Craig Podmore's Blog

Hey folks,

There's a site that I'm currently building. This site will be a fusion of my film work and written work. Hopefully, it'll help to generate more interest in my art as I want to provide a more professional approach by presenting my film and written work with a less blog orientated fashion. So, that being said, this particular site will be demoted to a standard blog site in relation to my new official domain. The site will be a lot easier to navigate, so you'll be able to buy my books and view my films without any confusion; the design here, I find, almost obfuscates my material into the convoluted mess that it has become.

Anyways, the link below takes you to the new place, please bear with it as it's still under construction. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy it, although this site will not be defunct at any stage so please do continue to visit.

Many thanks,

Craig

New Site: CLICK HERE

IAN’S DRINKING CHEAP RED WINE AGAIN…
Ian’s drinking that cheap red wine again, cocktails of Nietzsche and Das Rheingold ad infinitum, that human stench, it is profane, the low watt radio hisses the arias whilst Ian fantasises about the final solution, dead Jews stain the hues of his kitsch woodchip wallpaper, that death institute…“The only way to indulge in freedom is to commit the greatest crime and that is murder.”Knives and photography, grainy black and white realities captured in the psycho eye, amateur narcissist, a sickly aperture, Ian cannot stand this sty, his own existential rhetoric – Sade reigns the rickety coffee table, extinguished cigarettes mount the ash tomb, Ian hates, Ian has thoughts of amoral states, his superiority complex inflates, Ian’s drinking that cheap red wine again. Myra talks about dying her hair, she’s singing those Christmas songs again, she’s a monstrous, kitsch Marilyn in sin dressed like a typical Christian mother, she doesn’t get Nietzsche and she hates the whiny voice on the Wagner record that Ian plays continuously. Poor, explicit nudes of Myra, black and white vulgar martyr, a post-mortem pin-up, a sickly saint veiled in pernicious foul…Ian rants, Ian pervasively increases the atmosphere of drunken dread, Myra laughs, she’s fed and fed intellectual disease, Myra doesn’t get it but it turns her on, it’s his profane enigma. Myra tries on a new dress, humming the ‘pa rum pum pum pum’ song, another glass for Ian, same for Myra, they dance like they did on the moors that afternoon, Ian stares at himself in the mirror, gazing wildly like a pious troop of the Gestapo, Myra’s friends bore Ian, fashion and hairstyles, newborn babies and guys at work, Ian thinks about the Nuremberg Trials, Goebbels and Eichmann’s televised bile, it takes a while to try and adjust to arbitrary chat however, inward and cagey, playing with his knives and sniggering at Myra’s old religious books, ‘Jesus saves me’ and all that bollocks… Ian wants more cheap red wine…Nazi books, sex toys for an inappropriate target audience; snap shots of victims, private collection – hideous portraits of innocent skin ravished and mutilated, innocent skin marks easier…the little bodies weigh nought, Ian thought to himself; ‘my strength; omnipresent like some unwanted god beyond the virtues and serfdom of asinine civilisation...my murderous drive is only natural; it’s nothing else but humanity’. The scars on the moors pervade the erogenous sickness in Ian’s perverted ideology, an isolated philosophy born in the depths of Glaswegian urbanism, generating a new man, adopting his vehicle that is flesh and bone, discarding it as trash, a malicious tool to carry out fantasies that could be deemed beyond the pseudo virtues of man…delirious, deleterious intelligence graphically enhanced by the scribes of Sade and Himmler. What is the microcosm of murder in comparison to the magnitude of war? Murder is allowed in the hands of one that bestows a badge or some faux regalia that honours the protection of the innocent…indifferent, belligerent…Zarathustra in a wheelchair. “The blood doesn’t play games, it’s transcendent.” The soil screams, the dew is the sweat that perforated the skin pores of the unfortunate youthful souls in the throes of death, Ian’s hands on the glands of babe, little pallid darlings now stare at the black of earth, empty silence, rapacious cuts of night in the frames of sullen, naked miseries wrapped in the cold skeletal fingers of the grass blades, bathing in madness, trauma in the eyes of grain, absorbing the violence, grave of nothing, disturbed dirt; residual, palpable aggression in the ether of winter’s depression. Ian revels in this land of uncivil immortality, negating the wombs of messiah, vetoing the ever-pervasive moral that guides mankind into blindness. More cheap red wine; it pours, the trickling sound like that of a severed neck or a breaking spine, the veins of fluid stick to the sides of the glass – the cries that mournfully stains that audio tape, the tears that fall, just like the wine in that glass, except, it doesn’t scream for its mother. Myra is the dregs of the bottle, an empty playground for his little games, what else is there when the wine is gone?Murder, of course.  

