Songs of March 2007 at Elementary Funk
Together forever in electric dreams
Promises fall in line with a chance to forecast the future as the planets roll into each other's orbits. Clashing with seconds to spare from actual collision, walking a fine tripwire of desire. Looking down into the unknown, seeing only the unending visions of brightness.
Hearts open to the cause and questions spread out into the open, waiting for one answer and one answer only. The only answer that matters and it's the answer which follows a question of varied style, but of a singular substance.
Planning starts with a full motion beat as the ground gives way from the feet. Falling harder and harder, looking down into the endless visions of light and right.
Saturday, 31 March 2007
RTP 5: MIA
Left to forget without sense in sight and standing out of mind looks easier to handle with the scathing absence made possible in skill, speed and scant modules of sand pouring through the hour glass. Thirty five for the hour and each grain knuckles toward the next, looking to lock in with the others.
Trickling as it does, presence is the illusion of vision; skeleton fill out an entire body from head to toe and around again. Slacks of black track a snack between the racks and back.
Too quick for the slow and soft balls of dust wake up to gently float toward the ground.
Friday, 30 March 2007
BTC 61: Lumberjack legs into leapfrogs
From high is the strength of ten, of no men made weak and a veritable power force from the legs beneath. Technique shows a presence of loose thinking, absent minds and frogs jumping squats over the canopies of the forest. Felling timber is one game, the act of dodging death is quite another.
Two boxes on the wheels of backward compliance. Direction is a manager frothing at the mouth looking down into the dumpster for one more bite of the maggot infested pear.
One up. Two up. No more before the fall.
Aluminium trips a skip into the wall bearing a precursor to the future. Enough for those travelling wanderers facing upward from the corner bend. One over the slip down, crashing awkwardly and painfully for hilarity. High time swinging low moves save for the near swipe of strange flesh. One step too early and it's one grave to fate.
Pressure builds and the focus melts in the fall of heavy rain. Slippery is the case sapping energy by the second and leaving hours to inhale from the biceps and triceps, gone and wasted over the quadriceps. One or the other, and it's still a game of two choices.
Friday, 30 March 2007
Burning stars at the rate of hundreds
Selection starts with the first of what will be of the many. Casual indifference toward the name, only looking forward to the end result. Of finding the clink to ring on through to the other end.
No matter, no choice but to jump and run into the style. Where it's all a sampler of dishes, colours and choruses ticking over seconds and minutes.
Connoisseurs find their beginnings somewhere, along the edge before the middle is usually where. So it is, where they fall into a line after one another, burning themselves at the rate of tens in blues.
Tuesday, 27 March 2007
Whispers of Heaven
Sound breaks the barrier and it shatters the nerves with overwhelming sensations of excitement, of truth, of happiness and of the sweetest song in the world made instant and without delay.
Where the synapses explode at the overload, coursing with a series of emotions that spell out words that find no space between them. And no space but the distance between and the day of night into the sun's yawning dusk by a moonlight candle.
Seconds go as minutes come and hours stay lingering, hanging on by a moment. Moments which pass so fast and yet beautifully slow. Standing still and rushing blindly into the fever sweat of knowing that this and everything will be right. Everything is right.
Brightness beckons from the canals, listening into the song as the breath takes a short and steady. Never quite whole of itself, cutting a swift exhalation as it leaves so little to hold back. Nothing is as it will ever be. Never again.
Lying awake.
Thinking.
Dreaming.
Listening.
Waiting for the day.
Sunday, 25 March 2007
Standing and counting all 337 below the bar
Absent minds run back and forth with the tag sticking out for that added bit of recognition. It's all about branding, mate. All about the showing up and walking about with gear on the back of the back.
People flood and flush across the day, killing their feet looking dead into the halls of public schools and community halls for the sake of a voice every three or four years or so. Less at times, but then always on Saturdays to make the compulsory nature of it all not such a burden.
Never quite the solution and whine still tips the lips. On the bank into and through the doors, the politicking and ushering of sympathy stands far away enough to clear the neutral zone. For the most part. Waddling a leech of passion and disgust, the drugs over take and the board of other comments flashes a right champ to distract.
One step. Another step. Step more and talk. And talk. And talk until the threshold is made. Time of which not a single cast of ink makes the woman with an agenda fall back in line looking toward another to bring about a sense of false comradery.
Saturday, 24 March 2007
BTC 60: Hunting berries in cups of tea
Smashing the lines and watch the madness curl up with hands waving and beating the chests. Of the gorillas in the mist as knuckle deep in their motives of besting the others as they are in their knees. Of watching the drool and spit fly back and forth with the sole intention of standing higher than the rest.
Scratch the face with a look awkward as the side step shuffles into a glance of working the counter in bringing a bit of order to the fracturing chaos. Flying out from the palms of the hirsute, gestures on a back hand with the scraping.
Over on the other end, far from the screams and yelps, stick it notes on the forehead. Looking to cast doubt on abbreviation of the three letter variety. Where the rolling on the floor comes with a cup of earl grey tea.
Or not, preferences are all about sliding along the shelf space and smacking the chin on the fall down. Either way.
