Friday, 27 November 2009

Funny World #15

He was talking on the phone for three hours before he realised that he wasn't talking to anyone.
"I thought you'd give me more?" He asked tiredly. Unsurprisingly, no one answered him.
Albino bag smiles tell me that you're angry.
I wish I was on a boat projector of galaxies, floating moving atoms evoking ages of sand and marble in your ancient rolling temples.
It has to feel like this. Smiles times two. "Please, it's mine, but I hope you enjoy it."
To this day it still clicks like a broken clock, and reminds me of you. You're probably not the massive cunt that I imagined you to be. I suppose you're just seeing things the way I am.
Now I've built a cave, I can see how obviously recurring these events have been.
Good morning, irrelevance, and how are you? oh, and you, the typical nature of the present? I see that you're eternally turning up unannounced, maybe you can knock next time?
The muffled sounds of the knuckle trumpeter traverse through half an hour of waking dreams.
Nine dimensional reverb, this is what I couldn't explain to the backs of heads.
But it's alright, no one thinks that existence is important anyway. I think this is why I've resorted to believing my own pseudo-pink wafer-justifications.
I look up to see the male figure smiling down on me. I can only see him from the shoulders up. Wearing a white tshirt, stubbled chin like freshly cut gravel and illustrious hair like a golden-brown tsunami.
This is the first time I realised that God was Jack Kerouac.
"Come up here." He urged.
"I can't remember how long my limbs are." I replied disappointedly.
"It's ok. I'll help you up."
I found it humbling that to reach this 'transcendental dimension' I had to climb over a sink and a frail cupboard filled with mugs, passing polaroids of people I knew on the way.
When I reached the zenith, Jack Kerouac had vanished.
"Where's Jack gone?" I asked.
"Oh, he got a taxi about an hour ago, he's got work at nine."
"Ah shit, does he know he's left his coat?"
"Yeah, he text me asking if I could save it for him."

If you lick the chin of Salvador Dali, you can sit in the left temporal lobe of Indiana Jones.
We are all in a two foot space making heads horizontal, surrounded by cushions and a cardboard television with lots of wires but no remote.
95 percent eyes and 5 percent leg holds aloft an infinite curtain rail that she refers to as 'the force'.
The wooden drug dealer with a phobia of fire, cuts his stuff on his square wooden legs. "It's ok, as long as I can listen to Johnny Cash, 'Ring of fire, then I'll be fine" He informed. Which seems entirely logical.
"How much for your legs sir?" I politely solicited.
He continued to butter the ceiling of the temporal lobe with an invisible knife. "Nothing, my friend. I'm a butter sculpture."
"Your legs are like two comfy staples." Said 95 percent eyes and 5 percent leg.
Inky blue eyes gives me a black parcel filled with ineligible messages. It is not until after I leave that I realise this parcel already belonged to me.
Nehe Miah Clifford, I only need to see you when time relapses like a lunar tide. Kinks the tape. Noises repeat and continue as normal.
I only need to see you when time relapses like a lunar tide. Kinks the tape. Noises repeat and continue as normal.
I had a dream last night that I shit orange liquid into my hands. Nehe Miah Clifford, you know exactly what this means don't you, because this part wasn't real.
"The roof is itching three plates at a time."
Nehe Miah Clifford, you know exactly what this means don't you, because you are me, and I'm not real.

Wednesday, 25 November 2009


A series of one night Illustration showcases curated by Nous Vous in affiliation with theartmarket.

1st Draft includes
Cameron Steward
Matt Hodson
Nicolas Burrows
Gareth Brew

Ventral will be participating in the '5th Draft' on the 22nd April 2010 : 6pm - 8pm

For more info visit Nous Vous

Tuesday, 24 November 2009

D R E C K : Cut-ups experiment 3

D R E C K : Cut-ups experiment 2

Limited edition Ventral tote bags

New Ventral tote bags for sale.
4 designs in print runs of only 10.
To find out more, visit the Ventral website.

Sunday, 22 November 2009


Ventral is now on the Beautiful/Decay blog.
Have a mosey at this comprehensive website and the B/D publication.

