Wishing you a wonderful 50th Birthday, and hoping that you're able to spend it with those you love. Big hugs to you !

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely than Death’s termless shade
and Zephyros’ most balmy gust: on the dark
page of gloom, it’s no misfortune to walk–

as with two Kangaroo Hops, I make up
the distance of Central Park. North-bound to
Harlem, which is Hell when Heaven it’s not.
Armstrong wanted to say “That’s one small step

for a man”, but the “a”, not audible, is lost 
in transmission, captured by aliens–
those punk reptilians and greys that go BOO!–

when the Military Industrial Complex goes Boom!–
dressing up as Mickey and Minnie Mouse
to abduct Marilyn Monroe at the White House

Thou art more lovely than in God we Trust.

https://www.instagram.com/p/BzJbPfpgZea/?fbclid=IwAR3rv35X_uOfiHQ-s41tkpq6f6ccUw32cRacOm97YFzdHYocInip4_pK72Q

Hello,

If you are coming to Japan this summer or autumn,

we organize some event for Radiohead fans.

1st - 31st July 2019

Radiohead Photo Exhibition.

"From The Front Row"

all photos I took at Radiohead concert are exhibited at the cafe called CAFE: MONOCHROME.

19th July 2019. at Eggman Shibuya Tokyo.

CAFE: MONOCHROME FES 2019 feat. Radiohead Night.

we Radiohead Night team will be featured at the event,

OAS- Radiohead Tribute band will play at the event.

DJ VJ are also play mostly Thom, Radiohead etc..

5th Oct 2019

RADIOHEAD NIGHT at Space Odd.

the special event for Radiohead fans.

OAS will have 2 hours show and DJ, VJs..

Radiohead/Thom Yorke's official merch will be sold under official license.etc etc etc...

Please contact me if you interest.

thank you.

ANIMA, a new record by me. 27 June. https://anima.technology

01 “TRAFFIC”

02 “LAST I HEARD (…HE WAS CIRCLING THE DRAIN)”

03 “TWIST”

04 “DAWN CHORUS”

05 “I AM A VERY RUDE PERSON”

06 “NOT THE NEWS”

07 “THE AXE”

08 “IMPOSSIBLE KNOTS”

09 “RUNWAYAWAY”

10 “(LADIES & GENTLEMEN, THANK YOU FOR COMING)” (vinyl-only bonus track)

ANIMA is out 6/27. Pre-order it here as a CD, standard double vinyl, or a deluxe double vinyl book with lots of extras such as “A BEAUTIFUL HARDBACK BOOK CONTAINING BOTH THE LYRICS AND MANY STRANGE DRAWINGS DONE IN PENCIL BY STANLEY DONWOOD & DR TCHOCK.”

ANIMA, also a one-reeler by Paul Thomas Anderson & me. 27 June.

Thom Yorke's new album comes with a Netflix short film

JUNE 17, 2019

Your Title Here

How do we get off the eye-glazed treadmill 
of decay? In lieu of titty-showers and ta-
rantula breath, keep the change you filthy

But I won’t go there. The nosebleed carriage
of the Wonder Wheel. At Midnight it dawns.
Bring a pumpkin that we’ll drop & watch smash

on one of those Russian spooks who go hunting 
for sea-turtles on Brighton Beach. How about 
that? Trained beasts without harness buckles

the planet has thus far borne under force 
of glaciers with no possibility of sound.
The ruin of a titanic race. Once long shrunk.

From this height? No life through a mirror.
Limp, even brief arctic flowers dwindle– 
from our bare dreams, trapped abruptions

on growths, ulcers, broken-heart disease, vari-
cose veins and other malignant deficiencies.
Inenarrable Indian sign n syn hex. hoodoo,

whammy, JINX to INDICATE. Point. Hint. Imply.
Suggest; announce, bespeak the telltale ink
that, empyreal, ought to oust, bereave; divest the

particle n syn atom. crumb. doit. dram. drop.
Minim and mittal those rare anticline striations,
so matchless-ly intense. 7-billion human beings

each and every day wipe their ass. So precious
is sanity that sanitation mustn’t dare to dream 
or case itself as more or less value. The glory.

The concrete. Jungle. Fear. Death’s climax
was a dream of God, so enchanted one cannot
avoid or dilute. I digress. Again. Disheartened

as the 2003 film of vicious punk rock unwraps 
impatiently. A Mr5. Doubtfire plot!–just play along,
please. Another Elvis Presley hit. Sound of sawbucks

from the violin holders on the never-before-seen 
bench. Disheartened, just play along. Please?
Like your Spaghetti dish was served with wasabi.

