Twitch!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ieTuUQTqe0w

“Nothing is lowlier than the bourgeois sack, that quivering mollusk that eats at one end and shits at the other!” grins the old avant-gardiste. “It hides its shame behind obstinate toil and can only enjoy cruelty!  It dreams to be a wreck on the strings of meaning, the flaccid vesicle, but still wakes up to find its sheets stained by shameful discharges, ha, ha, ha! And you can see all its thoughts running through that translucent tract, it’s nauseating! There is no higher goal than blocking this sack's accumulations, strangling its over fertile productivity and being useless!” she cries, covered by monochrome sound.

And indeed here is one, holding her delicate pink viscera with one hand and dancing with careful abandon; then the others come out, marshalling their output of ecstasies, traumas and commodities in cadence with the rusty typewriter. The relentless flow of letters marks the flesh, soothing as a lullaby, gagging for a moment the mourning mouths in the pit of the belly. But the amnesia is never completed, the menacing shapes reappear, wavering at the edge of the retina; so they lock themselves in the safety of cars and move orderly, like moths whose eyes secrete light, each one an armored dot in the tragic swarm.

Then the valves are overrun, the electric barriers are shot and oily, pungent flows come out, the body shrunk and overblown randomly, the vocabulary a desperate algorhythm of repetitions, the mouldy cavities drowning, until the steel rhythm starts again, calming the convulsions into disciplined reverberations.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ieTuUQTqe0w

The Diagonikals stick it to Palermo!

“Palermo, dark window of European fantasies” we would declaim, were we not repulsed by romanticism. On a Saturday night we witnessed the city metamorphosize into a surrealist saturnalia, each plaza a coded gathering point. At 2 a.m. in the crumbling Piazza Garafello we sat down by the medieval fountain, a 2,50 euro bottle of beer in hand and watched thick fumes of grilled meat mix with lurid disco lights and raise towards the top of glamorously ruined old houses, surrounded by the swarm of 200 people in various states of intoxication dancing, chatting, throwing shapes, rolling, smoking, eating, drinking, shouting, playing with the fat street dogs, grinding to the hip-hop and techno beats blasted out by the dj’s, checking out each other, making out, collapsing, laughing, strutting and munching on sweets. Mesmerizing.

The Diagonikals stick it to London!

Every bourgeois infantry-wo/man toils to leave a mark on the indifferent symbolic order. Something: a tag, a portrait, a button, a smudge, a scratch in the dirt that will remember our name; a little dusty urn bearing our label on the interminable shelves of meaning. Warhol’s “15 minutes of fame” are one wretched attempt to overcome the fated submission; there are other ways, from having a child (the urn carrying your name, genes and desires) to carving your name on a tree. We, for example, lift our leg, piss on a fence and take a photo of the drying stain. These insignificant events display our narcissistic hunger for recognition. The crumb trail that tries to lead us “home” starts with London coz, by the queen’s anal beard, who doesn’t want to leave a mark on London? We have prowled mostly around Hammersmith, sticking ours on whatever we could.