There's a site that I'm currently building. This site will be a fusion of my film work and written work. Hopefully, it'll help to generate more interest in my art as I want to provide a more professional approach by presenting my film and written work with a less blog orientated fashion. So, that being said, this particular site will be demoted to a standard blog site in relation to my new official domain. The site will be a lot easier to navigate, so you'll be able to buy my books and view my films without any confusion; the design here, I find, almost obfuscates my material into the convoluted mess that it has become.
Anyways, the link below takes you to the new place, please bear with it as it's still under construction. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy it, although this site will not be defunct at any stage so please do continue to visit.
New Site: CLICK HERE
Wednesday, 30 December 2015
IAN’S DRINKING CHEAP RED WINE AGAIN…
Ian’s drinking that cheap red wine again, cocktails of Nietzsche and Das Rheingold ad infinitum, that human stench, it is profane, the low watt radio hisses the arias whilst Ian fantasises about the final solution, dead Jews stain the hues of his kitsch woodchip wallpaper, that death institute…
“The only way to indulge in freedom is to commit the greatest crime and that is murder.”
Knives and photography, grainy black and white realities captured in the psycho eye, amateur narcissist, a sickly aperture, Ian cannot stand this sty, his own existential rhetoric – Sade reigns the rickety coffee table, extinguished cigarettes mount the ash tomb, Ian hates, Ian has thoughts of amoral states, his superiority complex inflates, Ian’s drinking that cheap red wine again.
Myra talks about dying her hair, she’s singing those Christmas songs again, she’s a monstrous, kitsch Marilyn in sin dressed like a typical Christian mother, she doesn’t get Nietzsche and she hates the whiny voice on the Wagner record that Ian plays continuously. Poor, explicit nudes of Myra, black and white vulgar martyr, a post-mortem pin-up, a sickly saint veiled in pernicious foul…Ian rants, Ian pervasively increases the atmosphere of drunken dread, Myra laughs, she’s fed and fed intellectual disease, Myra doesn’t get it but it turns her on, it’s his profane enigma.
Myra tries on a new dress, humming the ‘pa rum pum pum pum’ song, another glass for Ian, same for Myra, they dance like they did on the moors that afternoon, Ian stares at himself in the mirror, gazing wildly like a pious troop of the Gestapo, Myra’s friends bore Ian, fashion and hairstyles, newborn babies and guys at work, Ian thinks about the Nuremberg Trials, Goebbels and Eichmann’s televised bile, it takes a while to try and adjust to arbitrary chat however, inward and cagey, playing with his knives and sniggering at Myra’s old religious books, ‘Jesus saves me’ and all that bollocks…
Ian wants more cheap red wine…Nazi books, sex toys for an inappropriate target audience; snap shots of victims, private collection – hideous portraits of innocent skin ravished and mutilated, innocent skin marks easier…the little bodies weigh nought, Ian thought to himself; ‘my strength; omnipresent like some unwanted god beyond the virtues and serfdom of asinine civilisation...my murderous drive is only natural; it’s nothing else but humanity’.
The scars on the moors pervade the erogenous sickness in Ian’s perverted ideology, an isolated philosophy born in the depths of Glaswegian urbanism, generating a new man, adopting his vehicle that is flesh and bone, discarding it as trash, a malicious tool to carry out fantasies that could be deemed beyond the pseudo virtues of man…delirious, deleterious intelligence graphically enhanced by the scribes of Sade and Himmler.
What is the microcosm of murder in comparison to the magnitude of war? Murder is allowed in the hands of one that bestows a badge or some faux regalia that honours the protection of the innocent…indifferent, belligerent…Zarathustra in a wheelchair.
“The blood doesn’t play games, it’s transcendent.”
The soil screams, the dew is the sweat that perforated the skin pores of the unfortunate youthful souls in the throes of death, Ian’s hands on the glands of babe, little pallid darlings now stare at the black of earth, empty silence, rapacious cuts of night in the frames of sullen, naked miseries wrapped in the cold skeletal fingers of the grass blades, bathing in madness, trauma in the eyes of grain, absorbing the violence, grave of nothing, disturbed dirt; residual, palpable aggression in the ether of winter’s depression.
Ian revels in this land of uncivil immortality, negating the wombs of messiah, vetoing the ever-pervasive moral that guides mankind into blindness. More cheap red wine; it pours, the trickling sound like that of a severed neck or a breaking spine, the veins of fluid stick to the sides of the glass – the cries that mournfully stains that audio tape, the tears that fall, just like the wine in that glass, except, it doesn’t scream for its mother. Myra is the dregs of the bottle, an empty playground for his little games, what else is there when the wine is gone?
Murder, of course.
Tuesday, 29 September 2015
Monday, 10 August 2015
This book explores a Schopenhauer influenced vision in the form of a performer (our narrator) that wishes to advocate the total detachment of societal order, instead, he wants decay and deformation, yet, whilst trying to acquire his very aim, he realizes that his art is nothing but an act of merciful stupidity. However, what he indirectly attains, is something inhuman but also of abundant clarity.
A linear construct of poems narrated by a protagonist whom happens to be a performance artist, only that, his performance becomes his own destruction, yet, in that very act of disintegration and suffering, he finds transcendence in his own transgression. Some of my photography accompanies the words within. You could also argue that the piece of work itself, is in some way, the actual performance piece...this is art within art, it's my performance and it screams existential viscera.
ORDER YOUR COPY TODAY, RIGHT HERE: AMPHITHEATRE
Sunday, 7 June 2015
Amphitheatre or The Anatomy of Nowhere
This book explores a Schopenhauer influenced vision in the form of a performer (our narrator) that wishes to advocate the total detachment of societal order, instead, he wants decay and deformation, yet, whilst trying to acquire his very aim, he realises that his art is nothing but an act of merciful stupidity. However, what he indirectly attains, is something inhuman but also of abundant clarity.
I am hellishly pleased about this book, also, I'm incredibly delighted to bring this release to you via the great publisher that is Dynatox Ministries. It is now available for pre-order! Go to the link below and pre-order this book that is a nihilist venture into the perception of a failed ubermensch...
DYNATOX MINISTRIES - Pre-order Amphitheatre or The Anatomy of Nowhere by Craig Podmore