Archive for the ‘Dagmar.’ Category

Nightclub?

Tonight?

Tomorrow?

No, thank you,

for your insincere offer

of degradation,

wasted time and wasted life,

over-priced,

drugged,

pack-mentality

squalor.

All dressed up to fall into a gutter.

Superficial meat-market horror.

I know, you work hard and live for the weekend,

it gives your life what you think of as meaning.

Public spectacle, mass receptacle.

Regression and death on a stick.

Your masters smile behind cupped hands.

I don’t get it.

I don’t want to.

Thank you,

no.

 

Surely there must be a better way,

than all this drama and bullshit,

ups and downs,

pain, misery, stress, excitement, angst, heartbreak, indecision

… and humanity.

It’s downright inefficient, counterproductive, counterintuitive, counterclockwise …

Surely there must be a better way.

Like, don’t drive your truck on roads that weren’t designed for such loads.

And, shut the fuck up: try listening to the still, small voice within.

Wisdom…

Divorce “reality”, society, money and family.

Then maybe you will get somewhere.

 

1988, 1989, FES Bike

Posted: 2016-05-25 in Dagmar., Time, Wow! Signal

Machine, sleek, the future was here.

Velodrome curves, sexy.

Enough to give a certain kind of guy an erection.

Female, I felt it within.

Plastic orgasm.

 

 

Yes, I know it could be said that I’m “spinning my wheels”, so as to say. I feel it too, and it is most frustrating. Confusing fragments, life, death, memories, and strands of in/sanity. Soon though, I’ve got to believe, something will click, in a good way, and things will come together. Yes, believe.

Tennis is a dirty sport.

Imagine the contaminants the balls picks up, bouncing, skidding, and snotty-nosed ballkids’ fingers.

The stars are paid millions,

the grinders are paid nothing.

Matches, games, points are thrown,

drugs are taken.

Modelling contracts are signed,

the lucky get to indulge and wank.

Long gone are the days of wooden racquets the comparative size of a spoon.

But the pundits cry: today’s best are the best ever!

Broken, busted and disgusted,

Tennis is a dirty game.

Dagmar disliked dirt on her hands.

The thought of touching the ball, etc, then touching her whatever during the change of ends was, frankly, repulsing.

So, she was frequently seen wiping her hands.

People laughed.

Man plans, God laughs,

people react, man laughs.

XC skiers wear gloves.

Swimmers hands are cleansed in chlorine.

This is the world we live in.

Tennis is a dirty sport.

Horror? Perversion.

Posted: 2016-02-12 in Dagmar.

I’ve never understood America’s obsession with horror and fright, gore and violence: Halloween as sacred a holiday for many as Easter.

It’s like, what, is life so perfect in the land of opportunity, that you’ve got to remind yourselves that it ain’t always so, and give your collective complacent hearts a jolt just to keep them beating?

Sad.

Bad.

Most of the rest of the world don’t see such appeal in horror movies, they see enough horror in their everyday lives. (Actually, cross town and see: that’s true for Americans too!) …

Perhaps the ultimate attraction is the morbid cliché of: Shit! Yes! It’s nice to view someone else suffer unfairly too. … However bad it is for me, it’s not quite as bad or as evil manifest as that … (Really?) …

Really.

Clearly bizarre.

In any case, it’s a perverted genre of storytelling.

When people are scared by fiction, souls are sold.

Anschluß.

Posted: 2015-05-20 in Dagmar.

Dagmar watched the familiar pictures black and white, flashing, flickering on the screen. The people looked truly happy, waving their flags, showering the troops with flowers, adoration on their faces, gesticulating that idiotic salute (looking like love-sick simpleton robots).

Is it my benefit-of-hindsight perspective which makes me feel sick, nauseous, to see these images? … Is this really the full picture? Could it really be so, as obvious as it seems? … No, propaganda, surely. Surely?