Type: art.visual.found
Produced by: Bye Baby
Notes: no.
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
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
