
Which he’d sent her from the war
Which he’d sent in fourty-four
In a time t’was not so certained
When his life was nearly curtained
Boy, was he now in a mess
Love unshared one shouldn’t confess
Torn up hearts can turn derangèd
Torn up love must be avengèd
Mainly, Ainley lives alone now
Plainly housed in grey abound
Gravely, stares he at the brickwork
Gave Leigh a bed in the ground
Type: art.poetry.original
Produced by: Anton Jack-Off
Notes: none.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
MFRH034
"Happy New Year"
"What the fuck?" The radio box gave away its location by shouting obscenities at the poor family resting their half-chemical, fabric-thin flesh remains on top of the calcium xylophone tubes lying on the bed. The tubes moved, one set rising up, carrying up the layer of skin softly draped over them, the thin, long face occupying a glorious position atop the specter-like outline of the first set - which we shall call a man. Little flaps of flesh on what appeared to be his face seemed to open, revealing gaping holes in the fabric (that we shall call his skin) occupied by nothing except void purple marbles.
"Oh how I played with those marbles as a child," recalled a voice on the radio; the family started throwing up in formation. First, the paper-thin son, then the snot, phlegm covered mass of crumpled white kleenex resting on the table that was once termed a feline. The beam of vomit projecting from its mouth propelling it into the ceiling fan which began spinning, its razor-sharp motion scattering the blankets across the room, suddenly covered by a red die in addition to the aforementioned snot. The fan fell, and found its place as the nose in the gigantic tuberculosis-coloured face resting below, the face of the father, a man with carpet-texture skin and eyes shining with the particular tofu-flavored glow of a decaying omelet.
"What the fuck?" The radio box gave away its location shouting obscenities at the poor family... the son, arisen to go towards and dismantle the radio collapsed in a heap of old National Geographic magazines, the top one bearing a photograph of strong resemblance to his visage. The chemical fumes rising from the floor, the open vials, the half-open containers, the open casks and bottles were strong enough to lift the dust remaining of the son and father and carry it through the air like spores of a specifically disgusting pathogenic fungus. The cat's remains remained where they were... A man entered the room, his bowler hat resting on top of a mess of brown hair. As the fumes approached his mind he shouted in madness and grabbing the guitar lying on the floor mashed it straight into his head. Still pulsing and throbbing with an outgoing energy of life, he clutched at the metallic strings that had passed through his eyes and were now protruding out of his ear. He felt happy. His briefcase flew open and the gluesticks contained therein spilled and rolled all the way down the staircase.
Type: art.prose.renewed
Produced by: Jan Osten
Notes: Short story
"What the fuck?" The radio box gave away its location by shouting obscenities at the poor family resting their half-chemical, fabric-thin flesh remains on top of the calcium xylophone tubes lying on the bed. The tubes moved, one set rising up, carrying up the layer of skin softly draped over them, the thin, long face occupying a glorious position atop the specter-like outline of the first set - which we shall call a man. Little flaps of flesh on what appeared to be his face seemed to open, revealing gaping holes in the fabric (that we shall call his skin) occupied by nothing except void purple marbles.
"Oh how I played with those marbles as a child," recalled a voice on the radio; the family started throwing up in formation. First, the paper-thin son, then the snot, phlegm covered mass of crumpled white kleenex resting on the table that was once termed a feline. The beam of vomit projecting from its mouth propelling it into the ceiling fan which began spinning, its razor-sharp motion scattering the blankets across the room, suddenly covered by a red die in addition to the aforementioned snot. The fan fell, and found its place as the nose in the gigantic tuberculosis-coloured face resting below, the face of the father, a man with carpet-texture skin and eyes shining with the particular tofu-flavored glow of a decaying omelet.
"What the fuck?" The radio box gave away its location shouting obscenities at the poor family... the son, arisen to go towards and dismantle the radio collapsed in a heap of old National Geographic magazines, the top one bearing a photograph of strong resemblance to his visage. The chemical fumes rising from the floor, the open vials, the half-open containers, the open casks and bottles were strong enough to lift the dust remaining of the son and father and carry it through the air like spores of a specifically disgusting pathogenic fungus. The cat's remains remained where they were... A man entered the room, his bowler hat resting on top of a mess of brown hair. As the fumes approached his mind he shouted in madness and grabbing the guitar lying on the floor mashed it straight into his head. Still pulsing and throbbing with an outgoing energy of life, he clutched at the metallic strings that had passed through his eyes and were now protruding out of his ear. He felt happy. His briefcase flew open and the gluesticks contained therein spilled and rolled all the way down the staircase.
Type: art.prose.renewed
Produced by: Jan Osten
Notes: Short story
MFRH033
"November 04, 2006"
I took a table-spoonful of sugar, and another. I would need it to cushion the bitterness that was to come. It created a very tasty, sugary calm-before-the-storm feeling in my mouth. If I stopped just then, I could sit and enjoy it. Then I preceded to the next can on the shelf... corn... no, no corn. The next can - coffee. I took a spoonful or two and filled my mouth with the grains. The sweet taste of sugar mostly stopped the bitterness but a few grains did touch the inside of my mouth, making me gag a bit. I added in a bit of disturbingly, disgustingly sweet Irish Creme to pacify the sensation and then, holding my mouth open and upwards, poured in the hot, boiled water from the tea-pot. The sensation as not a pleasant one as the hot liquid penetrated my mouth, burning, scolding, and probably cancerously disfiguring and mutating my cells. Great, mouth cancer in 5 years! But who cared???
