Jan Svankmajer

"Švankmajer has gained a reputation over several decades for his distinctive use of stop-motion technique, and his ability to make surreal, nightmarish and yet somehow funny pictures.

Švankmajer's trademarks include very exaggerated sounds, often creating a very strange effect in all eating scenes. He often uses fast-motion sequences when people walk or interact. His movies often involve inanimate objects coming alive and being brought to life through stop-motion. Many of his films also include clay objects in stop-motion, otherwise known as claymation.

Food is a favourite subject and medium. Stop-motion features in most of his work, though recently his feature films have been including much more live action sequences rather than animation.

Many of his movies, like the short film Down to the Cellar, are made from a child's perspective, while at the same time often having a truly disturbing and even aggressive nature. In 1972 the communist authorities banned him from making films, and many of his later films were suppressed. He was almost unknown in the West until the early 1980s."

Funny World #3

These walls are pissing people and liquid, both persisting on touching my shoulder, dribbling an intense feeling of vertigo limbs shaking and nagoy lips that float past my left tiffy viewer.

I stand nervously for ten minutes then sit and fall asleep. I can feel my heart beating outside of itself, am I still awake or is this idea just caught in my teeth?

There seems to be a crease in your sun, and all this time I'm gluing feathers to the moon, losing touch with these walls and becoming desperate for answers, I'll build a desert for all these thoughts.

A mirror looks at us both pretending, squirting skulls when it seems therapeutic. It hurts to know that Roman Polanski and Jean Luc Pickard hide in my head, provoking a broad and inclusive mind with lines per inch and a colour theory that tastes like shit. it's all a bit alien to me, let's just react and start to think that this is healthy.

Why have I not seen you? We are shooting up all this matter from a single source and all this seems to be actually happening now, all sprinkled with icing incorrect, sayings and falling diamonds. I'm losing interest in all these sharp folds. My beholding fingers and endless juxtapositions make it very hard to see things correctly.

If I write my name on you, will you belong to me?

She is everything at once, scattered and connected like azure seas and impossible birds. She looked like a velcro feeling, a disparate illustration of everything in between. Come back twice as strong, she said, take responsibility for anything in this surge of bezoominess.

She knows about these two kinds of visual emotions. The first time I called, she asked if we were miscommunicating or if I felt the same.

I wanted to hold you in this infinitely blissful electricity with emotional fingers and erupted words, but you never happened.

To see all these horses and numbers absorb the atmosphere and project it into fuck all, I don't even know what to do but at least I have you, little sausage cat, laid underneath that door. Meet me with a bunch of words from an intellectual document, entitled, watch what you're not so good at, internal cares and external somewheres-down-the-line, give me power and things that sometimes stop me from being.

I sit there stewing outside my head, eating nine pence noodles. I adore her.

Call me so I can feel that uneasy warm feeling again, I've not seen you and you haven't seen me inspired, and that's just the trouble, your beauty makes me stupid and I'm chasing this little touch of regret.

I love you, my secret whispering.

Funny World #2

Sixteen, nine and nine are the numbers upon my return to the rented flatland.

I expect everything to have changed today, but it fails to mirror this high tempo that my mind flaps had recently been moulded into. A minor anticlimax as I felt overly shagged, fagged and bluggoed.

Still on a tall fizziness of bubble wasps stretching through my flight horizons with no means of expenditure. I found myself in out in out under the nozzle of a silver, round-headed fellow, a funny little man, conversed with him nineteen times in all, over a churping of two short sun rises.

He wasn't sure if I was awake and oddly enough we didn't talk about anything at all. He ran all hot and cold in my tummy wumbles with an ambivalence that shot through to next week. He politely gave me his cocaine face for willies and bimbles. It portended to pimpulgate a velvet stingfolly, an uncomfortable splendid tingle all over my physical, like watery caterpillars scrattling about in tiny boots, up and groundwards to the tiled horizontals.

How do I know if I'm awake?

Do you know when the black speckle snakes swirl in the circles around your tired tiffy-viewers, and the levels are painted over contrastedly making the world dizzy and spiffly into forgotten recognitions?

No..?

no...me neither.

Funny World #1

Black fuzzy snakes flash past my eyes as I walk down the only road in Funny world. The ground today is moving faster than my feet. The Doors, Light my fire, is playing in the grey matter crease of my brain, bouncing off blue - orange houses that look like faces. I am inside a bubble, complete in my own head. My, what a peculiar day it is in Funny World.

