Baddingfield

Racing to the Grave

Sun, 16 May 2010 20:06:00 +0800

Brace you ankles,

when we hit the cobblestones,

you’re wearing your high heals,

so pass the light - and I’ll wear mine.

Tonight - no toasts made in sadness.

We’re racing to the grave.

We sneak our ciders in,

engulfed by rowdy rabble,

let’s toast to our mortality!

Here’s to you and you and you!

This one’s to all our wrinkled mothers,

and elder brother’s broken backs,

we can race them to the grave!

It’s not a toast to death,

if you’ve lived out all your days.

It’s not a toast to health,

when our bodies waste away.

It’s not a toast of hate,

if you love him and you’re saved.

It’s not a toast of love,

when we’re all just getting laid.

It’s not a toast to truth,

if you believe all that they say.

It’s not a toast to wealth,

when we’re all just getting paid.

It’s not a toast to fate,

if we make our own way.

The words we speak just pay homage to our thoughts

The most important things learnt are those not taught.

My Mother said to me “our bodies break away,”

Let’s use them now before decay.

It’s not a toast of sadness,

if we’re racing for the grave.

The lines in our smiles will lengthen,

some friendships weaken, others strengthen.

The sea can take our bodies,

The sea can bring us in….

Drink this here - we’ll pay tomorrow,

to what’s lived now,

brief futures free of sorrow.

It’s not a toast of sadness,

if you’re racing for the grave.

Brazil Built You for Me

Sun, 16 May 2010 19:35:00 +0800

The apartment in Ipanema,

had more types of lino than bedrooms.

We closed its door and pushed two single beds together,

and I fucked you as they crept apart.

You were not so brazilian then.

“Already?” You asked.

I scooped beside you,

pushed my hip to yours and touched your face,

you told me to cherish and not to waste,

our beautiful collision.

The Aztecs bled for you.

Blood spilled from their skin to fill the divots in the sand and make a grainy mush,

and now it flows through you.

Portugal fired her canons for you,

and the Swiss sent you their eyes.

The masons climbed Christo’s arms so he could embrace you,

and that night I embraced you with him.

Brazil built you for me.

product concept

Sat, 26 Dec 2009 13:35:42 +0800

product concept

Farmer Baddingfield's Junk Food Cows

Fri, 04 Dec 2009 10:00:00 +0800

Pineapple soda in the cattle trough.

Hyperactive livestock - faces of stupor,

Smiles racked with yellow teeth.

Eyes congealed with fairy floss.

Glucose veins.

Sugar-cube brains.

Brittle legs of musk stick.

Tasty sugar-sick ruminants.

Grazing implacably under sherbet Nebula.

Farmer Baddingfield’s junk food cows.

Shafto lane provides access to a once popular nightspot in...

Tue, 01 Dec 2009 18:55:00 +0800

Shafto lane provides access to a once popular nightspot in Perth, Western Australia.

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Sun, 29 Nov 2009 12:08:06 +0800

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Tue, 17 Nov 2009 21:22:00 +0800

get out of my favourite cafe

Sun, 15 Nov 2009 21:18:00 +0800

I go to my cafe and you are there again. Cyclists. In hordes. I just want breakfast for once without the view of your sweaty lycra covered figs. Plus most of you are still fat anyway - just with really toned quads. It must be all those hash browns and lattes you have after every ride……it’s counterproductive. I don’t get it, Cyclists. Drinking a milkshake while wearing roller-skates? Hot. A beer in ski boots? Yes please. A long mac while looking like a brightly coloured, tightly covered cycla-borg? Ridiculous.

Your bike is worth more than my car. My car has a cigarette lighter. So it leads me to think - what does swimming cost? Nothings….………Running? The price of decent shoes. “Yeah but feel how light it is,” one says. Who gives a fuck?

You’re just a bunch of yuppie toffs in aerodynamic sunglasses, high on life. Get your own fucking cafe.

My booklet got rained on in Brazil, I was bummed at first, but...