Funny World #14

Careful, what you are about to enjoy is extremely quixotic.
I am one quarter monochromatic and if you look at me from certain angles you wont be able to see me.
I'll be sleeping on loose change for a while as the dried social butterflies get caught in cats paws.
Creamy contours and exterior, plaster the sides of my rickety paste. I hope one day soon I will again feel the twinge of her breath-filled, fluorescent discourse.
"I read it back word for word and I am pleased to report that it has a pulse."
I am thinking that so many people are together that haven't met, synchronised experience.
The similarities are astounding, my eyes seem well fed.
Give me back my infant pegs and let me start again. I'm all out of milk and gut. What happened to those chinese dragons?
"Would you please elaborate?"
I've just woken up in a cinema distending with pretentious laughter and peeling wall paper. I'm not sure how I got here, but at least I've found myself, precisely where I am.
"It's dark and I can't see the words I'm thinking about."
"That would be a pointless scunder sir, a waste of semantics" He said as his figure shook mirthfully.
The clouds are making me warm, pot fox, sat outside the door, my favourite animals are the ones without legs.
"Your insanity bedraggles me."
I bought some carpet tape today and a handfull of safety pins, I'ts going to fix everything.

Wolves are inside envelopes, addressed to my name from someone I've never heard of before.
They say "There you are."
There is a space here that simply shouldn't be. Fill it up with light and fall asleep, suspended on my mind's structure.
A pillow like silk eyelids, a placid exegesis that satiates your evaporations, water vapor on windows, opaque on ink stained palms, smearing objects into words, damp and existing temporarily.
Horizontals, green toothpaste umbrellas and landing rails. Stick my head out of the window. This time its not audible and still none functional. "Time to sleep" She said. " A lot of things that made me smile are not enough to gather up your hands."
I wonder if there's any residue left? It will all be better when I see the white tiger.
"Don't worry madam, I'll walk in the road, I'll carry my sea shells and coral bones through the traffic just for you and your sunny scowl."
I find it insurmountably sobering. I could just go for another taste of her radiator lips, one more taste before I bury the sun and follow the Maya Corn God through the underground.
"There you are, my little mimesis. I've got some unspoken news for you, we're nothing more than animal bones."
You pharmacokinetic feeling, bright like neuron tunnels and synaptic whistles.
"I am quite clearly sure that I am not fatuous, just two thirds the wrong measure in either direction."
I'll meet you inside. You won't fail to see me, I'll be the one with my face. Hopefully my tongue will follow suit long before I make it to funny world.
I can feel it now. Something.

Wednesday, 18 November 2009

Funny World #13

If I keep traveling West incrementally until I reach minus eleven then walk backwards to zero, I should be exactly where I am now.
I'm starting to grow weary of her French noir stupidity and her insistence on getting a grip on something substantial, like dream-like objectivity. In approximately fifty years time every one I have ever spoken to will fall in love with me.
For all my bravado it is nice to know I still have the capacity to be floored by nothing more than a neon light.
Where are you now little mouse? Where have you taken my gusto?
My shoes are paddles and the neon light dips it's splendor into puddles. It's majesty is swallowed and presented to me on a silver platter.
I walk some more.
My socks are wet, I think about my cold room waiting for me. Shades of grey bottled up in order, light to dark. My cold room used to be blue.
It must be dying. What medicine can you give a room? If only it could see this neon light.
My only regret is that on that night four months ago I didn't offer you my cardigan when you were quite clearly freezing.

The one quarter maltese girl ties a string to the dealer of rumours, and gets dragged into the night by her fingers. She tells me she just wanted a rose on her arm whilst someone passes me a ladybird, all the while reconstructing her image in the belly of my mind. These trinkets keep following me, bad dog.
"You don't talk to your dad?, you're a vegetarian?" yeah of course you are, I could have told you that. Everyone I meet says the same thing.
Last week everyone was called Jake, this week their called Ben. Stop looking at me Sigmund and let me sleep.
I'm deconstructing the ladder and re-writing it on her back. I'll climb it soon when she's sleeping, and slide into her particles.
Her lights are like bullets and yet I still can't find the movement of pen to gratify them, a hopeless affair.
I cant remember walking home and my suitcase is bloated and hopeless. A shock of blonde or a shock of blue? The cigarette ash summersaults to the floor, a poetic reminder that my lungs haven't given up just yet. Where will I find this movement again? The German market?
The white tiger looks majestically, motionless. Maybe not, or yes, probably, the omnipotence is a golden downpour.
Fuck off ladybird, leave me alone. I imagine the robber had a cartoon smile under his scarf, and that all we talked about was food. It wasn't, but at least we talked. I'm so elatable. I'm beginning to see her corrugation pleats like a kitchen knife and a graze to the hip.
Today was a good day.
You're welcome.