I WAS A COFFEE MUG!!! I WAS A CUP OF JOE!!! I swished the impromptu coffee in my mouth, it tasted horrible due to my complete abandon of any proportions. I usually put a spoon of coffee into a MUG-FUL of water... not two of them into a mouth-full, and the creamers disturbing taste dominated the top of my mouth's taste-receptors. I shifted my focus away from it, instead thinking about the softness of my sweater which was sitting upstairs in the closet. My half-nude frame stumbled a few steps back, still in shock from the boiling water and at last, I choked down the noxious coffee mixture and sat down, rocking on my stool, barely keeping balance. The liquid said goodbye to me as it passed into my stomach, leaving final “farewells” and reminders of itself as it scolded my throat.
“Why the fuck did I just do that?,” my ruminations poured out with tears as I reflected upon my actions and what they will signify five years from now.
Type: art.prose.renewed
Produced by: Jan Osten
Notes: Excerpt from unwritten novel, The Diary of an Frank
I took a table-spoonful of sugar, and another. I would need it to cushion the bitterness that was to come. It created a very tasty, sugary calm-before-the-storm feeling in my mouth. If I stopped just then, I could sit and enjoy it. Then I preceded to the next can on the shelf... corn... no, no corn. The next can - coffee. I took a spoonful or two and filled my mouth with the grains. The sweet taste of sugar mostly stopped the bitterness but a few grains did touch the inside of my mouth, making me gag a bit. I added in a bit of disturbingly, disgustingly sweet Irish Creme to pacify the sensation and then, holding my mouth open and upwards, poured in the hot, boiled water from the tea-pot. The sensation as not a pleasant one as the hot liquid penetrated my mouth, burning, scolding, and probably cancerously disfiguring and mutating my cells. Great, mouth cancer in 5 years! But who cared???
I WAS A COFFEE MUG!!! I WAS A CUP OF JOE!!! I swished the impromptu coffee in my mouth, it tasted horrible due to my complete abandon of any proportions. I usually put a spoon of coffee into a MUG-FUL of water... not two of them into a mouth-full, and the creamers disturbing taste dominated the top of my mouth's taste-receptors. I shifted my focus away from it, instead thinking about the softness of my sweater which was sitting upstairs in the closet. My half-nude frame stumbled a few steps back, still in shock from the boiling water and at last, I choked down the noxious coffee mixture and sat down, rocking on my stool, barely keeping balance. The liquid said goodbye to me as it passed into my stomach, leaving final “farewells” and reminders of itself as it scolded my throat.
“Why the fuck did I just do that?,” my ruminations poured out with tears as I reflected upon my actions and what they will signify five years from now.
Type: art.prose.renewed
Produced by: Jan Osten
Notes: Excerpt from unwritten novel, The Diary of an Frank
MFRH032
Chapter 1 - Wherein Our Hero Sets Out on His Journey
Across the sea, aboard a ship
he set out for a journey
He traveled far, with his guitar
and trusted daschhund - Orney
The wind, which once in foreign lands
Did travel and did sing
Was waving through his wavy hair
And fortune did it bring
He stood upon the gilded bow
of Frosephus, his vessel
A mighty ship- through arctic ice
She once her way did wrestle
He looked towards the setting sun
Which seemed so free and rapid
He knew its soul was old and dark
Its consciousness was vapid
The sun - his mark, he set his course
He’d catch it soon enough
He’d find it, tear it, and envelop
Its brightness all a bluff
He spent his years, in vain pursuit
But now another dawned
He knew (his doubt was so minute)
His foe would soon be pwned
He spent his years, in dark pursuit
Striving for the light,
Towards the sun to match the heat
Which brightly burned inside [him]
Across the sea, aboard a ship
Lord Haigathy did go
Towards the sun, which he could best
With his majestic fro
Type: art.poetry.original
Produced by: Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Across the sea, aboard a ship
he set out for a journey
He traveled far, with his guitar
and trusted daschhund - Orney
The wind, which once in foreign lands
Did travel and did sing
Was waving through his wavy hair
And fortune did it bring
He stood upon the gilded bow
of Frosephus, his vessel
A mighty ship- through arctic ice
She once her way did wrestle
He looked towards the setting sun
Which seemed so free and rapid
He knew its soul was old and dark
Its consciousness was vapid
The sun - his mark, he set his course
He’d catch it soon enough
He’d find it, tear it, and envelop
Its brightness all a bluff
He spent his years, in vain pursuit
But now another dawned
He knew (his doubt was so minute)
His foe would soon be pwned
He spent his years, in dark pursuit
Striving for the light,
Towards the sun to match the heat
Which brightly burned inside [him]
Across the sea, aboard a ship
Lord Haigathy did go
Towards the sun, which he could best
With his majestic fro
Type: art.poetry.original
Produced by: Samuel Taylor Coleridge
MFRH031
Type: art.visual.original
Title: Year of the Tiger (pt. 2: Depthswarm)
Produced by: Monsieur Ybe Decuporde
Notes: Visitors may click on picture to acquire large, clear version of image.
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