i can freakin fit that pump with the peep in

my latest anti-sleep-dance/rap/whistle-while-i-work tonic...


also can be found being surreptitiously dropped by punk monk lady white at culture club in the depths of the cross in sydney town on saturday nights...

haiku: sleep's memory

sleep's memory
- ever evasive while my
arms remain empty

monastery of 11 strings mapped

we're on the map! directly beneath the wonderland garden & bar adjacent to the main bellbird stage is our punk monk propaganda home at peats ridge for 2011. what will be the monastery of 11 strings... can you see us? more soon.


:)

these streets are ours

a palindrome punk film [em + me] enterprise...

whereby beloved co-conspirator punk monk emma sanderson + i devised a film concept based on em's wim wenders' bent for random dance-offs in public spaces. flash mob evolution.

for beloved venue peeps at bandhouse at a not-so-secret location in the warehouse laden back streets of marrickville. we're so avant garde street hobo...

with punk monks anna slowiaczek & tyler red-dog grant who indulged in a naked alley doona dance. this is but one scene. there were many others. with different players. all surreally clad in uniform white. deja vu.

the street is our canvas. our public domain. our playground. this is where we make our art. to share.

happy 7th birthday DEJA!!!

putting the punk into village

it's a blindingly sun-filled saturday morning on oxford street. a handful of punk monks are at the markets. the lovely taylor square sustainable farmers markets where we played every thursday night for the duration of october.

 

lou steer from ESP gallery coaxes succinct word beats from the mic. her heartfelt character driven stories are witty & locally relevant. i'm not the only person laughing out loud. i am probably the only person who pisses my pants however. hurray for TENA.

today we've returned to the scene of our past street party crimes to add a little village ambience...

or a lot. inspired by lou, i break my spoken word bubble jamming an assorted jumble of love-worn haikus

and weetbix has a green drink while he mixes up sounds of the day. sometimes he has to adjust his output because we're somewhat too fast-paced for the slow vibe & the clothes swap beneath us is quite genteel. i blame the spirulina & we try to act all incognito.

noone cares. it's saturday morning on oxford street after all.

meanwhile andrew/andros & rebecca are live arting up a storm on yonder heritage fence. there's an extraordinary amount of pigeon shit at the base. oddly enough it perfectly matches the undercoat of our painted panels.

 very odd indeed.

nothing to see here. just a bunch of nonchalant punk monks... move along please.

respect. the abandoned dunlop factory.

typograffiti. the next phase...

 gloves off.

we're going for a ride...

into the derelict bowels of what once was the production factory of shoes & tennis racquets. the long abandoned and still surviving slazenger dunlop building. abandoned by some.

take a seat and enjoy the ever changeable view:

 it's no hard...

a hide 'n seek wet dream.

exploring through the warrenlike tunnels reveals increasingly storm damaged caverns which invite dappled rays of neon light dancing with the layers of painted tagged love. magic eyes abound.

it can't be long before this treasure trove of aerosol celebration is no more. in the interim it stands like an irreverent totem much like a modern day chauvet. the moving sun, the fire of old enabling shadows to embolden & animate the art. the sea of cans which litter the ground testament to those who have come & created before.

each corner turned reveals endless discoveries. 

 where shadows creep into the light  

and the outside encroaches in. a happy juxtaposition.

 beauty mirrored in a thousand shattered reflections.

know thyself...

and thine can. the equalising tool. all are masters here.