If I keep traveling East incrementally until I reach plus twelve then walk backwards to zero, I should be exactly where I am now.
The last time I saw a peacock I ate an octopus out of a tin. Fuck, sometimes you just forget how beautiful peacocks are.
Eye cuddles given to me from a distance and two folds make a zip. "What you thinking about?" I am trying to wrap up the day in a cinnamon cone.
Great apples and sqwiggles tongues inside 2p machines. Let's take this black hole and pass through it infinitely. Dazzling carousel, hello, how are you?
I'm asleep in a cave for two days and can only remember other people's dreams. Is that you Plato? Is that you in the cupboard? I can see your silken shadow? These sheets reveal thoughts and hands overlapping. I can't hear these alarms because my batteries are on the floor under your shirt and the door is whispering when we walk. I'm going to sleep here forever, indulging in the charm of your cave. Just so you know.
Stand on the chair to predict the future and walk backwards towards the present to show you that you're not alone in this. We'll climb these stars in three dimensions.
"Where do go when you die?" You asked.
"New York" I said.
I wish my arms could reach you.
This is everything I can do.
Can you please untie my stomach and soak up some time? A pocket head for my ego, buttoned up so I don't fall out. I'll stay inside my self for now.
Remember when you said "I quite like you."?
We looked at each other and you told me your grandma had died. I told you to describe a white room in three words.
"Pure, peaceful, calming."
I hope that helped. I don't think it did. But I'll pretend if you will.

Friday, 13 November 2009

Thursday, 12 November 2009

Funny World #12

I've been inside this cigarette now for two days trying to find myself.

The man situated approximately three feet in front of me is most definitely a myth. The girl in front looks over her shoulder with sultry eyes apropos nothing. This is a manqué mimeses that fails on all fronts to incite or interest. Why am I becoming increasingly nostalgic for paranoia? A fear of contentment when it turns out you're just a little mop.

"Death." I say in response to a question I didn't hear. "I'm waiting for this fucker to light."

My momentum is waning like an emersion tank full of rust. I fill my pockets with a plagiarist's playground and the very universe that fell out of her eyes. I'll haul you up that fucking mountain again whilst you whisper in my ear "die Sisyphus, die".

Looking through the lens of my medium format eyes I start to see things differently. "Do you live on cardigan road?", I hear in my sugar lump. I fully expect these surroundings to ignite as soon as the music stops, disintegrating this esoteric surrealism that everyone shares.

Everyone's brain fits in their head. This is a simple fact that almost always goes unnoticed.

This music isn't going to stop. I am becoming a similar consistency to pink wafers whilst acclimatising to these prawn cracker curtains. Senses are increased with a tint of rose.

This silken finger is draping my spine. I touch her face, every meander of the fingertip like an interview. I loosen the motion.

Thinking about the throws of your contours and the dip of your physical nature, tachycardia takes hold. Am I getting to know you correctly?

The Andy Warhol look-a-like with a face of graphite hasn't said a word since I arrived. Please Andy, whilst the cheese is on, give me some advice. "If the novelty is good enough we will give it a carrier bag."

My clothes feel like an extra layer of skin and cream, a warm trifle. Can you feel the knife?

Although the chain is rusting and the process of ecdysis is reaching conclusion, I must confess that you are still composing me.

I just froze for no reason and felt confused.

"What are you thinking?" I hope it is interesting enough.

Then an idea fell from my sandwich and landed on my knees.

"You're just a dirty turkey." it said.

I held the sandwich tightly and stared at it as it stared back unremittingly with a benign expression.

I can see the blue crack encircling me. My throat is a wrecked ball of itch stuck in my epiglottis.

Give me more time Miss Blue. Give me three seconds more.

Why does late night t.v give me the gall to reminisce when it's the last thing I want to do.

We have grown into a personification of radio waves and television static trees.

I could see her in the distance so I stood my ground and she disappeared. Smoking a crack pipe at a fairground or was it a children's toy?

I shook hands with a clown doused in black make-up and made way into the sodden woods.

"Stop it with this bleeding stop frame!"

"Why are you scared of the rain? you are not made of sugar".

The idea on my knees made me insurmountably aware of the fact that I didn't know seven eights of this room.

My brain is ten per cent functional and ninety percent garden.

My sense of reality just made a lovely splash, and our reflections undulate with the carp.

At this moment I'm not thinking too much about thinking.

I hope this is interesting enough.

I am staring at shadows secreted from the floor. After my jaunt I can safely begin to presume that you, yourself, are almost, most definitely, in all honesty, beginning to be secreted from my tiffy viewers.

A few seconds later I won't even recognise your face.

"Believe me. To make someone not think about anything is an achievement. Isn't it this blissful inertia that comforts us the most?"

Now the monkey comes out of the sleeve.