Next book.
It's going to be a limited edition.
10 copies then that's it.
It dies.

It will only have an ephemeral life because it is visceral filth and doesn't deserve to exist...

It will be a self-published project as part of my own publishing label, antiseptic Press.
GOD LOVES YOU ALL.

This book explores a Schopenhauer influenced vision in the form of a performer (our narrator) that wishes to advocate the total detachment of societal order, instead, he wants decay and deformation, yet, whilst trying to acquire his very aim, he realizes that his art is nothing but an act of merciful stupidity. However, what he indirectly attains, is something inhuman but also of abundant clarity.

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A linear construct of poems narrated by a protagonist whom happens to be a performance artist, only that, his performance becomes his own destruction, yet, in that very act of disintegration and suffering, he finds transcendence in his own transgression. Some of my photography accompanies the words within. You could also argue that the piece of work itself, is in some way, the actual performance piece...this is art within art, it's my performance and it screams existential viscera.

ORDER YOUR COPY TODAY, RIGHT HERE: AMPHITHEATRE

Amphitheatre or The Anatomy of Nowhere

This book explores a Schopenhauer influenced vision in the form of a performer (our narrator) that wishes to advocate the total detachment of societal order, instead, he wants decay and deformation, yet, whilst trying to acquire his very aim, he realises that his art is nothing but an act of merciful stupidity. However, what he indirectly attains, is something inhuman but also of abundant clarity.

I am hellishly pleased about this book, also, I'm incredibly delighted to bring this release to you via the great publisher that is Dynatox Ministries. It is now available for pre-order! Go to the link below and pre-order this book that is a nihilist venture into the perception of a failed ubermensch...

DYNATOX MINISTRIES - Pre-order Amphitheatre or The Anatomy of Nowhere by Craig Podmore

ASBO


Your clitoris
is a psychopath
rummaging for a
god that's extinct
in the eye of her
profane beauty...








