20091231
20091230
Synesthesia: Genesis P-Orridge Tony Oursler
NOTES
Synesthesia: Genesis P-Orridge
Tony Oursler
1997-2001, 90:29 min, color, sound
Tony Oursler's Synesthesia project features interviews with twelve legendary figures in the downtown music, performance and art scenes: John Cale, Thurston Moore, Dan Graham, Genesis P-Orridge, Kim Gordon, Glenn Branca, Laurie Anderson, Tony Conrad, David Byrne, Lydia Lunch, Alan Vega, and Arto Lindsay. These works were originally included as one element of Oursler and Mike Kelley's multimedia installation The Poetics Project. These conversations reveal fascinating insights and anecdotes from some of the most influential figures in the experimental rock and art underground of the 1970s and '80s, from pre-punk innovators to post-punk icons, from industrial and avant-garde music to noise bands and No Wave.
Genesis P-Orridge, performance artist and vocalist for the iconoclastic English industrial band Throbbing Gristle in the late 1970s, pioneered industrial music. P-Orridge, who went on to form the experimental band Psychic TV, continues to work in music, art, and performance in New York, and is undertaking a long-term "Pandrogeny" project involving a radical identity transformation.
Produced by Tony Oursler. Questions: Tony Oursler, Mike Kelley, David West, Linda Post. Camera: Linda Post, Tony Oursler. Editing: Tony Oursler, Elizabeth Kading
Synesthesia: Genesis P-Orridge
Tony Oursler
1997-2001, 90:29 min, color, sound
Tony Oursler's Synesthesia project features interviews with twelve legendary figures in the downtown music, performance and art scenes: John Cale, Thurston Moore, Dan Graham, Genesis P-Orridge, Kim Gordon, Glenn Branca, Laurie Anderson, Tony Conrad, David Byrne, Lydia Lunch, Alan Vega, and Arto Lindsay. These works were originally included as one element of Oursler and Mike Kelley's multimedia installation The Poetics Project. These conversations reveal fascinating insights and anecdotes from some of the most influential figures in the experimental rock and art underground of the 1970s and '80s, from pre-punk innovators to post-punk icons, from industrial and avant-garde music to noise bands and No Wave.
Genesis P-Orridge, performance artist and vocalist for the iconoclastic English industrial band Throbbing Gristle in the late 1970s, pioneered industrial music. P-Orridge, who went on to form the experimental band Psychic TV, continues to work in music, art, and performance in New York, and is undertaking a long-term "Pandrogeny" project involving a radical identity transformation.
Produced by Tony Oursler. Questions: Tony Oursler, Mike Kelley, David West, Linda Post. Camera: Linda Post, Tony Oursler. Editing: Tony Oursler, Elizabeth Kading
20091229
20091228
20091226
stuff for trade
New Disembraining Songs product: M.Stactor "Thrombling". Info and audio clip available at the new Disembraining Songs myspace profile (which replaces the old, rarely updated and even more rarely visited website) - http://www.myspace.com/disembrainingsongs
New E.O.D. Press product: United Automatons Dispatch issues 1 to 4. Info available at the old (soon to be replaced but still hanging on) Emunctory of Dreams Press website - http://www.recordism.com/EODPress/EODindex.html
- William A. Davison
New E.O.D. Press product: United Automatons Dispatch issues 1 to 4. Info available at the old (soon to be replaced but still hanging on) Emunctory of Dreams Press website - http://www.recordism.com/EODPress/EODindex.html
- William A. Davison
20091223
André Pissoir (the sass)
'no need to be seeing
but touching the untouchable makes it worth screaming
which is releasing silence of truth...'
-André Pissoir (the sass)
20091221
Watch It
the brick sneeze:::::: bolster your ,ash
lapper,,,,, [hogs] an ::: dice your pill
ow lock the [[]] gosh test an Name yr
fiddling........unit compaction or a ““line””
of g nats ..... fold my suit an dry. t
he flag lopper,,, holster ,,,cash,,, m
ice rust le in my,,,,sock what tIMe it
is¿¿¿¿
Coat
fumble an,,,,scout stop jot ,,,nooser
friendly;;;;muscle flagger - - - sp
read in wind - - - - - the tunnel O f
ulla fl ame spout twist the cashless
glue:::bottled heave ......the runny g
ame,,, down my leg,,,, was fireants,,,,, t
hey left me ay : c left my eye in
side a listed sleeve - - - - -
John M. Bennett
the brick sneeze:::::: bolster your ,ash
lapper,,,,, [hogs] an ::: dice your pill
ow lock the [[]] gosh test an Name yr
fiddling........unit compaction or a ““line””
of g nats ..... fold my suit an dry. t
he flag lopper,,, holster ,,,cash,,, m
ice rust le in my,,,,sock what tIMe it
is¿¿¿¿
Coat
fumble an,,,,scout stop jot ,,,nooser
friendly;;;;muscle flagger - - - sp
read in wind - - - - - the tunnel O f
ulla fl ame spout twist the cashless
glue:::bottled heave ......the runny g
ame,,, down my leg,,,, was fireants,,,,, t
hey left me ay : c left my eye in
side a listed sleeve - - - - -
John M. Bennett
i use also as my voice sounds hollow
pass the time, there might be no words to say if...
rain presses my face up the ceiling
{disgusted by my feeling
as I trust below my guts
i fall without missiles
in your arms of love}
depresses
sun drowns me in my wall
surrounded as I fall
i call
i am a number in my state
forced to suffer in this hate
but why i dial
i am on trial
on the touch to live
[expired as I‘m tired]
the wheel of luck
those got stuck
in mud of the last thunderstruck
the past again repeats as wheeling
industrials trash in my fridge
as we need to cross the bridge
wooden sign attached to my back as his
i will strike back and turn his neck
it will snap while his zipper opens a crack
chopped i will prefer no meat
even now i can‘t use my feet
i can and will choose not to loose
because this is my presence without booze
i use also as my voice sounds hollow
i will make myself follow what i choose
down comes the certain vitamin
this is when i am in to drop out
as some toy scout i shout
till the sprout is all what i‘m about_
The Snake to the Magus
It's always a scorchy day on the great eve of whatever-the-heck it was or did seem was to be been
have gold.