Can you feel the knife? It was a spoon, lifting us to a strawberry moon and a village in someone's arm, where we swear in diseases, the girls wear sock puppets and you can slap my soul without reprieve.

Punch the bitch in the face to put the bitch in her place. I can take a kick in the groin and a punch to the foramen magnum, but these fucking dreams keep showing me vloer snow flakes.

A blinding, pathetic wash of images. I need to go home and think about Ginsberg's cottage.

I hope this is interesting enough.

Friday, 6 November 2009

Funny World #11

Three dark triangles throw mescaline to a god no one ever sees. Have you fucking abdicated, when I need you the most, you prick! Zarathustra, I think I love you, dying on those steps near that bench.
Lazaretto - A pest house for the diseased.
A kick in the pegs and these tiffy glances like venom will give me fizzy legs. It's time I took Seigmund Freud out of my suitcase.
And now this abjection arrives like three o'clock. I'm a trilogy; myself, the way you see me, and the way I was: The Symbolic Order, The Imaginary Order, and The Real. Unzip these clouds so all the invisible prophets fall from their hiding places.
Smell the soil next to their shadows to prove that you still exist. It's all a bunch of 'smemories' (smells and memories linked to the olfactory bulb and the hippocampus).
Lazarus, keep digging.
Female card players, the real fucker is, I had this all before, a million yesterdays ago. Just trust me not to jar it this time. I've broken all the jars. Hang your bags on my teeth and have gone. This Absinthe will get the better of me. Oh, epitome, pity me, please, sniff yourself and memorise. These motions are becoming too easy but it's the sun that's making things difficult.
I want it, but I don't want it. I want it different, I want it. I just don't want it now because I won't like it. I just don't know what to do green fairy in a bottle. Is this it?
Well, there we go Jessica Rabbit, you are no Lola Bunny, you're just a whore with a language barrier that's dribbling on your knees. This bag is not mine.
Winnie the Pooh, what's your favourite shade of pale blue? Is it sweet enough, sweet potato mash? How warm is your pocket? I want to sit in it. A pocket full of dreams, toastie and supervising all the sound I've ever seen and missed. Burry the smell in a flowery lace, and give me the strength to penetrate the ceiling. I'll riddle your scart lead face and patent that top lip.
"Say something!"
So I said the most absurd thing imaginable. "There are hippos in your cutlery draw telling jokes that only I find funny."
He held his glass mug underneath his chin to catch his tears. "I've been hurt by an upside down pin!"
The rest fell silently into a blur.
"I love you, but you're rubbish"
We walked passed with bottles in our hands and said fair well.
I enjoy synchronicity.
I don't know if this is true, but if it is, I would disagree anyway, because this is just vague enough to be brilliant.

Wednesday, 4 November 2009

Poem : Sniggle Dreck

This is surprisingly magnesium
irregular trapezium
spitting chrysanthemums from
the crease of my septum
it's blinding
full colour spectrum
gleaming and binding
but I don't think I'm dreaming
maybe it's a headache
three magpies said it was a girl
they're in the garden arguing
about The Holy Order of Difference
on the moon there is
a brown plum
and a razor blade
funny little eyelash girl
you need to check the meaning
because I'm leaving to think
about this in the morning remember
there is always a North, East, South
and West to everything
even your head
have some penicillin for your thoughts
turning fingers into dinosaurs
I won't be the same again
My head is a fence
that needed jumping.

Funny World #10

I'm starving and I want a suitcase. I went to the bin, but the bin was full so I put it on the bin.

How would you say dear? I feel the need to board up your beautiful eyes so that they stop swallowing me.

You look a mess, a fucking lovely, intoxicating mess that turns my gravity inside out so I rise indefinitely through the clouds, into space, to the corners of the universe. Two asinine planets holding hands.

Such a busy day. I'll cram it so it splits at the seams and a crescendo of feathers burst into the night sky. Sometimes when nothing is happening I feel so content that my bones splinter and my insides reservoir through my gaudy veins.

Try again.

This event initially showed me that even the infinitesimal event can have a grandiose effect on the individual , enough to illicit the sense of uniqueness.

I keep thinking about the little mouse that scurried away from my size tens and brought me a bona fide smile for the first time in three weeks. Come back little mouse, follow me home.

he waits around to teach you destruction, with milky prescriptions and dead light that he once caught in a jar.

Open it, he says. But you're scared.

Just don't forget me.

You open the jar, nothing happens, and you still haven't fucking realised anything. Next time he'll charge you for the privilege of his company

Pull up your socks and fall back into the first person, that lamp post will never answer me.

Try again.

