They canvas concrete with vivid hue to detract from the unintentional brutalism repeated throughout a garrison town. The only weapons used here are paints & brushes, both of which are causally employed to treat the eyes and beast the contents of the cranium gymnasium.
( J )
X
Today I’m hoping the weak become heroes.
( J )
X
Let’s toast to making the most of the penultimate day in arms purely nautical.
( J )
X
I’m a bag of bones twitching on concrete to inspire friction, traction & movement. Translucent squares are the protection for retinas, iris and cornea when I walk in a sun this low at hours this early.
In the distance, I spy a sight to delight my aching senses: jovial joggers dancing on the carcass of apathy & idleness. Thoughts amalgamate and process to place immeasurable faith in the everyman before asking myself a solitary salient question: why am I no longer a proprietor of such ritualsiatic notions?
It’s time to excavate the feeling of a mechanical interior working overtime.
( J )
X
Click.
Click.
Click.
The hunter has become the hunted.
( J )
X
Rubber. Canvas. Concrete. Leather.
( J )
X
A brutal concoction of wood & concrete hugs the outskirts of an ocean waiting for strangers to serenade.
( J )
X
It’s an hour unholy as we emerge from bedrooms dishevelled. With only half-sleeps for shields & dull aches for swords, we turn to face the day and the curveballs it may throw.
Let fortune be in our favour.
( J )
X
It was the embers of 2010 when we vacated the motherland to bask in a foreign sun. I remember the skies being kind on the long-haul and the crushing heat that clothed us as we disembarked; air that was stifling & sweet with oil-like qualities. After a four wheeled transfer sat adjacent to the oppressive couple who would plague & invade our personal space for two weeks straight, we finally met our destination.
Opalescent oceans, sand between the toes, kaleidoscope culture & smiling inhabitants became our day-to-day lives in Caribbean climes. As per usual, time played escort as we were ushered back to British Isles in the blinking of an eye. The carousel stayed true to form, heaving with bleary-eyed Brits circling like vultures to be first on the home straight. It’s here where fear-gazing exchanges took place followed by a getaway bolt from the approaching arms of the aforementioned couple.
English roads welcomed us back like heroes, happy we returned to the motherland for one last stand minus the millstone of apathy & regret.
( J )
X
It’s time to witness Ford at the Thekla.
( J )
X
Joe / Man Not Machine 