May 31, 2012

FROM L.A.





Well, hello. Didn't see you there. Viewers are consumers. You look too comfortable, it's unsettling. All those cheap thrillers and erotic magazines. They must think they'll get more out of you that way. Still working on our pagination over here. It's a burden, but I cope. It's hard having fun. Even harder making it. Let's call ourselves les Mardistes. We're fabulous and that warrants the use of French. High culture exploration of text and spacing disguised as low culture pulp fiction. Sensitively in context. Not too much to ask, really. Let me run it through my filter. All I see is black and white print, undyed roots and three metres deep in blue. Who needs a blow wave anyway. You've got something on your face. Freshen up and come dance with me. Let it come out of the landscape. I like to keep some things to myself though I couldn't say why.

Lay down in clean sheets. You really are the exception. Fitting and appropriate. Back burn that heat. Bring it down slowly. I can't have you any more. I thought you should know. You don't move me any more. It's not that I don't like it, it's just that I don't get it. Abstraction for the sake of being abstract. Self-indulgence is out of fashion. Fini. Färdiga. Finito. At least for now. They say it's grown grotesque. I'm just waiting for my queue, even the 'e' has to wait for the 'u'. Twice. But you know there ain't nobody that can sing like me. And when I grow up I'll go to L.A. Yes little girly, you'll go to L.A.


'Here' Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros 
'Shake it out' Florence and the Machine
'Way over yonder in the minor key' Billy Bragg & Wilco





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