Belvedere Jehosophat - Tuesday, 23 February 2010 - 00:53:48
Floor manager of the local grocery was the highest commission he could manage.
Read the rest of you have no knack for happiness
Belvedere Jehosophat - Monday, 11 January 2010 - 17:00:23
Anywhere she went she gave the same impression of herself, that of a slice of watermelon: juicy and crisp in the first few bites but watery and bland the more time one spends with it.
Read the rest of please don't sue, CWA
Ethan Switch - Wednesday, 30 December 2009 - 06:05:02
Anesti Está Morto craves upon casual anathema. Supping in its glow as it heads into the evening, the cooling air of a humid December brings an extra coat of delight. It is, as a they, an entity recycling the waste of regions underfoot. Ceraising for the steps you do not take.
Read the rest of Shadows never leave, until the darkness fades to bright
Belvedere Jehosophat - Saturday, 5 December 2009 - 20:23:10
It, love, made itself readily apparent near the small town of Mullengandra, roughly 40 kilometers from Albury following the Hume highway north.
Read the rest of It, love,
Ethan Switch - Monday, 2 November 2009 - 23:46:59
Me in a kaftan working the capstan, whistle to the capta'n, "That man, with a hook hand, is a can-do man." A man with a plan, if not two hands, and a handy man at that. That that being the that that packs the rats and racks the shacks and shingles the crew o'er do a jingle to. To sing a song of sixpence, a penance of sense and dissonance putting forth dreams of hence.
Read the rest of Commission of The Rusty Coalescence
Belvedere Jehosophat - Wednesday, 28 October 2009 - 23:07:55
““Hurt ‘em, boys! Hurt the fuckers!” That was how the Captain of the Stormy Petrel got us fuckers – we was whalers, but we was fuckers too – to get the harpoons. I never liked killing the beasts; I had no stomach for the job. I would operate the capstan instead and winch the absurd animal up the slipway, up out of its element, and onto the flensing plan. I never took part in the butchering neither, god help me, those knives cutting into that fat. I was sick the first time I saw a flensing, you ain’t never seen a pink like that, the sea boils with blood. But it was nothin’ on the tryworks. The tryworks made me sick, all that blubber boiling, that fucking smell. But I had to load the try pots, that’s what the Cap said. “If you ain’t gonna flense the fuckers at least load ‘em in the pots,” he said. So I boiled them fuckers, and we rendered their fat into oil. I saw none of that oil money. I hated him. I hated him so much. That’s the only feeling that hasn’t changed. I was on that ship for three years. By the time I got off I couldn’t even remember the smell of the rendering, but I’m never gonna forget the Captain, good ol’ Cap. I hated him, but what could I do? It was Hobson’s choice, wasn’t nothin’ on land for a fucker like me.”
Read the rest of boil
Ethan Switch - Wednesday, 8 April 2009 - 21:35:50
Quiet is the quiet rule that exists in the realm of the public toilet. An extension to the masses of the wonders of indoor plumbing and experiments in tile decor selection. Sanctuary from the blathering blabber as the bladder and colon reign supreme over the porcelain throne. The sacred act of bowel expulsion and draining of the fluids entertains to some unfortunate few a novel arena for talk and discussion.
Read the rest of Social avoision: Killing conversations in public toilets
Ethan Switch - Monday, 13 October 2008 - 22:06:22
Copy paper, or any stock paper delivered in envelopes or from a summons, makes do for substitute toilet paper. In times of frugality and a rough adventure of the back end, all it takes is a little crumple power and patience.
Read the rest of Making toilet paper out of copy paper
Ethan Switch - Tuesday, 20 May 2008 - 09:45:16
Little boxes on cable wires. Little boxes on the building site. Little boxes riding up and down all day long. In hospitals and on train station platforms. Even in posh, three-storey, marble made estates — where maids sponge the crevices behind your knees with oils squeezed from virgin beans off a private isle along Kangaroo Island.
Read the rest of Social avoision: Lifts, elevators and riding the quiet within
Finagle with our bagel and keep a fresh and up-to-date eyeball on our latest reviews, articles and filthy somesuch. Mmm doughy.
Undone, unbound, the sounds aground, life's taking the train with a soundtrack of harmonic dissonance, of inner turmoils and evolutionary spotchecking.
Nipple protection from the elements?
Armpit hair needs a lair?
Bellybutton catching too many flies?
Then grab this comfy chest covering and other kinds of T-shirts at The Wax Sweatshop.