Gold! like the drops of dew from the Moon on high be it blue or bone white, with a face that looks down on dawn or very small men by the millions walking her almost lonely and only illusionarily sullen surface
Gold that spurts in clear phallic sugar
only romantically coaxed
too tuglessly tickled and seduced by Her sex
I do say Sheila! You take me too tyrannically...
(but actually she's not really making a fuss, but ignoring him, looking in the mirror herself and powdering her chest, pulling tight that V-cut for just the right shape of cleavage-- good girl, my witchy warrioress)
She's all too swollen about the right places in
places in space and
Who would have figured with that smile and even
sometimes you know it's just there's an anyhow
and second thoughts
I don't know for myself if she does want it really or just likes that lost look in his eye
Burn the winged sun upon my head!
Oh Sheila, if it be in you to do so and at the end you
she did manage to disintegrate back into the aether though
and you know it was about time that
I mean about space that (and the infinite stars thereof)
she was at the end you
(she too must come to pass)
The day was darkening and the sun swallowed by the sea
(though he burns on and on ever unconsumed by the sea you see)
And nothing ever sad but thinking made it so sorry
that even in sorrow and death I'm in love not
with her but with Her and let
me do talk about that Horned one
It comes first in dark robes, the men in black
And red triangles
And blue triangles in temples
Until it seems best to prove:
"Most people never understand anything
They are like the soil of the earth
They form the basis of life but are themselves lifeless."
And there's a voice laughing in broken crackles in crackwhip dancing distortions over the intercom and a god to rise over landscapes of geometry grinning jauntily until Holy Terror sets in and
Comes slowly at first, the Horned silhouette stomping down a dark hallway in
thud... thud... thud...
Thud Thud Thud--
Crash! of crystal glittering glass shards spread by a wealth of good shenanigans across cosmic eternal night sky and smoke and a face of galaxies with smeared hollow eyes and a grin of death that spans unmeasured lightyears...
Still
You come home and Sheila is there to greet you in her favorite
red as imagined blood that
fills her lips and lips
parting to suggest parting,
"may I raise your Snake, but droop not it's head?"
That's just how she plays it:
have gold.
Gold! like the drops of dew from the Moon on high be it blue or bone white, with a face that looks down on dawn or very small men by the millions walking her almost lonely and only illusionarily sullen surface
Gold that spurts in clear phallic sugar
only romantically coaxed
too tuglessly tickled and seduced by Her sex
I do say Sheila! You take me too tyrannically...
(but actually she's not really making a fuss, but ignoring him, looking in the mirror herself and powdering her chest, pulling tight that V-cut for just the right shape of cleavage-- good girl, my witchy warrioress)
She's all too swollen about the right places in
places in space and
Who would have figured with that smile and even
sometimes you know it's just there's an anyhow
and second thoughts
I don't know for myself if she does want it really or just likes that lost look in his eye
Burn the winged sun upon my head!
Oh Sheila, if it be in you to do so and at the end you
she did manage to disintegrate back into the aether though
and you know it was about time that
I mean about space that (and the infinite stars thereof)
she was at the end you
(she too must come to pass)
The day was darkening and the sun swallowed by the sea
(though he burns on and on ever unconsumed by the sea you see)
And nothing ever sad but thinking made it so sorry
that even in sorrow and death I'm in love not
with her but with Her and let
me do talk about that Horned one
It comes first in dark robes, the men in black
And red triangles
And blue triangles in temples
Until it seems best to prove:
"Most people never understand anything
They are like the soil of the earth
They form the basis of life but are themselves lifeless."
And there's a voice laughing in broken crackles in crackwhip dancing distortions over the intercom and a god to rise over landscapes of geometry grinning jauntily until Holy Terror sets in and
Comes slowly at first, the Horned silhouette stomping down a dark hallway in
thud... thud... thud...
Thud Thud Thud--
Crash! of crystal glittering glass shards spread by a wealth of good shenanigans across cosmic eternal night sky and smoke and a face of galaxies with smeared hollow eyes and a grin of death that spans unmeasured lightyears...
Still
You come home and Sheila is there to greet you in her favorite
red as imagined blood that
fills her lips and lips
parting to suggest parting,
"may I raise your Snake, but droop not it's head?"
That's just how she plays it:
scytheliteraryjournal.com
Issue One of Joseph and Camille Milford's journal is out!
Dan Albergotti
Christopher Bakken
Charles Clifford Brooks III
Tammy Foster Brewer
Dustin Brookshire
Grace Cavalieri
Joshua Clover
CA Conrad
Chad Davidson
scytheliteraryjournal.com
Dan Albergotti
Christopher Bakken
Charles Clifford Brooks III
Tammy Foster Brewer
Dustin Brookshire
Grace Cavalieri
Joshua Clover
CA Conrad
Chad Davidson
scytheliteraryjournal.com