25% OFF TOILETRIES A graphic and visual documentary about the punk scene in Sussex and the Island of Guernsey
Calvino Calvino & Gonzales (2024/2026)
"Said she saw the defendant hit the deceased with a Harley Benton PJ4 SBK and later stabbed the pig in the right side of the spare ribs before it fell down and persihed, becoming, then, its body that of a lost porcine gal sinking to the seafloor plus susceptible to soul diseases and infections. According to her, a punk usually went through three stages in life: egg, larva, pupa and CPA, or certified public accountant. That was clearly four."
"Disease as a metaphor for the failures of the music scene. Cholera, Dysentery, Ergotism, Influenza, Scurvy, Typhoid... Nvidia & vaping. Black mould under the chin. Barry Guy, After the Rain... Pedicure Generation. Pulmonary tuberculosis... Will transcribe her immediate impressions: cheerful submission. Fanta. Avoid all sex. Drink. Have a sip from my can. But don't lick it. Neolithic soda. She can only remember things she can taste. But don't lick it. A fly in her drink will help her remember my face after my suddend departure. But don't lick it.... @27PM exactly. Precisely, I meant. Oldest tribe on this planet:The Head; the head before leaving the body in disgust... Luis, José, Pedro, Juan María Rilke. On Hearing of a Death: "But as you left us, there broke upon this stage a glimpse of reality, shown through the slight opening through which you dissapeared: green, evergreen, bathed in sunlight, actual woods." Humourless pets preparing tea for the guests. Wish the could say something. Coca-Cola, granting dispensation from Death.
. "Are you a robot?" They suggest that I prove them wrong by typing a text any 1st generation robot could eagerly do itself. But I think I am a robot. And the very thought does no make me itch one shit. Signing on, does... Offices: suspect ground. Avoid. Further Xerox invasion. Defend the land, our land! Protect your shower room and divorce yourself from any resemblance of a healthy or healing living. Be a maggot and you shall feel less pressure to adapt. Giving nothing away except my slow passing away. But I haven't, as yet, condidered such fucking and radical transformation... "Are you a robot, Mr. Calvino?" What's left of my original CPU has been sustained by digital rumours from unknown sources. I can genuinely picture the hardward engineers scrutinizing my moves & breathing...
. A militant group: Pan troglodytes. The Chimp Paradox, a sick mind management model. I am sick. I am a socialist and don't want to look bored anymore... Orthopaedic blank ink pen. & so I was: blank papers and second-hand books stolen in St. James's Street, my natural community where on Fridays I got to perform my own autopsy with dole's payments. Radiant bedsit's geometry.
. Hoping for employment. Silver Jews, Honk if Youre're Lonely. I'm dead, though. Don't think they know that yet. Who will betray me? Or what? My breath? A pair of holes in my socks? "How can you not wear shoes?" Could be worse, hippies wearing sandals in church. I walk past Dole City. Defeat by the conditions, masturbation becomes a regular but athletic discipline. The sudden death of the sperm! When I emerged into the polluted open air, civilization has stopped. Where are they? On the roof. Sunset in Lewes town. The Priory, founded circa 1080 by the 1st Earl of Surrey, William de Warenne, and his wife Gundrada Watermelon. We filmed there yesterday. I was too drunk and lost all the footage. Told one of the leading actors this morning. He seemed not to care. Not giving a flying fuck is also a traditional medieval disease.