Tilt Republic. Johannesburg. New York. Cape Town. London.

a messy piece of dug out, coked up prose

One of my favourite things is to scratch around my old note books, I came across this scribble tonight. I remember writing it quite some time back, fucked up on coke, squatting in a dead artist’s house.

“An open letter to the free wheeling

Squaring off with the myth of bohemia, seeing it first hand, seeing what it is capable of. Fuckall, a bunch of dopey bottom feeder thoughtless nonsensical freaks with no regard for significance. Low rent pisscats who have lost their way, a strange and very unbeautiful thing.

Whoring gets what whoring wants, and whoring wants oblivion, the shortest possible route and there isn’t much else to it. Fuck, get fucked and then fuck off. A gaggle of lesser things doing less than nothing.

Where is the beautiful work? Where is excess? It’s not here, the little strip is nothing but a slow release underfunded euthanasia project for failed failures. A people that can’t even wrap their minds around fucking up properly.

Judgemental, sure, it could be worse. I could be happy, happy with this shit. This terrible situation.”

February 5, 2012 Early Tilt