Seven Dr Peppers standing at the base.
Saturday, 24 March 2007
Puppet Up! Uncensored at the State Theatre
Tickets disappear and there is an official man from nowhere offering third row out of a run in into the mistake of others. Pause and wait and shots in the cellar dungeon between the hour before the show. Down and down into the galley where the seats sit up close to the action.
Openings of an infectious degree flavour tips the tongue toward the scene on the plate. Hands up in the air and the stares direct the glare toward the feet and displays beckoning back toward the light. Picking up the quick, the puppeteers and improv artists jump back and forth between the suggestions from the audience.
Masterful in handling the ideas and fragments to a degree of seamless comedy, it all nothing but fun from the get go. So restless is the skin from the movement of the diaphragm keeping up with the bawling laughter. A rip of the lungs in shorting out breaths.
Can't get enough, but the time runs clear and a tight ship into the ninety minutes from hilarious puppet masters working a magic of sheer strength.
Saturday, 24 March 2007
BTC 59: Speculators and chasers begone! Begone!
Fall of a boy scout, of a flag and of an icon of the American power struggling to send right in the world. Steve Rogers, once and frozen Avenger, takes a dirt nap. Guts for the offing, a nail in the coffin made of lead slugs.
And then everybody with a joker in their left sock walks in with a grin and hands out looking for the needle to jack into their eyeballs. Chasing the almighty prospect of a gravestone that may last far longer than the last son of Krypton before the pain in the reign of.
Glazing as they do, the rush is quick and the turn around on flipping over the corpse is too short to handle the fact of the fad. One dead. So many more to go. And dead doesn't always mean dead. Even if the autopsy slices the chest open for the mustard and grill.
Thursday, 22 March 2007
Flying the voice in return for the ecstasy
From near base to the slink of finding a pouch in the pocket, crumple takes a ruffle with the cartage between points more than three. Testing the course of weight, changes on the switch up and dialogue.
Trekking between the depths of the city, underground in the subway concourse, the news is that distinction exists between the above and the street level playing fields.
Where the wheels of the landing jets look elsewhere to start the collection, of a discernable mosey over tiles and tiles into the heavy set stone of the old Martin Place post office.
Visions sketchy take notes as the vocal chords warp the magnetic tape and star prime in the journey back to the home, the base, the true and the only one that ever matters.
Tuesday, 20 March 2007
Main Hoon Na
Excessively rendering the many styles of Hollywood to a degree of boiling and then letting the froth spill over the sides. Pace is quick, the action sequences ludicrious and the spit ball dodging scene is a fine notch in kicking it to the exploitation of bullet-time.
Song and dance numbers don't disappoint, as flowery and as extravagant as any Bollywood film expects to deliver. Solid cracking whip snaps up the neck to contort a 180 degree from vision to vision. Where expectation and interest in the next level over offer scant chances to miss out on fist-catching neck choreography.
Feel the heart in amidst the comedy and action, a sensing beat for the splitting sides calculating overall time hanging in the air.
Monday, 19 March 2007
Oakley are you okay?
From a session behind the counter, and a twist and spin out into the rain feel the slink of the seat belt slide off. Lightness beats the chest, a heaviness strangely no longer there.
Pause to gather the thought and the sight of a vanishing cracks out a freezing crunch in the drops of rain onto the grass.
There with an explosion of solid wavering parts, Valve Oakleys lying apart. No longer cohesive and in a pitiful disagreement with each other.
Quivering hands sink to pick up the blind from the ground. Filthy notions racing through on the incompatibility of survival and sliding down.
Few minutes later, after the wash and dry, operations of skill tasking a popping and a clicking to something of a recovery.
Two joints of dislocation, a possible third makes a last straw.
Sunday, 18 March 2007
BTC 58: Rumble of the crumbles
Flurry comes quick, the fury of the hands quicker and the pace of watching regular strangers blank the mind is an onslaught for the new old made into the old new again. One after the other, noses and chins looking like that which has come before ghosts images between the black slots bearing numbers to their eyebrows.
Memory plays a game of lapse, folding and holding on to the crevices and cracks. Slipping through, it's a coin purse jangling the distant halls of the skull and the cavernous regions.
Rewiring takes a pulse to slow down and by the end of knowing the fit and feel, darkness sits outside waiting for a friendly ride home.
Saturday, 17 March 2007
RTP 4: Disabling the lather
Weeks in now and the wash finds dilution an unnecessary evil of the corporate stylings. Far less changes from the fixtures, but the squeeze a turn valves now dispense versions far lesser than their former selves.
Awash in a pathetic attempt to stand upright or even hold their own on a lathering table. Queasy feeling from the side as the burn enters with cold air and drying spots between wet. Foolish methods in order to generate the foam, the lather, the feeling of finding an easy out between the wall and the door.
That pain of struggle is for the leggy able, of those who choose to amble stairwells well over steps and slips.
Sidle in between the males and the females and it's a unisex version on wheels ruling space over the parties. There, in the squirt of old, where things remain as the same as differences will allow, a vision and texture splendour.