Craig Podmore copyright 2015

The Aesthetic of Suffering
Her name was Imogen. Her skin like moonlight; pearl-like, goddess anatomy, a deity in the form of a beautiful cosmos, her breasts as pretty as the elements that gave us all life on earth…I apply baby wipes to her skin, cleaning the gorgeous yet bloodied coat, I want her to look adept, an adept Persephone, her armless torso – the perfect frame of Venus, a silent Aphrodite, her mouth I stitched earlier…sometimes they still speak to me, even in death! Whilst I prepare this subject for the camera, I listen an old recording of my mother’s harpsichord, oh, it is so blissful, the harmony of gods project into physicality, almost tangible in the atmos. I cover her genitalia with a white veil, I prise her eyes wide open, the oceanic blue hue of them are profoundly hypnotising, my mother’s old make-up on her facial features, the lipstick, now somewhat dry but it still creates a certain blemish; every perfection should have an inch of imperfection. I want her surroundings to be heavenly, she is omnipresent, so I set the camera, aperture gauge wide to let in that glorious light, speed at a medium pace and…click.She was my fifth victim. I’ll wash my hands and get the darkroom ready, I need to process that film, I’m almost certain that I captured her final thoughts in her ardent eyes; they were atomic, in distress, bludgeoned, detached, she was envisioning something, a god perhaps? A deity for the victims of my very own hands; victims have their own culture these days, there are so many killers, there are so many victims and yet there are only a handful of survivors…The modern world today needs its killers, a killer’s job is to maintain an acceptable level of population, the populous is on the brink of killing itself and that’s without the help of my malice! The film coiled. Timed and perfectly adjusted. Ilford paper in solution…preparation is important, timing is important, the light is important, the exposure was correct, I know, I remember, as the flash popped, I saw the white of her eyes stain my pupils like in-delirium, she was special, I can’t wait to see her last footprint, the shutter speed was set in 1/200 sec., aperture as wide as her mouth screaming the incoherent pains, an F6 circumference, the subject before Imogen, Felicity, bled tremendously, I hanged her upside down so that the blood from her neck would disperse in an opulent fashion; she’s a love letter to an abattoir in my head, I was going to remove her breasts and shoot some separate still life photos like a Caravaggio; severed breats in a bowl of fruit – something so immaculate next to a banal specimen such as fruit but the destruction I had inflicted upon her pitiful cadaver was already overkill, a kill should always be sudden, clean, although, somewhat artistic, death can be artistic, I should always give these beautiful victims a scenic annihilation…The photo is coming alive. The gradient forms, the shadows leak onto the paper, patterns accumulate, the flow of blood from her neck now a parallel spill of black, her flesh white as sky, a vessel of life emptying before me, my art encapsulating the final havoc of her existence, these are my memories, my eulogies, her pain radiating into the vignette…I also shot her dying moments digitally, her photodiodes lament onto my laptop screen, I adjust the saturation of her blood, I crop the picture until the composition is eloquent enough, the RGB imprint designs her mourning with a still woe, the aesthetic of her suffering is what makes me believe, it makes me believe that suffering is the best thing that man is good at, exceedingly good, almost as good as the severity of punishment man is able to inflict upon others…the contrast is sacred; the abilities of man – sufferance and homicide, it’s like the marriage of protons, electrons and neutrons; an intrinsic design we all should embrace. One is retiring to bed, need rest, shall complete the other set of photos tomorrow.Into the ether of sleep; prevailing a garden, ominous with a sense of dread, my mother, naked, on a swing, she wears her red shoes, sparkling in a crass moonlight, I hear cries in the nearby bushes, dead women’s’ eyes stare at me, I feel a perversion, a stoic erection in these arias of hurt…Mother smiles, swinging raucously, speedily so, her hair, golden and flaxen, supine and brilliant, a split second – a blink of an eye, the strands of hair evolve into serpent tongues, in my hands I grasp my teddy, Leopold, real tight, groans coming from the soil, the murky sod, frail and hopeless, collapsing around me, enveloping me, memories of I, drawing irascible visions with broken crayons; bloodied torsos of women, mother has disappeared, no longer on the swing, the flowers wither, die, they scream too…Leopold sets alight, the garden dissipates into a black vortex, my reflection in the cascading black, I am insignificant…a woman with two heads, despite the monstrosity, she’s somewhat voluptuous, I’m confused, petrified yet turned on, she walks like some kind of disabled angel, her spine arranged above her neck, a protrusion so large – it’s perceptible above her head when in descent, a debilitating sickness is pronounced in her design…I cry, shed skin, my anatomy switching, turning, transforming into the apparatus of a camera; my head erects into a three mirrored lens structure, a film, a negative purges from the tip of my penis, flash bulbs replace my eyes, a carcass, a contorted body of a woman, a triptych of said woman, in the viewfinder of my own soul, the cries are persistent, loud and terrifying but one does tend to enjoy it, a melody, yes, a melody, it’s good, take picture, each picture is a fracture of my own spirit…not enough exposure, more light, more LIGHT! Cold sweat. Dry mouth, I see a shadow in the corner of my room, a silhouette next to the curtains illuminated by the external streetlights, the head moves ever so slightly, I hear a little snigger followed by a silent scream next to my earlobe, it