[Nettime-bold] translation translated

["data]h![bleede" <mezandwalt@wollongong.starway.net.au>]

thought i'd start with the impetousness of doodling, romanticism,
graffiti.....

to doodle is to paint a thousand pixels into dust, remove the conscious and
splurge, push the blank button and wait, self-automise, rewind to the
birthing point, jump the logic queue and nitrously-oxide blast outside the
other.....

romanticising is a ghost itself, bringing emotional loads the size of
planets and tears the shape of physics [and the etherals]....

graffiti...the words tumble and split on contact, removing all hope of the
join, the oneness once there but absence now concretes the act and it is
gone, for good?

***************************************************

thought i'd start with the impetuousness of drooling, romanticism,
graffiti.....

to drool is to paint a thousand glandulars into dust, remove the conscious
and spit, push the numb button and wait, self-salivate, rework to the
breathing point, juice the licking queue and hide the blast outside the
mouth.....

removing is a gate itself, bringing awkward motion loads into the shape of
the etheral....

graphic...the wantons tumble and are spilt on creasing, replaying the join,
the absence now stable, the act and it is good, is it not?

***************************

to dread is to pulse within a nuance, a thousand pixel-pints of code,
reworked and ground into the conscious. we all push back and wait,
grief-scarred or self-automised, rewinding to the birthing point and
jumping the logic queue...

manic up and down sizing, full-blown alerting into a scraping is a ghost
itself, bringin emotional loads the size of pretend tears...

all words tumble and are spilt on contact, renewing all hope of the join
but cracking the oneness, absence now creaks the act and it is gone, for good?

***************************

to draw is to pound a nanosand pixel into code, rewound and gritty. we all
paint or mark, scar the medium to the concept point...

moult up and down, full-blown shedding that winds into a scraping emotional
load the size of poultice tears...

all feathers twist and split on contact.

***************************

[this is the trouble of the grit, the smut of those that flirt and mark
unknown boundaries, the colour of the back and the rhythm of the
blush.....a taste reversed and promise broken, rejoined at the link of
swoon and the song of sweat without the narrative musk tag and stigma]

[my wounds are the mishappened, limbs pulled and tendons bound into the
crippled...cut up flesh from pulped mounds and make puppets into ligaments
concreted...grab a crutch and crawl, switching the story strain and making
a point]





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data]h![bleede-inge un.till it hertz              
                   +               
wollongong.starway.net.au/~mezandwalt
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