And when you’re finished, don’t forget to exclaim,
Taste just like a slice of history of the One-eyed
Norse god; Never-before-seen at a dinner party.

Sonnet in which Angels Do Not Age, Neither Do Clouds

A folk tale of rook-pecked corpses and rusty bicycles
For which the pink elastic strings of the fable’s bikini
Has been washed too many times Like laying 
A flaming palm branch of donkey shit at your door

After S– stood you up twice for coffee and struck
That match which lit your brain afire Again AMOK
In a clay hole surrounded by mortar rounds and 
two broken vending machines with the image of POTUS

45 We’re in the Mental Block of the Hospital where
Everything’s REAL and prepped for the Furnace 
With a bottle of opiates and 22 ½ gray pairs of socks

Just don’t play the role of the psycho (but claim your 
Grandmother’s dementia) when the male nurse’s finger
Turns into a blade to get rid of humpty dumpty & your vertigo

The Character in a Soap Opera Who Excited My Sympathy

The whole Island of Italy had set 
out to write me poems of tragedy 
& reversals of fortune, not one which 
was worth reading in the lowest wreckage 
or highest reach of my despondency.

I stomped on my golden cape and tore off 
my salt-rusted crown, and ludicrously 
wept into the Caspian Sea, praying 
for an unfathomable act of cruel,
natural disaster that the gods might

deliver. Surely, my roughshod partition 
required, had had to come with some type
of contract for me to shoehorn or, atleast, 
scribble upon in this time of ruin,

but nay, nay!– … only this unfortunate for-
tune broken from the nautilus shell of a cookie: 
Concerning how much your rucksack shall weigh, measure the weight of 
A camel dragging a sandcastle of bricks by his tail, into the world beneath.

The Magwitch & Pip

The horse swallows a bee.
The elephant the retired rogue.
Down the cobble-stoned road 
Back beyond the High Bridge docks,

Where the faint trace of sonicality
Wends out purple to blue flames
From Sonic the HedgeHog’s 
Jumpman shoes. A sidewinder ride

Way ahead of its time
Of sunny damned delight.
The Circus of 1909, 
Near the neck or nadir

Of Ft. George Park 
Wherein the rusty tracks 
Of space-time's zip-drive 
Loops down and back

To the new up again
And again, a spark 
From sharpening 
A Mason’s pocket knife

Sets off this powder keg
By which, limping up a little red
Light house, on Ishmael’s own 
Peg leg, I free myself.

Shadow of the Dice

Exposed to the seizing against 
the vice of seconds that grips
with the indifference of a wrench

I find the emergence of death-
in-this-life less disturbing, 
an achievement of some short

distance. Here, in the inextricable 
part of routine that rounds about
the clock that keeps my paycheck

just beneath a minimum wage 
to live in a trailer park, next to 
this pump station, where the

thought of pie cooling from 
a neighbor’s kitchen window
supplies the itch without a rash

in the numbness of night’s limbs
quaking, nonetheless, in the blindness
of a storm’s asphalt heart shaking

any and all foundation left for me.

*from* The CNTRL FALL[a]CY

It was as if he was being externa11y cntrld, led by the vatic leash by which he was being dragged, more or less, like the maimed animal of a cruel god; dragged through some Keatsian Proverb into that psychic aether to happily serve God knows whom or what.

                                                          [^] 

Again, perhaps it was God, Himself–who comes, who came like prana, that projected His only blue beam of life–so intense with the flow of RA–that it was almost viole[n]t. That sublime, religious pin-prick of the instant achieved, whereby his body & mind; Hell, even his very soul felt as powerless as a go[L]dfish in a ma1nourished bowl of miso soup & backwash.

                                                           [^] 

That was the fucked-up score conducted by Beethoven or Bach, an 11th symphony, all the while, hidden in the yellow pages for a century on end. The one{i}ric scoop which–like eric houdini’s si1k handglove or handkerchief, 5oiled or not, blew in from the industrial sprawl of old New York, brushing into this world, against the worn denim genes [sic] of Ci’s workers Carhartt uniform.

Ci reached over, not necessarily curious, perhaps on the threshold of intrigue, picking the worn aubergine square up with the miniature stub of the pencil he’d lifted from the stacks of Butler Library.

                                                           [^] 

In the top right corner was stitched in 8 font Z[ebra] _ X[ylophone] _ Y[oyo], but so unevenly, even crudely donne–as if in a fit of insanity or rage–one could not say (atleast with a rational smile) the word, embroidered.