Of liquid soap thick enough, pure enough, just enough to make easier the ritual of washing after use. Always wash after use. Always makes it easier when the soap is kind enough to lather up.
Saturday, 17 March 2007
Membership is only five months away
Drop a cut and rip into a box standing alone with no signs of life or attention and the gamble with time seeds a doubt over that which filters feeds into the recycling mess. Churning and waiting and forgetting, leaving it all behind with a case of dust growing mould on itself and it's a 13 in October to dig in..
Wait and wait and wait some more. No definition, no communication and no tracking whatsoever.
And then, on a day of nothing and boredom in reading the otherwise empty box of mail, the plastic membership entitlement finally arrives.
Now what? Mouthwash and toothbrushes on the recharge and constant supply in the vain background chase on vouchers to recycle back into mouthwash and toothbrushes. Only wish is to wash and brush.
Monday, 12 March 2007
Fishy bacon swimming with end trails
End trails not entrails, where the line between the finish and strewn crosses paths in the middle of the night. There are only so many sunsets before the dawn and then, after that, a close crash into the break of morning. Where it all happens to dwindle down again into the miasma that is the chaos of another day looking toward tomorrow.
Shaolin Cowboy #6
Fighting in the depths of a swamp, or the belly of a beast, it's a high flavour soak in terms of watching the Shaolin Cowboy deliver his unspoken justice. Oh but what charisma in deliverance, of spinning around and splitting the cut what spreads over pages into the rubble and fine granular detail. Sombre tones, a wallow of the brown casting a shadow of doubt on the play and who know really where it all is going to end. If ever.
Archie and Friends #101
The Veronicas are back again and that's the only reason to pick up the comic from the outset. It's a classy duel between Betty and Veronica, Archie still winning the game from both sides, a ginger with all the trouble of finding himself between merchandise and actual time.
Spider-Girl #100
End of the road left to pave way for the next and a return again. A hefty slump, the massive collection picks and spotlights a few standouts from the course of the centurion effort of an otherwise cancel-stricken title. Great tasting i the first tip of the tongue, a harsh bite of completion which folds neatly though not exactly nicely.
Ultimate Civil War Spider-Ham Frisis
Captions, thought bubbles, the war is on and the milieu that is thinking without representation strangles a tight hold. Quick off the mark to strike the iron of satire, more thought on the meandering walk through the scapes looking for an answer. Answers never coming easy in the light of frozen faces and poses, of things before flashing by in an instant without much connection. Loose leaf albeit with a sense of fun.
Monday, 12 March 2007
RTP 3: Crash dawn palace
Haze in the corridors with flashing lights off the sun panels from the Western Distributor and the challenge of finding blindness, temporary, in the echoes of slumber for but just minutes of the day.
With a reset in order of the clock which governs the energy within, fixes of time score along the middle of the day with early morning dashes of various scenes a necessary detour.
Cross the corner of the cubicle over looking the greens underneath with Moreton's on the left, a snap into the time frame losing posture and the slump of the dead. Too high, too low, and an improper rhythm kicks out the flow.
Bearing the brunt across the fore, arms lock into position and submission. Soft is as soft can only ever try to be when bone cuts into the skull with the parallelism of eyes burning the back of the head. Strewn in the middle of the pathways, where all and sundry know to pay a turn.
Snapped into line, the neck faces up with the head hitting the back of the melamine, or whatever white desks are made of. Slipping right into the zone of alphabet closes, the button tricks up a medium for locking in a dead weight for eyes to close out and find a little bit of piece.
Resolution finds a spot for times with too many faces, traces and wandering paces. Side step into a loading and waiting section where cases wait to vanish at the end of the day. Despite the best of nooks for the crook, fluorescents and the reach drain all to pump a course of energy to defeat the purpose to a square.
Saturday, 10 March 2007
Claude Chabrol's A Comedy Of Power
French words and French people with French phrases and French evils. Or generic evils made French through the lens craft of Claude Chabrol's take on the take down of government and the corruption of power.
Absolutely cause for meandering minds cast into the sea of litigation and questions to grill for the answers, the truth, and the reason behind the closet of the mistress seen in that particular portrait shot. Flower dresses never seemed so illegitimate than when over ledgers and books cooking in their own juices from shady deals and creative accounting licences.
Taxes of the state tax the viewer, eyeballs glazing over the screen watching an early session, too early for a Sunday, but a little too late for the introduction.
Interesting? Hardly. Intriguing? Merely changing of the words now. Count the minutes between the start and the supposed end. Where all things considered, nothing really is but the stewing of time over the broth.
Sunday, 4 March 2007
RTP 2: Ghosts in the shell
Swimming again in full swing and stroke of pages and sections of familial discourse. The very nature of the branding an iron force of will and guide. Moving around and about in the standing position, seated with red, instant is the suspicion of recognition.
One for the spectral visage, of iconic flickering from stem to point. Further investigation reveals the world and myriad of scattered bones and skeletons. Strewn across with fragments of others only in and off within the short span of a long time between punch cards to the wall clock by the water cooler on the outside of the building at level seven.
From one point to another and back again, home to roost and roast the time away from time. Chances are.
Saturday, 3 March 2007
