Saturday, 13 June 2020

Today’s featured work is another self-portrait, this time by the 17th century Italian Baroque painter, poet and printmaker, Salvator Rosa.

Philosophy, about 1645

Salvator Rosa, 1615-1673

Oil on canvas, 116.3 x 94cm

Presented by the 6th Marquis of Lansdowne in memory of his father, 1933

© The National Gallery, London

Sunday, 10 May 2020

Choose life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose deliberately mixed messages. Choose good health, low cholesterol and dental insurance. Choose encircling individual politicians whilst being careful to shore up the wider Tory-liberal project. Choose waving away a decade of austerity. Choose your friends. Choose "counting is an inexact science". Choose precarity. Choose blaming the public. Choose divide and rule. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pissing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked-up brats you have spawned to replace yourselves. Choose your future.

Thursday, 23 April 2020

Siri what is a cold chain?

Saturday, 18 April 2020

Of the many things it might be nice to brand on the foreheads of U.K. legacy media names, some public figures and various politicians etc. at the moment, our first submission is Stephanie Brittain:

The drivers and impacts of hunting and consumption of wild meat are not homogenous, and should not be treated as such

Saturday, 21 March 2020

Ingar Solty synthesises some aspects of coronavirus foregrounding here.

The claim that Spain and Italy are EU-peripherally analogous to the particularly stricken Greece seems off but given the forensics on what Cindi Katz might note as 'broad retreats from the social wage', his Engels from The Housing Question is quite the summary

Capitalist rule cannot allow itself the pleasure of creating epidemic diseases among the working class with impunity...

(Thank you Hannah Black.)

Tuesday, 9 April 2019


Into this sky which has
more airplanes
than other skies
I look and see half a dozen
small whitenesses passing
like tired stars
through the blue. I watch them
instead of watching
the woman swimming
in an oversized T-shirt that clings
to her body like slime, instead of
seeing the child splashing
in his inflatable sleeves
while his parents puff on
elaborate e-cigarettes.
Instead of speaking,
I lie back in my chair that's
turned to face the sun's full strength
and try to become browner.
In this sky, planes fly
low and heavy, back and
forth from the base,
practicing war. I'm afraid
I'm finally all right
knowing good things
in me have died.

- Elly Bookman