It was 10 past 4:00 am. Close to being 12 hours ‘til 10:20.

                                                            {0} 

Of Course, Ci sat in a front weathered booth of 10:20, a dive bar which resided on the NW corner of Columbus & Amsterdam; a seedy joint that persevered like a disjointed yacht of human wastoids & detritus, on the high, hazy and quite calamitous sea of New Amsterdam.

The establishment attracted the typical down & out; doomsterz, snail-bitten sailors, vultures and undertakes; the occasional wizard and mathematicians who had turned to the god of their own understanding & did not like what they had come to realize, let alone see.

Of course, typically sitting deep in the smoke-riddled shallows of Havana Cigars, where the shadows showed their age, at the north face of the bar, garrisoned by the front end of the pool table, a couple of goodfellas (those reaperz of old) carried themselves with the kind of ilk that, if you were of that league, were either your guardian angels or the worst kind of F.U.C.K s–
as a matter of fact, capable (& then more than ready) to inflict the sort of dandelion damage which you couldn’t make up.

                                                     {1} 

Where Ci sat (or more accurately) lay crooked like a displaced storefront mannequin–half-dressed in a pink flamingo & pineapple yellow, polka-dotted tee, that truly came smudged with the blood-heavy stains of mustard and ketchup, blood and flu-viscous snot, which could only be justified if it had possibly been worn during an event like WrestleMania, as a ripped-off warm-up worn by some derelict, who had been thrown into the ring and torn apart by some savage like the Undertaker or Sting.

                                                      {2} 

Across from the booth, beyond the psychic kudzoo, which seemed to be impacting Ci particularly now, sat a pirate with a pigeon on his right shoulder. Next to him, hunched over in the tenebrous distance of a battle long won, in which his brothers (almost an entire battalion) had been decimated, was the Captain Scott Yelly, still after 25 years wearing the very rags of the combat fatigues worn when his left arm was sectioned off at the pit; still, after 25 years, there his purple heart was, attempting to adjust, to just get on with the program–so to speak; still kicking the can, carrying the big book of (again) his heart (or vice-versa); a tabula rasa, old lion, little vermin still lacking whatever it took: the courage, the serenity, the wisdom… all of that shit lost to the inexplicable, the ineffable, the dreaded unsayable rustle billowing that comes like a butterfly, a monarch, a leaf to repeat itself, to keep his purple heart lit if not aglow on and upon his own infinite loop of no surrender; the eternal path of his own design, if not understanding, which kept (and you could say this for all three) him, himself and whatever he was calling himself in those dayz, in an id-sick, jedi-mind fuck of tremendous rage and fatigue.

                                                        {3} 

Who really could say how the three had joined up–like vampiric triplettes naked in the womb–a11 with their own delusion5, motivation5 (ju5tified or not) to snark the 2 others, before their booze-filled umbilical cords cut, for them to spill out into the rosy fingers of dawn, which (in just an hour and a half) would luckily strike and unfurl her infinite rays of teeth, spilling over the Hudson, spreading her eternal fingerprints of life beyond Riverside Park, through the lab[y]rinth of Columbia College’s cobbles. Sure enough, Ci thought {certainly} the flow of her light (that more and more seemed to be a kind of love incepting his own) would begin to filter & stream & broadcast through; to him, himself–through and throughout the green-to-black tinted shimmer of film, which enveloped the dive bar’s front glass–soon to judge, if not wake, with a wrath so infinitely small it was huge, the dead & their app-driven minions, who so ruthlessly, a century ago, had filled this world […]

This Planet Is a Grave

This planet is a grave.
The inveigled day a wrinkled band-aid 
which, after a few bruised hours,

rubs off the wild strawberry patch
of your wound,
fading beneath the green 
foam of the surf.

What’s there to realize, Milton? The surface 
of Hell is a sizzling cunt and cold 
to the brittle touch.

CONGRATULATIONS AMAZING PRINCE, SEXY MAN ED O' BRIEN!!!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY  TO YOU AMAZING ED!!!

HAPPINESS!CHEERS!

HOPE YOU ARE HAVING A FABULOUS DAY HANDSOME MAN!

GOD BLESS YOU!

WE ALL LOVE YOU!

THANK YOU FOR ALL!

natercia(Planet Ed O' Brien)

https://www.elbphilharmonie.de/en/whats-on/katia-and-marielle-labeque/11510

https://www.barbican.org.uk/whats-on/2019/event/minimalist-dream-house-katia-marielle-labeque