Revered and commended for incompetence

Why independence? Why not sell out? I soul’d out. Then I crumbled and felt the vacuum pull me apart. Massive manipulation, by proxy, at school, at the park, from the television, out of the screen, through your senses and embedded in your head like a fucking aneurism. It’s only a matter of time sir, only a matter of one more controlled rage, push your body to it's limit. Welcome to the museum of tolerance. Admission fee: 40 hours a day 5 days a week, weekends off, and 4 weeks paid vacation. Holy shit, did you see jesus? Christ.

I spoke with the local people, there’s a little place near here, where they bury the dead.

Take a photograph and frame it for safe keeping.

Automated response unit. Broken wrapper-DO NOT USE. Absolute contamination. STOP. Hear that? A scratching underneath the surface. I heard it all my life. Called the pest control (psychiatrist), just ignore it, think about something else.

Watch the screen sir, eat this, and sleep here. Shit over there. Die quietly for 60 years sir.

I crumbled. I was cleaned up. Lost the will, forgot how to drive, now I just sit behind the wheel and push the pedals, mechanically.

Maniacally, reverberated, and constantly feeding back. A looping inertia, they took the fence away and said run, but I didn’t run, I saw rain and winds, and darkness. I stayed in the warm. Now I have died.

Get the message out. One. Word. At. A. Time. If. That. Is. What. It. Takes.

Why not sell out? Break a fucking mould, trim the edges and push the limits. Fuck it. There are no limits.

Obey the law sir

I forgot my role. Dial for assistance. Please ring the bell. Press buzzer. Wait here. Go.

Push. Pull. Automatic. Wheelchair access.

There has to be an aim, a purpose, something to drive, a thrusting force. Without it there would be only stationary; a neutral, neutered, paralysis. Slow motionless decay. They would remove the cast but the limbs would never be the same. Terminal inertia.

The aim must be pondered, deliberated, reasoned, meticulously scrutinised. Only a fool would sail on a leaking vessel, only a fool would allow themselves to be stranded in the vast ocean, to be swallowed by the stagnant void

Who are you working for?

In these dark times, we look to ourselves for answers. Failing to fulfil our curiosity, failing ourselves, we feel ourselves falling into bottomless pits. Broken, alone, desperate, disparate, and for what? The answer cannot come, because the question cannot be asked. Frustrating of course, but true, is that really we are only one step further than the step behind, and we’ve no idea when, if ever, this path will end. Create a finite reality, to ensure that our path ends, but there are no guarantees, there is no fact. If the world ended tomorrow, would my soul end too? I come from earth, I go back to earth, but where does earth go back to? Where did it all begin? We cannot know. Speculate, hypothesise. Do whatever you want to pass the time.

Freedom of expression never seemed so within my grasp.

I am allowed to be what I want, fame is not confirmation. Reality is confirmation. I am a film maker. I am an artist. I am writing these words. It doesn’t matter if none of this is really ‘real’, it doesn’t matter if it is a dream. It is happening to me, and therefore it is mine to label, mine to ignore, mine to destroy, mine to implore, mine to degrade, mine to obsess, mine to impress upon, and mine to caress. Mine to break, and mend, and love, mine to speculate, and mine to incarcerate.

Softly spoken voices crack with barely muted emotion.

A broken clock is resting on a dusty wooden stool, the screws, and cogs sit inside locked drawers. Watch straps marked onto sheets of leather, uncut. The curtains are open, the fire has burned out. They are waiting for the watchmaker to return. He won’t be coming back.

One day, soon, other people will come and remove all of the pieces of the watchmaker’s life. They will be taken to other places, some to new homes, some to scrap, some to the corners of crumbling buildings, others to antiques shops, and auction houses. They will never again know the love they had impressed upon them.


THR/29905 [these are for you]
The great abyss, it's cold metallic hiss, the drone of a vacant space in which all things can fit. Though when we dare to look, there is no constant light, just small sparks [battling dark matter] and clicks and beeps and the constant whir of the cooling system. Lay cold fingers across the bare skeletal construct. He used to breathe [warmth and life] such a familiar smell, the kind that could easily be bottled and sold to desperate souls. It breaks and falls apart so easily, distress marks lay across the belly of the beast we used to hold so close, so the hair would pass between our fingers, now just sand and now just dust. So quickly we forget that there is no up or down, or that if there is then we can not know it from our point of view [held in the grasp of celestial mass] . They stand poised for hostile takeover, yet still wishing for a peaceful resolution. No, no more, no more distractions, no more unsolicited visits, no more ghouls [banished to the realms of fantasy and the whimsical daydreams of the lost and weak
]. So fall, fall backwards in slow motion, exhale, and let the words you never know depart from your mouth on coloured air in languor.


~from silence~

soon and sure, our words, for the world


Illustration for "May" from brotherONE

copyright 7silverbrothers 2009


Illustration for "April" from sorrowbrother

copyright 7silverbrothers 2009


Illustration for "March" from peacebrother

Copyright 7silverbrothers 2009


we fall into the open arms of life, it cradles us until our last breath. our strife is to communicate; our words, and our drawings, and our sounds, attempt to repair a broken communique