Jo Crude Dispatches

[jocrudedispatches]

DISPATCHES FROM THE FRONTLINES OF THE WAR INSIDE MY HEAD

Gday! This is gonna be a blog exclusively for posting/archiving my writings and visual art stuff. Hope you enjoy!

[jocrudedispatches]

FUNERAL SONG FOR QUENTIN COMPSON

(ADAGIO, 3:5 SWINGING FEEL)

That patrician face, eaten in pieces

Where fire turned wet blood silver and orange

White muscle, black muscle washed till it glistened

By sugarcane fists on quivering hinges

<Chorus>

Hey nanny hey nanny diddle da diddy

(Hit, hot, hit, hot)

The natural path from the great Mississippi

(Hit, hot, hit, hot)

South where a plantation house once was towering

(Hit, hot, hit, hot)

In overgrown brambles a dead man is cowering

(Hit, hot, hit, hot, hit hot hit!)

The candle now gutters and burns down the chaff

Alloyed in times where gravestone chains cast

Shadows on boylike chivalrous pasts

Igniting like powder in afterbirth damp

<Chorus>

Hey nanny hey nanny diddle da diddy

(Hit, hot, hit, hot)

The natural path from the great Mississippi

(Hit, hot, hit, hot)

South where a plantation house once was towering

(Hit, hot, hit, hot)

In overgrown brambles a dead man is cowering

(Hit, hot, hit, hot, hit hot hit!)

I give you this fatherly funeral watch

For all of the research distractions have caught

On gallowlike hooks of the architect's square

Wait

Wait sister lay here

I think: there's nothing there

<Chorus>

Hey nanny hey nanny diddle da diddy

(Hit, hot, hit, hot)

The natural path from the great Mississippi

(Hit, hot, hit, hot)

South where a plantation house once was towering

(Hit, hot, hit, hot)

In overgrown brambles a dead man is cowering

(Hit, hot, hit, hot, hit hot hit!)

<Chorus>

Hey nanny hey nanny diddle da diddy

(Hit, hot, hit, hot)

The natural path from the great Mississippi

(Hit, hot, hit, hot)

South where a plantation house once was towering

(Hit, hot, hit, hot)

In overgrown brambles a dead man is cowering

(Hit, hot, hit, hot, hit hot hit!)

<Bridge>

I never done me not one bit of good

I'll bridge the gap where the sugar cane stood

I never done you it done me no good

To pour over bridges that old flower should

I never done me not one bit of good

To pour over

[jocrude]

Irony is a poison that poisons anything meaningful. If you're not willing to say something with your whole chest, then don't say it at all. I'll admit, I'm thoroughly a product of my generation (early Gen Z) and we're still "stained by the birthmarks" as it were of the generations that bore us, so I dip into this poison a lot. But emotions were meant to be felt. What on Earth convinced us otherwise, I don't know. But we must make a point of nullifying irony and treating it as the poison it is.

[jocrudedispatches]

PARABLE OF THE CLASSIC

Let's say, in a given year, a million novels are published.

One year from this time, a hundred thousand novels from that time will be talked about by the many residents of Earth. It will probably be the tedious genre fiction, the mainstream potboilers, and the thoughtless pornos that go out of remembrance first.

What are they that survive? An amalgam of alternative potboilers, genius works, obsessive descriptions of a time and place, thoughtful pornos, middling genre fiction, outstanding genre fiction, and literary knife-wounds by Crazies mad with luck.

One decade from this time, There will be maybe four or five Outstanding Genre Fictions from that time that were too specific or too vague to appeal to a mass audience that will go too, excepting a particularly obsessive audience that may carry their legacy for a time.

One Half-Century from this time, and many have forgotten the knife-wounds. Except the weird ones, who recognise that old knife in the new knife in their flesh or in their pocket.

One century from this time, and there is one Surviving with a capital S. Oh believe me, there are all manners of age for you to analyse, but this one volume survives all the weathering and reaping of time. The last corn of wheat among the rotting chaff. And that's a classic.

That's a classic, my dear

That's a classic.

[jocrudedispatches]

I THOUGHT OF SPAIN AGAIN

The thoughts are racing through my head

Like pistons without steam

All sound and fury, clash and bang

Contradictory

No product was created

All is left undone

Pennies here and pennies there

Twill and Chromium

I don't think

Because I can't.

[jocrudedispatches]

Why am I Expected to justify the fact of my existence?/Why I am Expected to justify the fact of my existence.

At best, they see us as a mild curiosity, a mind game for the middling class, a badge they can pin on their chests, show what little good boys and girls they are to us.

At worst, they see us as target practice.

So why bother, my brother, my sister? Why bother what they think of us? But even still, when you've grown up in a society that's basically one big conversion therapy camp, it really hurts. It's sick. And some of us don't even survive.