perforates the eardrum, the silhouette moves forward, towards me, I pull the quilt up slowly towards my face, hands clenching the cheap nylon of the duvet, I piss and wet the bed, embarrassing, shameful…another snigger, the silhouette is now at the foot of my bed, bigger, more foreboding, a violence in the air, the smell of foul body odour, a post-sexual sweat, a filthy and visceral presence, the silhouette starts to lean forward, the shadows pervasively cover my walls, this sinister omnipresence, overwhelming and formidable – I jump under the covers, I breathe heavily, sweating again, I can smell my piss, an insidiousness, the wrathful entity strokes the covers, fingers penetrating the duvet vigorously, my fright increases; I stealthily pick up my camera from underneath my pillow, I know the flash will make it go away, disappear…My hand elevates from out of the sheets, the hairs on my arm raise as if there’s an abundance of static in the air, the cold too is discomforting, in my hand is the camera, I point the lens towards the vile figure or whatever it maybe and shoot. The flash floods the room. A bang. A child ululates. Footsteps. Heavy footsteps, retreating – silence… Victims always visit me, I don’t know whether it’s to thank me or to avenge me. Each and every one of them remind me of my mother…I always have to clean my room every morning in order to eradicate the filth of these visits, I can feel and hear the worms writhing amidst the carpet, the decomposing petals on my bed, the smell of their genitalia, a stale kind of semen, a vulgar stain within my atmosphere, it must be cleansed. The sixth photo of the sixth visit, all of which have captured a horrifying figure…these visits piously arrive after one has dreamt of such surreal brutality, a smell of incense always accompanies them, it’s a mixture of spices; the scent taints the tongue and terrorises the nose - I know that they are there when I wake, it smells like an abandoned church yet the candles had just been put out, as if there was some kind of mass, however, the mass was for no god. In each picture, I see a figure dressed as a woman, it is I as a child, I look forlorn, battered and bruised, the hair is reminiscent of my mothers, so is the make-up, the body still retains the anatomy of a real woman, I have breasts, a vagina, the robe that hangs on my shoulders exhibits all of the sexual organs as it is fully open, almost inviting…I shiver, a repulsion occurs, an internal discomfort invades me without reasoning…aghast! This picture reveals something else, I see, I, I, see…a pair of hands on my shoulders, I put the negative onto my light box and grab the nearest scope so I could get a clearer look. Above my head is a halo of smoke, blacker then the darkness of the room I can merely fathom a face, I recognise the nose, the lips, the smile, it is my mother. I drop the scope onto the floor, shattering the lens, I feel faint, disorientated, the red light in the darkroom flashes, this disturbs me, never has it flashed before. Three bangs on the door, coming from outside. I pause, in a stasis of shock…the pictures of my beautiful victims swing on the line as if some vast draft had shook them, I wallow, despair, paralytic with fear, whispers of callous words provoke me, they mock me, laughter in the nowhere of the room, whatever was outside is now inside the room, with me. That static again, making my hairs go on end, the coldness; more cold than that of the skin of the dead lurks in the atmosphere, I stare unto the victims in the pictures, one of my favourites was Elisa, I beheaded her and placed her head before a print of the painting by Caravaggio, ‘Judith Beheading Holofernes’, it bemuses me, I scoff at it every time, Judith holds the head and in my sublime photograph, it looks as if she’s holding the head of my beautiful Elisa, assassinated by another woman, such a humorous composition, Judith looks like my mum, the depiction has always reminded me of her and I guess, ultimately, she is the one killing these girls because it was she who made me. These murders are on her, I hope that she realises the monster that she has created; each girl I slaughter is because of my mum, the blood I spill is hers, not mine, the photographs are an act of kindness – at least in these shots, they are immortalised, eternal murals of their rapturous beauty; they’re monuments of pain like visceral emblems of Rodin…“You see, mum, I have the heart but you ruined it, maimed it, raped it and now these girls fall because of your carnage, you stoked the fire that is my rage!”The door opens, slowly, I find the strength to move and exit the room. I feel as though that there are eyes watching me from every corner but for some reason they make me feel…important. I met a lovely girl yesterday, before I picked up Imogen, I gave her one of my business cards, I feel as though I owe her a meeting, she will make a beautiful photograph despite her eyes, I am not fond of them, they look right through me. I may have to remove them. She will be pleased to be another victim like the others, I think that’s why they visit me, to ensure that I am doing their will, their gratefulness means everything to me. So, may I continue to bestow the aesthetic of suffering within a frame, in a composition, in a snapshot, in the complex, timeless, universal vision of the camera; the capture is the gift.


CRAIG PODMORE 2015 ©

My new poetry collection out now, available from Oneiros Books

'It's a book of eloquent butchery, butchery of desires, the primeval; the instinctual vulgar sex that diminishes all senses unto flesh. The flesh sells so does the dirt that goes along with it, the arbitrary anomaly in the physicality of carnality - the hunger and cannibalisation of our empire is evident in the lukewarm, melancholic fluid of post-sex. Everybody is a pornographer. Everything is pornographic. This is the Pornocopia devouring silently, furthermore, what's even more unnerving is that we're all enjoying it.' - Craig Podmore, author