Sunday, 24 June 2007

Bunny Rabbit from Brooklyn in London

Once all the men die out we can rest assured some balance will finally come rolling down the hills. The dreams of men would be carried forward, from where women would pick up the pieces. Standing on top of a mound would sing an out-of-tune girl by the name of Bunny Rabbit, wearing a pink velveteen dress, carrying a cuddly toy.

Hip Hop purists will tell you the production is weak and that the rhymes are sketchy, which they are, though it is exactly this type of sketchiness that frees itself to act through impulse rather than any boxy tribal orientation. Still though they say it's Hip Hop. “Everything that is made right now, whether it’s architecture or clothing is hip hop influenced,” Black Cracker says. “Rather than fading it’s almost coming into its natural state because it’s becoming totally integrated – it’s less exploited and looked on as this other thing. And now we can experience it in ways we didn’t even realise.”

There’s a thin line between paradise and hell, as though both poles brush together, one only able to exist in the presence of the other. Beyond the veneer of idyllic beaches and Hawaiian girls are maggots festering beneath stones, on corners, in holes. And stained glass windows are filled with pornographic images of women getting sucked off.

The women from the dark dreams Kool Keith’s Sex Style album are coming with peach golden arrows laced in tampon butter. You can call me sexist I don't care. I love these girls.

“Big shout out to all the Kleenex constituents all around the world, everybody crying on a daily basis. Whether you drink tea, water or coffee – wait, wait, PG Tips. Whether its two bags, two sugars and a lot of cream or whatever, hopefully you’ll still wanna hang out, drink, and party, and cry with us... you know mush around.”

Bunny Rabbit

Thursday, 21 June 2007

PORT - siskin continued


The sun sets; the natty dogs approach the fences, lights of the cruise-ships move in the distance, while the forklifts, and shore to ship hydraulic cranes regain some of the energy lost from the mid-day sun. Further out in the farthest reaches of the city, blackouts mandate over pockets as lights flicker exposing the haves and the have-nots. Strings of rusty trucks and tardy taxis await some catches, cargo goods or rubbishy boxes, beds and BMWs in return of the precious dollar trickle.

Resisting the ugly belly underside of Britain I welcome anything especially this. The putrid smell of cauliflower and the women with their pretty genes. The Olympian blacks versus my puny line life I stack. The Vaseline-coated shores that glisten from the glossy pages from brochures. I jumped off ship and found a cheap hotel near the U.S. Marine Corps. I jumped off ship, disbanded, heaven forget the people I pissed off. How can one live around moral imbeciles by day, to think I’d let a fool, fool me with pillow talk of business ventures while my soul grated with a fork on rusted barrels. I might have spiralled into oblivion had I spent two more days with that cunt, festered in my own pre-existence like swamps.
So jump. I become the tropical tyrant with a pyramid of parakeets to my back, better yet the Sittamus Grisercapillus, foraging insects on trunks, catching them in mid-flight, temporarily skipping the end I dreamt, settling calmly on the island of Hispaniola.

Very few coastal captains worry about the antecedents of their crewmen or the possession of proper papers. I could have been from any where, it was just as easy to go over the fence. Debtors, social misfits and absconding husbands - just as much as some dumb hench idiot - can all be found on the small vessels around these ports.

I thought I might take this time to write something of value. Settle for a bit. Accept my tranquillity perhaps. Search a story to cover for the BBC world service online, rejoicing the fact that I am free of possessions, free of all ties, free of fear and malice. My room looks like the type of space used in brothels, I’m yet to see anybody in the other rooms. Last night I heard some thumping and screaming as though a girl’s hymen had been pilfered. At one point a blasted pigeon came into my room and shat all its guts, I swear it died on my floor, and was given a second chance in life. I'm left staring at the ceiling.

Friday, 8 June 2007

what do you want me to do with that?

“What do you want me to do with that?” Crimson and bulbous he bellows, little pink hands wrenching at the rusted handlebars of his Grifter, the front wheel humping up and down, spittle forming in neat balls at the corners of his mail-sack mouth, sliding down his lips and flying free every time his jowls flap.
His head’s too big for his fucking body.
“I’ll tell you what you can do with it- ”, I say, teeth gritted, jaw tightening. But what’s the use? What possible good could come from mauling Harry The Bump? Splitting his cherry red face, puncture wounds seeping clear fluid and blood, face like a parboiled ham, bristles like a pig anyway, fat bastard, fat cunt.
Deep breath.
And I walk away.
When there’s a few houses between us he starts shouting.
“Wanker!” He shouts, tentatively at first, then louder when he sees I’m not going to turn round. “You Wanker!”
At the corner I look back, he’s pedalling away from me, his fat arse swallowing the seat of that stupid fucking kid’s bike, wheels squeaking, little knees straining to get over a speed bump. I shake my head and walk on, I’m getting too old for this shit.