[jocrudedispatches]

MARY WHITEHOUSE RAPES ON CAMERA

MARY WHITEHOUSE RAPES ON CAMERA

MARY WHITEHOUSE RAPES ON CAMERA

You can see sex in eye sockets

You can see death by a falling TV

You can see change by the counter

You don't see so you won't see me

Scratching the itch is an error

You can find gold in a desolate mean

Blacken the pit and the crevasse

Making our tea crops grow lean

You can stuff everything in me

Excepting only one single thing

This here is no way to virtue

Whitehouse ghost of queen and king

MARY WHITEHOUSE RAPES ON CAMERA

MARY WHITEHOUSE RAPES ON CAMERA

MARY WHITEHOUSE RAPES ON CAMERA

[jocrude]

Return immigration

From a country I have never known

I am spindly and full of edges

Never knowing, never shown

[jocrudedispatches]

The face in the mirror isn't very sympathetic. Sometimes, it laughs. Sometimes, it smiles. Sometimes, it hurts other people.

The first case: "Because of love."

The face in the mirror isn't very sympathetic.

The second case: "I lost my temper."

The face in the mirror isn't very sympathetic.

The third case: "But they forgave me."

The face in the mirror isn't very sympathetic.

The fourth case: "Because I couldn't bear to tell them."

The face in the mirror isn't very sympathetic.

The fifth case: "Why are you asking?"

The face in the mirror isn't very sympathetic.

The sixth case: "Stop smiling."

The face in the mirror isn't very sympathetic.

The seventh case: "Stop fucking smiling."

The face in the mirror isn't very sympathetic.

The eighth case: "Why are you here?"

The face in the mirror isn't very sympathetic.

The ninth case: "Why are you here?"

The face in the mirror isn't very sympathetic.

The tenth case: "Why are you here?"

The face in the mirror isn't very sympathetic.

The eleventh case: "Why are you here?"

The face in the mirror isn't very sympathetic.

The twelfth case: "Why are you here?"

The face in the mirror isn't very sympathetic.

The thirteenth case:

"Why

[jocrudedispatches]

Scissors cutting off a row of paper people into pieces.

God, baby, I want to fuck you till your ears bleed.

Mine are bleeding too, I woke up with delicate scabs

On the inside of my ears,

and no idea of how they got there.

Our ears could bleed together.

Scissors cutting off a row of paper people into pieces.

You're the only one I've loved whose legs I've not yet ever wanted to cut off

Whose throat I've never wanted

To cut, cut off the nose, gauge out the eyes

And gauge how much you love me in your cries.

But God, baby, what am I to do?

I want to sew us together, by hands and by feet

Last night I had to check.

I had to wake up last night and check it hadn't happened.

I want to see how hurt we'll look, when I hurt you.

And I really want to hurt.

[jocrudedispatches]

My fire-breathing voice

In spirits, buried, and in earth

Tarried, whipped for all its worth

It's just another lazy Sunday

Like any day a year

It's just another lazy Sunday

And Monday comes the fear

My well-disfigured countenance

In falls and stitch-ups, like the scree

In the fume-baked chaparral

For memories unwanted please:

Send unpaid to Marisol

Send unpaid, now if you see:

I pull the hope off babies

So you say well so you say

It was you who asked for punishment

For rolling in the hay

Is it any wonder

That the oil is alive?

It's come to burn us down

To a rodent's frame of mind

Not the children

You may grow

Not the children

Not the children

Not the children

[jocrudedispatches]

Like love is sweet

Like Hell is hot,

So you are here,

And I am not.

[jocrudedispatches]

The glint of light melts a face in reflection

In moonlife, dead feathers and tarred insurrection

You told her she had wings

Truth's a heavy thing

The heat of a moment, an end neverending

Lead weights that buck up without ever bending

Flying through the air

Time's blood everywhere

There

Is

Still

Some

Room

For

Doubt

Spill

The

Ink

And

Blot

It

Out.

[jocrudedispatches]

I died and went to hell today. Then I came home and did the dishes. I saw heaven, too. It was nice.

[jocrude]

Ok so I gotta rant into the void about one of my favourite films, Man Bites Dog: (CW for murder and SA)

Man Bites Dog is a satirical and VERY dark Franco-Belgian crime comedy, about a documentary crew who interview this very vapid and shallow but very affable on the surface serial killer, who gets away with increasingly heinous crimes without any real consequences, and the documentary crew get increasingly involved in his sick acts. It really does a good job satirising a lot of this western-european, continental and especially french, arthouse stuff. The main idea in a lot of it seems to be "le life is le boring, so I must rape and kill le women, but we are European so we must dress this up with Le Continental Culture."

I feel like a particularly revealing scene is where the serial killer randomly shoots dead an Arab construction worker and makes a bunch of lewd, racially charged comments about his genitals and claims that Arabs are all rapists or whatever. There's no basis for this, and Man Bites Dog infamously features a scene of 3 "Native" Frenchmen gang-raping a French woman. It's "Le continental superiority", you know?

[jocrudedispatches]

Language doesn't communicate. Language says what we don't want it to say, and keeps hidden what we do. Violence, art, sex (in that order) are what happens when language fails.

[jocrudedispatches]

INHUMAN INTELLIGENCE

Is there an inhuman intelligence here?

The tramlines move

Their speakers speak

And they carry us.

So large they could obliterate us in an instant

To say nothing of the systems that enable them!

Electricity

Radio

Internet

Consuming more in an instant than we can in a lifetime

And we say we are our masters

That we have created them

Are we not the masters of animals?

Has the Sorceror's Apprentice lost control of His powers?

All that is solid melts into air

All that is holy is profaned

Is there an inhuman intelligence here?

I'm so afraid.

God help me, I'm afraid.