Mon, 09 Nov 2009 16:25:00 +0800

My booklet got rained on in Brazil, I was bummed at first, but now I kind of like it that way. The red from my run - ran, and it had a pink baby with some water. The baby made an island around my ferret that looks like Africa. But you got it wrong, stupid baby, it was not Africa we were in, it was South America.

oh so sorry dear alex….. but it had to be written

Sat, 07 Nov 2009 12:52:07 +0800

oh so sorry dear alex….. but it had to be written

Salvador to Lapaz

Sat, 07 Nov 2009 10:24:00 +0800

From sealed bus windows the derelict cannot lick you,

and you find yourself in Salvador,

five hands in your pockets,

only one your own.

Desperation swarms to you,

in the city at polar ends with its beginning.

So we suck ourselves back to seventh floor balconies,

and dream their open hands, hollow eyes, and the place it once was.

A place where a leather-tin man was once-a-walking,

his only vocal, his leather-tin.

You sleep forward now,

grinding and shaking into town,

miles from where the train guard threw your cervaja out the window,

as if the hills could open it, sip it,

to a high walled un-hostile hostel.

A salad of once scattered fruits.

The Latvian in the tracksuit who cannot stop to breathe it in,

the stoner from Bristol - a cartoon who shares our puff.

The German girl who limps and the French that do not smile,

all stay here for a while.

Equipetrol, Santa-Cruz,

fakey-sluts-maybe-hookers,

wear transy-pansy suits,

writhe from arms to loot,

scooting over issues of payment,

only to lament a time - one son back - Samaipata,

where the law came to shoot the bandit down.

So, Ernesto squiggled down that canyon,

made the king look a clown,

even if found under rock, shot,

thieved of hands and buried in secret sands.

Blood still trickles down that canyon,

and paints the image of our sanction.

Oh Samaipata! Your two hundred natives can make a cross,

but it can’t repay the cost,

of thousands killed on rock,

they themselves had carved - the channels for their lives - then blood,

foreign babies in their wives.

Many sons forward now,

bikers bump by,

clumps of dirt in eye,

using mis-shaped toilet cubicles,

they stop at what is beautiful.

The leading wheel points to their freedom.

Shoebox of strange meats,

old bus - worn seats.

The Indian with the cane,

wants to know your nombre.

He comes from where you look,

farmed traces of his life,

inscribe the mountainsides.

His leather face denotes no crime.

In Uyuni we serve our time,

a cracky room,

bonus black cat.

“We didn’t pay for that!”

He’s a vessel for the pooey sickness,

that one-by-one struck us down.

Pooey food, pooey water, pooey guts, pooey paper, a pooey caper!

Pooey floors, pooey hands, all round pooey lands!

A pooey bed where you rest your pooey head,

to suck in thirty three years of mattress,

near the pooey power socket,

without a powerful point to make our generations gifts (or burdens) buzz and cry,

“OUR LIPS ARE FUCKED!”

Lets hit the sky,

where it meets a salty plane.

All this before we die a splinter induced death,

or perhaps from lack of breath,

but either end,

relieves us of our pooey den.

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Fri, 06 Nov 2009 23:30:00 +0800

milkshakes

Fri, 06 Nov 2009 18:44:00 +0800

Whatever happened to milkshakes? One day I’m guzzling them down like a devil-child and then….pfffft….they’re gone. First I thought maybe alcohol killed them, so I made a cardboard gravestone that said “R.I.P. my dairy friends”, and had a stiff drink to blur my grief. Then I discovered that they are not in fact dead but alive and well, living in run down coffee shops and eateries throughout the world. Ace. So I got one….

mmmmm…..it was like drinking a ghost.

Start at the “spear-rad-attic is my new rapper name”...

Fri, 06 Nov 2009 18:39:00 +0800

Start at the “spear-rad-attic is my new rapper name” line. I would say that this would save you some confusion, but your bound to be disorientated by this post.

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Fri, 06 Nov 2009 16:41:34 +0800

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Thu, 05 Nov 2009 14:13:00 +0800

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Sun, 01 Nov 2009 19:18:00 +0800