Disparate times call for disparate measures. I could hear the pant of the ballet dancer, an unexpected but most welcome pleasure. I'm sure I most definitely fell in love. Not with the dancer but the convoluted shapes she weaved. She canters.

Her contours kick through the particles of light from the ambulance outside.

After the performance the lift doors open and cracks my conscience back into position. It takes three seconds for the beat of my heart to catch up. The giddy professor claps vivaciously, spitting admiration then quickly shuffling his bird feet forward and snapping his mouth trying in vein to gobble the compliments back into his useless brain.

Sitting on this wet patch just about sums it up. One handed breast fed knitting, whiskey, gin, and David Bowies vomit.

The screen cracks, pissing Andy Warhol into my eyes. I pack my suitcase, one wooden lion and one teapot. At least I can count on ginger tea.

I remember fondly of the days we were impossible and inevitable but I guess eventually the coin had to choose a side to fall on. Pornography it seems is a peddler for dreams. We crawl up the walls and climb down the tree's. My stupid fat words jut in my dust throat.

Try again.

How I long for big lovely nothing. Why the fuck am I walking to the ark, like a fucking ghost? Dragging my kicking and screaming chicken bones. The rain kicks up the stench and night air drawers out the splinters from their brick box's. I'll attach myself to their boot straps, a prime example of the sole of my shoe. Last night I watched her exhale chinese smoke dragons out of her mouth and nose, and it made up my terrible mind. Today I will keep my distance, but only if she stays close.

Lots of things go through your mind when you're glued to the bed. She is a stones throw in either direction from death or glory, and the colour of her brain is determined by the weather.

Have I condemned her to walk the plank?

Sent her on her merry way?

She looked like the ghost of a shadow,

a whisper of a shit winters day.

I untied the rope and set it adrift.

I stayed to watch it sail away.

I've left a few bits behind that are quite important to me, you know, like tickling the past when you just want to forget it.

Sunday, 1 November 2009

Funny World #9

Watching the insect band through insect eyes. I start to fit in. Writing my way out of a paper bag. The church needs a cone through it's velvet windows just like we thought about the other day.

We are becoming increasingly anion in our mutism. Residual carrier bag in your watery hands, picking up the fragments you charge my oily guts with vex. All I'm doing is trading days for the night. At some point in the near future you will chew off your own arm. My head becomes a lift full of strangers, chewing the fat and gas. On and on and on (repeat to fade).

He is most definitely under the bed, scratching his head, smoking the dead leaves. I turn his pockets inside out to find a cathedral. Could you please be more ambiguous.

She is full of vibes, vibes coming out of her trousers! This will knock back progress, three weeks, maybe even four, depending on the hemisphere.


ten a penny, isosceles or equilateral, black or white. While stocks last.

Yesterday I had a beak. Pregnant words that need aborting immediately. Everyone should be aborted at least once. Rape is not a noun.

Surprise sex is always best during the festive season, she says, in between the now and then. All I ask from you is to invert the night sky so the stars are black and the space between will bind us beautifully. Give me two's on the brain mate and I'll give you a biscuit. Stroking your small intestine, I await the vibration that never came.

Like a film that changes genre intermittently you continue to beleaguer me. Opening the door and falling to the floor, a physical representation of my infatuous itch. Wedged in the wall she bludgeoned my face as a term of endearment, like a rose scented bullet, tickling verbs and nouns.

What a waste of words.

Hopefully some may have been wedged down the back of the settee for you to find. Walking in the wrong room her pale face and rabbit eyes point me in the right direction. The beginning of the endlessness. spilling the guts of a cigarette I watch it burn. Spitting pretty patterns, weaving verbal shapes, I can see it all but I remember nothing. I'm hoping my venetian ways hold sway for a while longer, just long enough to make amends. I seem to remember eating her hands and being kissed by a giant, a grandiose case of mistaken identity or so I've been told.

Some nights we plunder the same crumbling empires.

I like it when you scream.

You're mouth looks like a dilapidated building where inside, I climb up stairs forever.

I'm sure it's buried inside a great vat of drugs and harmony. Now that you know, just fucking do something, something else. My mask can't hold this weight forever.

She's inside, I'm against the bricks, entertaining the tarmac with my bravado. This will last for three days and no longer.

We will wait curiously and ask what the three types of milk were. The people are crying out for something they understand, but I won't give it to them easily. No one knows, yet everyone has an opinion.

I was born with this prosthetic conscience, leaving my mouth with crippling fingers. I woke up this morning and didn't care anymore for this allegiance. You can only be a certain type of individual, but it turned out that my mouth couldn't say it. My ears feel like prostitutes and I am almost definitely dead.