cs6's Page

I make a zine. its a kallide-a-scopic gutter of words, play, prose, statements, pictures, found items, drawings, opinions, irrelevances and bull shit, and I hand make it with pens, red wine, buddah, paper, incense, scissors, and glue, and then photocopy, staple and leave copies in random places as i go. Across the world there is a war going on for control of our collective consciousness and i see the zine as a counter punch to the mass market capitalist propaganda and neon battery that dominates and manipulates our public sphere with lifestyle promises, guilt trips, false dreams, and straight up lies, and as the antithesis to the banal bile and regurgitated tripe that main stream culture attempts to force feed us with its transport noise imitations. However this zine is itself a worthless collection of fungal waste and period excretions and should be digested as such. The dissemination process employed is a way of unexpectedly communicating with others, in a society where we are marginalised, segregated, taught and encouraged to see each other as strangers and threats, treated as slaves and consumers, and where if we want to experience art we must pay to see it in a designated area, or if we want to produce art we must be accepted by a middle man for exploitation, zine's left in public invade a person's privacy when they least expect it, offering them a direct and uncensored connection to a part of humanity that they may have usually ignored, or been denied access to.

There Are No Artists Only Lamp Shades

scene 8: a riotous soiree in kan kan kicks. Enter Don Ard Don, elegant but sadistically attired in a skin tight cheetah print leotard rhine studded with sparkling thumb tacks which, as he plays the social goat in a cavort of tightrope equilibrium and libidinal gesticulations, scratch the bare flesh of ingratiating admirers who swarm him like wolfs mistakenly licking the blade of a blood coated hunting knife, in an attempt to inhale his status and secrete it themselves, or if they are particularly parsimonious to trap his potently pro pulsed pheromones inside their malnourished protoplasm and abjectly gorge on it in private padded windowless rooms where they consume nothing and clamp every orifice shut to prevent the dissipation and osmotic escape of this gaseous elixir until they have sufficiently assimilated the precious commodities and developed Kwashiorkor, their stomachs swelling with rotten pride. Only after this cosmetic transformation will they be embolden to venture into public once more where they will display their convex appendage with arrogant nonchalance, and with the bristling posturing and maneuvering of an ambitious baboon will assume their elevated position in the social hierarchy. For in certain castes it is the smooth spherical size and girth of ones protruding midsection that is the barometer of erudite sophistication and haute couture, regardless of the debilitating process by which it is achieved, in fact the disabling effect of this rotund visage and the subsequent immobility it enforces is much admired, the prevalent opinion being that activity is for the barbaric and the retarded, for the beasts that can not act with their minds, for, pah the shame, for the workers, for we all know that there is nothing as unsightly and proletariat as perspiration.