The weather today is...

The weather today looks like the first stage of bread being outmuscled by mould.

Have you ever had that feeling where the inside of your head boils over like a pan full of rice, and the only thing lacking is that you're not frothing at the mouth?

Apparently the homo-sapien is the most intelligent species on the planet.

I have spent countless hours of my time probing this earthly decree with the philosophies of Sartre, Nietzsche, Heidegger, Kant, Descartes, Wittgenstein and Hume alike. With the literature of Burroughs, Ginsberg, Breton, Tzara, Apollinaire, Bukowski and Plath; and the artistry of Van Gogh, Renoir, Monet, Matisse, and Cezanne to name but a few.

Yet in all of this, the one thing I have surmised is that thinking is futile.

Wittgenstein said that " the aspects of things that are most important to us are hidden because of their simplicity and similarity. The real foundations do not strike a man at all."

To understand something you must first know what it isn't.

How backwards is the human mind? An almighty fucking paradox!

How we long for this blissful inertia.

You can't be angry at the rain for being wet.

Post office

Upon entering the post office, I naturally regarded everything as mundane and usual.

This mindset I find is a particularly good angle of perception, as even the slightest alteration to an otherwise subconscious preconception, can be permeated in an instance, with the mere fluttering of an eyelid.

The mouth in front belongs to a man of about 65 years. Words spurt out like a swarm of flies eager to land on food or shit. 

"an' shi kept'n fuckin' shuvin', no me, shi wa fuckin' shuvin."

I assumed the role of intent observer as the man relived his experience of being shoved by a woman, through a mimicry that suggested this past confrontation was unfolding in the present.

His mouth continued to move faster than my brain could process words, when suddenly the man erupted into chorus of Starman, by David Bowie. Needless to say I was surprised, and incredibly awestruck.

After this stunning rendition, the man reverted to his indignant demeanor, swearing profusely about the woman who pushed him.

According to studies, the use of profanities in everyday language emanates from the right hemisphere of the cerebral cortex. The spontaneous renditions of songs by David Bowie I assume still baffle scientists.

The right hemisphere is the 'artist', associated with creativity, spatial navigation and emotive responses from certain stimuli, whereas the left hemisphere of the cerebral cortex is the 'scientist', associated with pragmatics, problem solving and analysis, and language.

An example of the prevalence of swearing as a deep rooted sign of emotion comes from the example of a patient who had the entire left hemisphere of his brain removed because of cancer. The patient could not construct syntactic sentences but did blurt out swear words. (much like the symptoms of Tourette disorder)

This gave me food for thought. Is pragmatic, syntactic language couched in an inherent dishonesty, where all it requires to present an unfettered emotion is a fucking arse bashingly, tit shiningly, shittingly good swear word?

A poem written to me in a dream.

My ego over my own house

is never tiresome.

I climb the rope

and touch your hair like an interview

and ask if you saw me

in the iridescent ink pool

and wonder if it's tedious.

Am I tedious?

Poem : Whilst looking at Ginsberg.

I have recently noticed that when reading poetry, 

I read the last lines first.

I pondered over this for some time, 

with no real sense of what I was looking for,

no inherent conclusion.

Then,

like a brass knuckle shuffle, it hit me in the face.

A moth fluttering, caught in the gaze of my peripherals

clambering from the sight of light

on what must have seemed like

an infinite plane of landscaped glass

held my attention for no real purpose

a misfiring by product of evolution;

a malfunctioning navigational system

electricity the choreographer.

What objective truth was I searching for,

why can't I touch this infinite expanse of water and sand?

I continued, under the superior gaze of a desk lamp, 

to read the last lines of each poem

never noticing that the moth had flown away.

Poem : 11th August and I am weighed down by gravity and condiments.

Trying to run away from the sky

as if it were a bad smell

was always going to be a challenge.

You enter my brain diaphanously, 

you as a single concept illuminated by the tender pulse of the moon, like the whites of a cracked egg, 

making my fingerprints glisten.

Archaic thoughts of Van Gogh, Monet and Renoir sprout from sullen crevices of the pavement like the skin of a baked potato, 

and needless to say, I feel meaningless. 

A fraud amongst Common Fox Gloves, water lilies and arthritis, 

dissolving in the preservatives of my chicken strips wrap. 

I wait to be a million chisels of marble, 

a billion strokes of paint, 

yet the matter I consist of 

is merely mayonnaise and

a mountain of shit.