Is sex dirty? Only if it's done right.

Damn Woody Allen for coming up with that line first. It's a recurring struggle for me who is always thinking of something insanely clever only to find that someone else has thought it, said it or worse, patented it before I have had the chance to get there.

If you were to think of the best inventions in the last 50 years what would they be? My list would include online porn and ... oh yes digital cameras. The downside of my second choice is that I am now constantly bombarded with heavily 'photoshopped' photographs from rank amateurs (and the odd professional). When did photography become about the after-party for fuck's sake? Of course there's always been a certain amount of post production which was acceptable and still relatively artistic (specially if you were sweating in a tiny dark room as you did your work) but now all you need is a Mac or a PC and CS3/4 to pretend your camera takes photographs where colours are so well, colourful. Worse still when the background is a little blurry and a little streaky as if it took itself for a walk mid-click.

Photographers might think we're stoooopid but I would like to assure them we're not. We know those pictures have been doctored more than most political messages and I for one would like them to stop. I'm all for the mood, the moment and I can't feel any of that when I look at an image that's had all the beauty photo-chopped out of it.

I like that Avatar was so universally loved by the masses and then treated as it was by the Academy. Hurrah to that I say and about bloody time.

I don't why this is related but an article I read this week claims that Michael Ondaatje a. travelled in the boot of the car the writer was travelling in and b. says his comes from the generic name for the people who fashion metal objects for temples. That's not right - or is it?

Maamaa

I cannot imagine the world you live in.
Filled as it is with Defender jeeps, Gucci shades, Limited Edition Repsol Replica Blade and the best Grey Goose laundered money can buy.

Money can’t buy love said Lennon, or was it McCartney?
Nevermind... it buys everything else.

You lie back on the plush chesterfield
paid for with someone else’s money
and contemplate the world on a Thursday afternoon.
Blissfully unaware that Richard’s laughing at you.

Laughing at you, as you sit there,
overlooking the lake in your fake-bake.
You swear you’ve had enough
of the Plebs with their gal, their Arrack.
They’re way off-tack.
They should go to hell. It’s been an unbearable dry-spell.
There’s no chutzpah in being a rebel.
No anarchic swell for the dissident in jail.

The dissident in jail
There’s a man in a cell
For twenty years you can sell
the story
In the Daily Noisery
Of his corruption and 'collusion'
with the Masters.

The sort you’re hiding now on Army territory.

Territory – ha ha yes. It’s all yours.
Liberated from the axis of evil.
And thrown to the fire. For good measure.

You think, “I’ll tell them to go to hell...
there’s enough thel”
Yes and more than enough bread.
That construct’s in your head.
You utter fuckwit.
Turn on your Blackberry Bold and download an app
that directs you to my head.

And let me show you to your bed.

Today

There’s a civily-un. There’s a war. Here’s a General. And a sore. Here’s a joke. A toke. I’ll kill you if you smoke.

It’s a protest. A farce. A king and no monarch. Here’s a fish. There’s a meal. I don’t care what you steal. Here’s a thief. There’s a blade. Fuck off. Stop raining on my parade.

Take a knife. To my heart. In writing there’s no art. Go to hell. Take this spell. Bowl an over, do it well. In this glass is the worst - a Johnny Walker and a curse. A kingdom and a spur. A level field and a cur. A landmine and it’s over.

Copyright owned by Azrael.Words

Losing sympathy

The Animals (the the tune of the Noah's ark song)


I'm sorry for the people who have no guns. Hurrah. Hurrah.
I think they're called civily - uns. Hurrah. Hurrah.
They're all stuck in no man's land.
They're not worth enough to give a damn.
And we all keep partying on - hurrah. hurrah.

So maybe they'll be dead by ten. Hurrah. Hurrah.
Maybe they'll all be dead by then. Hurrah. Hurrah.
Spares us from having to bomb-them-dead.
Spares them from having to fast-to-death.
And we'll all keep living on. Hurrah. Hurrah.

I'm hoping that God has no eyes. hurrah. hurrah.
I'm hoping he can't sympathise. Hurrah. Hurrah.
Cos we know that he'd soon be dead.
If he said the government was even slightly bent.
And we'd have no heaven. Gwah. Gwah.

And as for the people who walk the streets. hurrah. hurrah.
I see that they don't miss a beat. hurrah. hurrah.
They're happy to call it 'genocide' though-they-all-have-vials-of cyanide
and blow up women and-machete-to-death-the-rest.

Porn for Kottu?

So I was reading through today’s stories when ...... (wait for it) http://kinkypinkysrilanka.wordpress.com/2008/09/23/school/ pops up. I really don’t mind when people rant and rave and tell Kottu’s readers what gastronomic marvels they whipped up for dinner last night but this seems slightly off-colour. It isn’t even good porn.

On the up-side, it's my first post in weeks.

Four Horrid Brothers

The story of the four horrid brothers has been passed down for generations. While the details are sketchy at best, it is almost certain the events described actually did occur – somewhere in a God-forsaken country in the Middle of Nowhere...

The four brothers lived in a monastery . There names were, Percy (the parish priest) Joachimaya (the chief cashier and consultant on the best method of quelling the Buddhist, Muslim and Hindu uprisings), Arnold and Carlos (the latter two are so insignificant that no one remembers their roles but only how they used their..... never mind). All four brothers had developed a proclivity to having sex with anything that could move....and lots of things that couldn’t. The list included the usual categories i.e. women, little boys and other peoples’ pigs but had been fine tuned to cover a range of things that really should never be discussed in public.

After Brother Percy took over the Parish, its financial situation went from bad to worse. This did not take the Parish much by surprise for Brother Percy was known to be adept at lining his own pockets. This was done by converting Parish gold into pigskin – in what Br. Percy wrongly assumed to be a clever master plan. To carry out this silly scheme, he enlisted the help of Silvos, a dirty, sullen thug who was employed as the Parish gardener.

Silvos (who deserves his own paragraph) was responsible for carrying out all the unpleasant tasks in the Parish. He willing killed and maimed people the brothers didn’t like. He then dumped their bodies somewhere no one would ever find them and for this, the brothers were thoroughly beholden to him. Silvos would sometimes get drunk in the town’s little taverns and had a terrible reputation among the more decent townfolk who complained regularly to Br. Percy. They insisted the Parish should 'let go' of Silvos. But Silvos was no ordinary gardener / slash thug. He was also a behemoth with almost supernatural tendencies towards kaos creation. When he was focused on a project - as he was for the brothers - his powers were concentrated and the sheer force of his capabilities propelled him to create marvellous mysteries for the Piglets working in the town’s law enforcement agency.

A Pome

‘Subversive’ is what they called him.
But Richard was what he called himself.
He was a faymouse –a nameless gaymouse.

My ruler has a belly
My eraser; a walrus moustache
He is a goremouse with gormlice

You dance around in Koala stripes
They dance around in their undies
They are faymice-gaymice

He wore his goatee like a badge
And was golfed-off at the 13th hole
He was a reel mouse. A Che-mouse

It’s havoc in my warren
An avatar’s been eating apples
Its kids are vilemice-slime... Christ.